Buried deep in a closet of the house that knew my childhood, behind the yearbooks and the scrapbooks, the Barbie dolls and the baby dolls, lies Blackie. That old bear, handmade of cotton and felt, a gift from my favorite aunt on my third birthday, was for many years my comrade and cohort, slipping with me beneath the beds to hide among the dust balls, peering out between the tassels of the bedspreads to engage in a staring contest with the family cat.
I told Blackie my stories, real and imagined, and took him with me everywhere, sometimes dressed in old baby clothes. He rode proudly in the basket of my bicycle, rescued from a rubbish pile and repainted, and suffered himself to be stuffed into my shirt or the waistband of my shorts while I climbed trees.
Blackie was my co-conspirator in tormenting my little sister with tales of how our dolls and toy animals came to life at midnight, talking, singing, and dancing, provoking her to try hard every night to stay awake to witness the magic.
As I recall these things, it seems to me it was always summer, years of summer, soft and sultry, when Blackie and I would expand our corps to include Susie, my cousin and secret sharer of my summer soul. Susie’s house was next to mine, and at night, if my sister wouldn’t tell, Susie would jump boldly from her first-floor window and climb, with the help of the gas meter, into our room, to sit forever and tell us of ghosts, goblins, monsters—and sometimes—a story that was true.
Every morning, after Captain Kangaroo and my Cheerios, I went outside to pace the patio in my bare feet until the dew vanished, before running the width of our two yards to meet Susie. She was always late and I waited, fidgeting, on her back porch until her waist-length, honey-colored hair was combed and braided, and she was freed. Almost I can see her running—tanned as a berry, tall and slim, even as a child, with sapphire eyes and too many freckles.
Some days, we played in the dirt, constructing lost cities or making mud pies. Others, we borrowed our big sisters’ skates and rolled around with their skate keys on strings draped proudly around our necks.
We often rode our bicycles, chasing imagined bad guys, salvaging discarded soft drink bottles to return for the refund—two cents per bottle—to supplement our meager allowances, or racing each other to the swimming pool at the high school in the next town. Climbing our favorite tree, we pretended to be distressed damsels or female incarnations of Tarzan with better vocabularies.
We spent one day, as blue and clear as a robin's egg, at the drainage ditch behind the high school, catching baby frogs as they hopped on their new legs, and collecting tadpoles in every stage of development, imagining that we would be renowned scientists someday. Losing ourselves in our tasks and dreams, we emerged muddy and tried to conceal our splattered condition by completely coating our arms and legs in mud.
Our efforts were in vain, of course. Our mothers were seriously displeased; not at all impressed by our scientific pursuits. After baths and supper with no dessert, we were banished to bed immediately with no television.
Once, Susie and I quarreled and vowed never to speak to each other again. But that afternoon, I crawled with Blackie beneath the flowering bush that was our favorite hideout. Susie was there. Sitting on the cool, moist earth, as pale and fading sunlight filtered down in misty shafts, we pledged the most sacred of childhood oaths: to remain forever best friends and cousins.
I hold for a moment the memory of Susie in the dappled light, Blackie in my arms. Then slowly it begins to fade, like the promise and the summer.

Copyright 2026 Laura A. Candris. All rights reserved.