(Originally
published 6/5/22)
Once upon
a time, the month of June shined. It embodied a heaping helping of good: long days, the school
year's end, backyard barbecues, baseball in its many incarnations, and imminent
summer vacations in exotic locales like the Jersey Shore and the North Fork of
Long Island. Thirty years ago in June, I regularly attended a poetry open mic
at a now defunct eatery and gin mill called Sidekicks Café. A poet named Ron—who was
especially entertaining and the exception to the rule—recited his original verse in a
soothing Southern accent, a muted cadence not typically heard in the Bronx. One particular poem of his repeatedly referenced the “June bug.” It vividly brought
to life this clumsy insect of the night. Listeners visualized the bumbling creature careening
toward a light source, while crashing into windows, screen doors, and human heads in the process.
In the
beetle family, the June bug was not a sight for sore eyes. And still isn't! Contrarily, its
nighttime companion, the lightning bug, was a welcome summer visitor. Flashing
on and off as the fledgling summer days of June grew dark, few insects could
compete with its dazzling light show. Meanwhile, the June bug blundered along. I don’t imagine it was
dangerous—not a carrier of malaria or sporting a lethal stinger—but it was ugly as all hell. Come to think of it: While the lightning bugs were impressive on warm
summer nights, human contact was not recommended. Their inevitable calling
cards: a nasty, lingering odor not easily scrubbed away. And, too, in the
bright light of day, they were rather gruesome looking.
June was
the ultimate anticipatory month, a time to get the summer ball rolling. We had
the
June bug, as it were, and it impacted all ages—from those of us who
waited patiently for the Good Humor man to make his daily evening rounds to the
adult set who commenced with their nightly stoop-sitting gossip-fests. Spanning
generations, stoop sitting was an urban art form. It’s still practiced, but not as extensively as when I was a boy. Stoop sitting supplied a ringside seat for both the expected and unexpected. Like the time a new neighbor and homeowner was seen chasing his
sister down the street while uttering a litany of profanities. I
wonder what that was all about? Footnote: The man lived in the same house for
fifty years before passing away last year. I don’t know whatever became of his
sister, if she inherited his property, or if she's even among the living.
Just as
Good Humor retired its fleet of trucks and became exclusively a supermarket
brand, so many of those who caught the June bug along with me have gone the way
of a funeral parlor’s laminated prayer card. It would be fair to say that I’m not
quite as enamored with June as I once was. Still, the June bug endures in nature and in countless memories as well. I’ll have a grape-lemon-flavored Bon Joy
Swirl please.
(Photos
from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
