When I was a kid, summer heat spells of temperatures in the mid to high 90s seemed more of a norm than they are today.

Outside we rode our bikes, played baseball, and went fishing under the scorching sun. We’d sneak into Mr. Boyle’s backyard to drink cold water from his well pump until he yelled at us and we ran away.

We played Little League Baseball in flannel uniforms and after each game, our coaches took us to the Polar Cub in New Market, New Jersey for 25-cent ice cream cones if we won the game.

I never hit a home run to earn a banana split, but my coach bought me one after the game in which I made a diving catch in the outfield using an old four finger glove because somebody had stolen mine.

In the evenings, the Good Humor ice cream truck would come down our road. I’d hear the bells ringing and yell. “Mom! Ice cream truck!”

While she looked for change in her pocketbook, I ran down the road to stop the truck. Then I ran back for the money and then I ran back to the truck.

All that for a Creamsicle on a stick, my favorite summer treat.

On some sultry nights, we heard what sounded like a lawn mower approach our house. Mom yelled. “Close the windows!” The mosquito truck rumbled down our road spraying a cloudy bug insecticide into the air. As soon as we heard the noise, four or five of us in the neighborhood jumped on our bikes and followed the truck, not caring that we were inhaling the misty spray because we were having fun riding without being able to see anything past the front of the truck.

Inside the house with no air conditioning, we had a metal box fan tied into the kitchen window with a thumb tack and a shoe lace that rattled so loud I had to shout if I wanted anyone to hear me talk.

My bedroom had no fan, just screens open to the stifling night air.

Once in a while, a mosquito got in my room late at night and buzzed my ear to keep me awake. I got up and put on the light and with fly swatter in hand, I looked at the walls and there it was. Smack! Shut off the light, lay down in bed and you guessed it. Another bug buzzed by my ear.

My father loved homemade chicken soup. Though this was not your kind of summer meal, we ate it not in the kitchen but in the cool and musty cinder blocked cellar, the same place that after we would get torrential downpours from thunderstorms, it would take on ankle deep water and the only way to remove it was to take out the water, bucket by bucket and dump it outside the folding metal doors up at ground level.

Only one neighbor had an above ground swimming pool, but across the street was an in-ground cement pool with no liner. When you jumped in, your feet hit the rough cement bottom. You had to be careful not to brush against the side walls, which I did more than once and I came home with what’s called raspberries, blood red abrasions down my back.

Neighborhood picnics were charcoal grill cook outs or stationed inside garages when it rained. Heavy metal tubs of ice loaded with beer and soda quenched everyone’s thirst.

Somebody’s father always got drunk and stupid or even angry and had to be gently escorted into the house to lie down on a couch.

When the road department tarred the streets, the smell was overpowering in the summer heat and you could see vapors rising off the roads. We’d jump on our bikes and ride over the tar bubbles.

We made it a contest. From a starting line to the end of the road, count the number of bubbles you could pop and the highest number won. Honesty in the count was ordered, but not always honored.

Despite the blistering midsummers’ afternoons we played sandlot baseball on an all dirt infield with one bat held together with a screw through the broken handle to the barrel and one ball held together electrical tape over the unraveled seams. We used cardboard for the bases.

We called do-overs when we argued whether or not a batted ball was fair or foul. If somebody hit the ball into the woods, we dropped the bat and our gloves and all of us searched between the trees until the ball was found.

When I came home from the games, my dungarees were dirty and torn at the knees. Sometimes, my arm or elbow was covered in dry blood from diving for a ball in the outfield grass which had been littered with pieces of broken glass and strewn with rocks everywhere.

We kids had no money to buy an ice cream pop or a soda so we rode into the woods to find glass bottles that could be brought to a local store and in return, the deposit money was enough to buy ice cream, candy, and soda. We went by the five second rule if we dropped candy on the ground. Pick it up. Wipe it off. Good to eat again.

Given the option of having a week of near 100 degree weather or a week of near zero temperatures, I’d rather sweat than freeze. A hot weather day brings back memories of my young years when life was simple and of course, in the heat, you can still be outside which is where I want to be.

As the song says, “Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. You’ll wish that summer is always here.”

And I do!