I remember summers on Marshfield Avenue.  On hot days Freddy or one of the Gomez brothers opened the hydrant and suddenly every kid was running in and out of the cold sprays.  To lift that water that gushed out, someone would clasp their hands and arms around the water or take a board to lift it up.  The street would fill up quickly because it was too much for the sewers to take in and it became a pool to dash and splash around in.  We were a mess of drenched clothes stuck to show the contours of our bodies, plastered wet hair, and shivering choruses of chattering teeth.

I remember summer rain.  After a rain shower and the sun broke through, the air would smell of prairie, mint infused and refreshing.  There was a field of weeds we called prairie filled with an assortment of wildflowers at the end of our block, at the alley entrance.  One very dry day my younger brother was playing with matches with a couple of buddies and accidentally set fire to the prairie.  They were too young to understand how quickly something so dry catches and spreads.  The fire trucks arrived and the police released the boys to their parents.  My brother found it difficult to sit down for a few days.

Imagine a warm night at Buckingham Fountain.