Longing for a trip back to childhood

It was also a workday.

“I was on the train this morning,’’ he said. “And all of a sudden I found myself singing in my head that song from ‘Peter Pan.’ You know the one?’’

I know the one.

“I Won’t Grow Up’’ is part of our family lore. I made my son and seven other Cub Scouts perform it on stage at Canton High School when they were about 8. There was some regional Cub Scout thing that every troop was required to do, and unfortunately for them, I was more familiar with Mary Martin and her high Cs than coin collecting and the more renowned high seas.

I’d been told to prepare the boys for a demonstration. I took this to mean a recital. I could have had my troop tie interesting knots on the stage or compare the length and girth of snakes. Instead, I had them dress in long T-shirts and green tights and dance and sing like lost boys in “Peter Pan.’’

My son actually forgave me for this.

“Do you remember the words to the song, Mom?’’ he asked.

As if I could forget. I sang them with gusto into the phone. “I won’t grow up. I don’t want to wear a tie. And a serious expression in the middle of July’’

“Here’s the thing,’’ he said. “That’s exactly what I was doing when I was remembering this. I was on a train in July looking serious and wearing a tie.’’

I said nothing because what was there to say? One day you’re a kid with the whole summer to look forward to, and then one day you’re not?

I told him, at least a million times, when he was itching to be big and make his own money and stay up as late as he wanted and drive his father’s car, that being a grownup is overrated. I told him that some day he would miss all he had right then - no responsibilities, hours to play Wiffle ball in the backyard, strong legs that could take him anywhere, his own room free of charge, an allowance, every summer off, and a mother who made him roast beef and cheese sandwiches with potato chips on the side.

I said to him, just as my mother had said to me: “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.’’ But he was eager. Everyone is; the grass is always greener on the other side of childhood.

But then you grow up and realize that if the grass is greener, it’s only because adults water it and feed it and cut it and edge it and buy grub killer and weed killer or work extra hard to pay someone else to do these things.

What you want in the summer is a break from things. A vacation is nice, but the ideal is to be a child again. To sleep until you wake up, no alarms, no schedule. To eat Entenmann’s Raspberry Danish Twist - never mind that it’s bad for you. To watch a little TV - reruns and old movies. To read all day if you want. To go to the drive-in and fall asleep in the car and wake up in your bed. To not have to worry about bills and weeds and office politics and when was the last time the car oil was changed.

Once upon a time we had all this.

Childhood isn’t as unstructured anymore. Most kids don’t hang out and do nothing these days. They take classes, go to camp, play sports. But it’s still childhood. Someone else buys the clothes, packs the lunch, and makes the money.

My son misses playing ball in the backyard with Mike Zogalis. I miss swings and hanging out with Rosemary.

But what we miss most every summer is what most adults miss: a trip back to childhood, three long months of being carefree.

Canton resident Beverly Beckham can be reached at bevbeckham@aol.com.