A Strange Summer's Day in 1966

By Frankie Carr

It's  American Graffiti meets The Age of Adeline. The colorful cast of characters and a driving 1960's Rock 'n Roll music score/storyline make for a compelling tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frankie Carr
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223088332

Frankie Carr

Greetings, y'all! About me: I've been writing for years. One source of invaluable information has been "Writer's Digest," a magnificent compendium of knowledge.  What do I do in my spare time? Besides my day job, I love swing dancing, bicycling, hiking, & jogging. I sincerely hope you enjoy the journey: "A Strange Summer's Day." ~ Peace & Love!

Book preview

~ Down at Old Blue ~

H ey, hey, I think we're almost there! Robyn yelled over the roar of the music. She swayed to the tempo of Sergio Mendes & Brasil 66 blasting from the radio. The wind churned up from behind the windshield and whipped at their hair. Robyn glanced over at Al and shot him a toothy smile. He returned the same.

Robyn would have taken her old Harley, but it had been laid up waiting for a part and would have loved to have driven her father's old truck, but its transmission was a long shot. She didn’t have the money to fix it, along with a number of other repairs. It sat near the barn where she sometimes pretended to drive the faded green vehicle and thought about him and happier days. At times she'd choke up. Tears would fall. While reminiscing, she'd listen to the brook running behind the barn. Its cheerful, bubbly sounds helped soothe her shattered nerves.

On this day, Friday, July 8th, she drove Charlie's, her father's pride and joy, red 1964 Pontiac Catalina Convertible with white leather interior, a 389 V8 under the hood, 230 hp. With part of Charlie’s life insurance, Robyn’s mother, Margret, bought a gas-efficient car, a used Volkswagen Beatle, to make her rounds as the news reporter for the town's weekly paper, the Flagstaff Register. The Catalina she gave to Robyn. Her father had been a new car salesman.

Robyn was running late and couldn't meet up with the others at the designated time of 1 P.M. A glance at her Timex indicated 12:45 P.M. Her excuse was her needing to pick up Al who lived, as the crow flies, some ten miles in the country. Carla Godwin, Al's on-and-off girlfriend, was running late as usual and couldn't make the connection. A phone call by her to Robyn, she gladly volunteered. A couple of days prior, Al had hit a deer in his Dodge Dart. The damage was enough to have it towed to a body shop. Robyn happily complied with Al's request, to let him drive. She removed her tennis shoes and propped her ankles on the window sill. She liked to feel the wind between her toes and, at times, would, while driving, prop an ankle on the sill.

The group gathered at Bud's Texaco station, a block down from the Dairy Queen. Robyn hurriedly changed in the restroom. She sauntered out in a short jean skirt with her new swimsuit underneath. Atop it, she wore a Rolling Stones tee-shirt. 

Brenda pulled up in her Oldsmobile, a 1955 yellow two-door. She didn't bother locking its doors. Hardly anyone in town did lock their doors: car or house. Picturesque Flagstaff, with its backdrop of the San Francisco Peaks, was a safe place. Afterward, Brenda strode toward a navy blue Dodge van where, in the front seat, sat her and Robyn's friends, Bob Haze and Jack Cooper, with Jack behind the steering wheel (He'd picked up Bob earlier. His project vehicle, a 1937 Ford pickup, had broken down.) Bob moved to the back seat. Brenda finger waved to Bob and smilingly said, Glad you can make it!

He nodded in return and said, Thanks . . . Been anywhere you went?

She giggled and said to his non sequitur, Not recently.

Turning, she said in an upbeat voice, Hi, Jack! She scooted next to him and kissed his cheek.

Off the trio drove, yammering about nothing in particular.

Al and Robyn led the way. The Lovin' Spoonful's, Summer in the City, boomed from the radio. The two sang along.

