Once upon a time, the month of June stood out from the
pack. It embodied so much: 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 establishment
called Sidekicks Café. A poet named Ron—who was especially good
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 poem of his repeatedly
referenced the “June bug.” It was quite evocative as I recall. Brought to life
was this awkward insect wandering the night, careening its way toward a
light source, while rowdily crashing into countless windows and screen doors in
the process.
In the beetle family, the June bug was
not a
sight for sore eyes. Contrarily, its nighttime companion, the lightning bug,
was a welcome summer visitor. Flashing on and off as the fledgling summer days of June turned
dark, few insects could compete with that light show. Meanwhile, the June bug might just
as easily bump into your head as a window or screen door. I don’t imagine the creature was
dangerous—not a carrier of malaria or sporting a lethal stinger—but it was gross
nonetheless. Come to think of it: While the lightning bugs were impressive
visuals 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 unsightly.
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. Stoop sitting was an urban art form for generations. It’s still practiced to some degree, but not as extensively as when
I was a boy. It supplied the ideal setting for neighborhood gossip, the perfect
stopover for passersby, and furnished a ringside seat for the unexpected. Like
the time a new neighbor and homeowner was seen chasing his sister down the
street while uttering an extended string 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’s fair to say that I’m not quite as enamored with June as I once was. Still,
the June bug lives on in nature and in many memories as well.
I’ll have a grape-lemon-flavored Bon Joy Swirl please.
(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas
Nigro)