It was the Summer of '66, the summer of their lives. The group graduated two years before from Flagstaff Union High. The following month they'd be juniors at Flagstaff's Rochester University. Carla had been Al's girlfriend off and on ever since high school seniors. Two weeks before they were to give it another try at Roller-Rama, the town's roller rink, where the PA blasted Doo Wop songs. Carla stood him up. Instead, he skated with the group and some forty teenagers. Robyn became all starry-eyed when she and Al slow skated. He held her hand, to the Chapel of Dreams. They'd known each other since elementary and hung out with the same crowd, the same group who'd cruise North Main Street, hang out at the Dairy Queen, and pack car trunks with fellow teenagers and sneak into the town's only drive-in movie theatre, the Specter. Carla and Al were still on the outs and went in different cars to see Doctor Zhivago back in February. The trip to Old Blue would be Carla and Al's makeup of sorts.

Carla had been held up by a passing freight train. She wanted to be home for an 8:30 P.M. engagement. It was her father's birthday. In the likelihood the swim party went longer than expected, she could leave without disrupting the group's plans. Soon she had them in sight, on Route 66.

It was a record-breaking scorching hot July weekend. Like mountains, black clouds filled the horizon. A gentle breeze blew. The day before, the group discussed whether they should call off their day trip, as weather forecasts portended heavy showers. They thought they'd chance it anyway.

Man, it hasn't rained for months! Robyn blurted. Ah, I think you missed the turn.

Oh, okay, Al said and slowed to a crawl. He stuck his arm out and did a circle in the air for the others to turn about. Their goal: a spring-fed pond called Old Blue. Blue as making one turn blue because the water was so cold. Old Blue was about a fifty-minute drive from Flagstaff. As they neared their destination, Carla blasted past them in her white Ford Thunderbird, a gift from her parents the previous Christmas.

Everyone knew of Old Blue. It and the surrounding eighty some odd acres had been in the Carla Godwin family for generations. She would accompany various friends there. A large padlock and heavy chain secured the metal gate entrance. The group pulled up to see Carla waiting for them, with the gate open. She waved them in. Come on, slowpokes, she taunted and shook her head in mock disdain. 

Carla's father was the local bank owner. His wife turned forty, two weeks prior. Quite unhappy with the event, she, on the evening after, threw a bender, went out for a spin, and cried again when she was issued a speeding ticket and DUI, by a burly no-nonsense highway patrolman who wouldn't be persuaded by her local celebrity or her fake tears.

Carla, the oldest at twenty-one, had much younger siblings. They were at summer camp. Carla's passion for drama took place mostly in high school and college stage and sometimes off. Some called her flighty-fighty. She spoke her mind freely, and that sometimes led to an out and out brawl with the female gender.

Thumping sounds followed as the caravan passed over the cattle guard. Carla stopped long enough to close the gate but did not lock it. Billowing dust clouds followed them, as they bumped along a gravel road toward their destination. Within minutes the cars disgorged its passengers. They quickly stripped down to their swimsuits. Screams filled the air. Ones and two sees dove from the bank or an overhanging tree. They came up laughing and cursing their icy plunge. They swam around for a while and took turns swinging from the shore, letting go of a rope as their tanned bodies reached their zenith, then sliced through the thick hot, humid air and back into the deep chilly circle again.

Hamburgers and hotdogs sizzled from a couple of Hibachis. Fizz from cola bottles trickled down their frosty sides, thirsty throats quenched. From a small transistor radio blared the tuneful Who Put the Bomp. Impromptu dancing broke out. Swimwear dried under the sweltering sun. Stomachs satiated. They pulled into their clothes.

Laughter and loud talking continued nearby as Robyn strode to her Pontiac and went about securing its top. From her purse, she applied some lip gloss and then placed her purse on the floorboard. It'd be a wreck if it rained, she mumbled as she looked over at Al.

Fill it up like a bathtub; it would, Al said as he rolled up the windows.

That's a consolation, Robyn smiled and ran a finger through her long brunette hair. She turned, opened the door, and reached onto the back seat for an empty wine bottle. In it, she'd stowed a note. With the bottle's cork firmly in place, she walked