My cousin, Jackie, pulls into our driveway and honks as my sister, Julie, and I scramble out of the house. Julie beats me out the door and grabs the front seat. I hop into the back and toss my bag lunch onto the open seat beside me.
“Can we listen to the makeup song?”, we ask enthusiastically.
Jackie laughs and obliges, sliding the CD into the slot. We listen to this same track nearly every day but never seem to tire of it. The opening beats of Celebrity Skin by the band Hole blast out of the car’s speakers:
♫ Oh, make me over
I’m all I wanna be
A walking study
In demonology
Heyyyyy….♫
The windows are rolled down and a warm summer breeze blows through the car. I brush wisps of hair out of my eyes and wait in anticipation for my favorite part of the song.
“WHEN I WAKE UP IN MY MAKEUP!”, my sister and I belt out at the top of our lungs.
It’s the only part of the song we know – thus, “the makeup song”.
We hum along and soon pull into the parking lot of the old Balkan school. Balkan Rec is a summer recreation program for youth in the area. To my eleven-year-old self, it feels like the best part of summer. Jackie works at the Rec and picks us up every day so we don’t have to ride the bus. Since the workers arrive about a half hour early to set up, my sister and I have the place to ourselves.
As we enter the building, I’m greeted by the familiar, musty smell of the school. Balkan Township was organized in 1912 and the building where we attend Rec is probably equally as old, the rustic quality being part of its charm. We walk past the water fountain that we all know better than to use. The water has a strong metallic taste, and it serves as an initiation of sorts for new kids who don’t know any better.
Light pours into the main room from the big windows above the stage. An old piano sits off to the right, out of tune with cracked, yellow keys. For fifty cents you can choose from a selection of beverages from the pop machine in the middle of the room. The dull plastic buttons glow with yellow light displaying offerings of Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Fresca, or Fanta.
“Want to play foosball?” I ask my sister as we walk past.
“I’d rather play air hockey”, Julie responds.
Our feet shuffle across the scuffed linoleum floor as we follow Jackie to the back of the building. The CD player with the giant speakers is tuned into one of the local radio stations, music playing softly in the background. We pass the scarred wooden pool tables, the green baize fabric worn and fading. Solid and striped balls are scattered across their surfaces.
“Hi Ms. Harty!”, we greet the Rec Director as we toss our lunches into the small white fridge.
“Hey girls”, she responds as she pulls out an assortment of candy from the back room – Laffy Taffy, Bazooka Joe bubble gum, Skittles, M&Ms.
Jackie makes her way to the supply room where employees store belongings for the day. We follow her to admire the new spools of lanyard on display. The various colors - green, pink, yellow, blue, metallic, neon, sparkly – are arranged in no particular order, like their own sort of rainbow. They range in cost from five to twenty-five cents depending on the type and design. Members of our family are dutifully equipped, every summer, with dozens of lanyard keychains we create.
Julie grabs the plastic mallets and puck for air hockey and darts from the room. I join her and plug in the table while she sets up the game. We slide the puck back and forth, our shouts echoing across the room when one of us scores. The rumble of the buses can be heard as they pull up outside, and we abandon our game and rush out the door to greet our friends.
***
“Anyone want lunch?”, I ask. “My mom gave us money for pizza today”.
We head out to the pavilion where staff are prepping pizza and cheddar dogs for lunch. I decide on a slice of cheese pizza while the rest of the group gets cheddar dogs, and we make our way to the green, wooden picnic tables to sit down, balancing our food on flimsy paper plates.
I watch a group of kids playing four squares as we eat lunch, absentmindedly picking at scraps of peeling paint on the edge of the table.
One of the staff, Marcus, stops by to ask if we want to play a game of Capture the Flag. Marcus is a Rec favorite. Most of the girls are secretly in love with him, while the boys idolize him, trying to act cooler than they are when he is around. He could ask us to run in circles and quack like ducks for the rest of the day, and we’d probably agree to it.
We respond with an enthusiastic yes and scarf down the rest of our food. We run over to the group of kids gathering on the lawn and eagerly wait to be divided into teams.
***
We sit perched in one of the giant trees that border the perimeter of the Balkan school. We’re playing house, and our friends, Sam and Jess, are in the branches of the opposite tree. Julie stands at the foot of it, a large stick in her hand, mixing dirt, rocks, and leaves in an old tree stump pretending to cook dinner.
“Hey Sam!”, I shout. “I’m going to call you on my spoon phone”.
A spoon phone is a stick ending in a short thirty-degree angle at the bottom. I’m not quite sure how it acquired the name “spoon phone”, but it stuck, and we all went with it.
I pick up my spoon phone to call Sam, and she answers.
“Whatcha doing?”, she asks.
“Not much”, I respond and look up at Amy, perched in the branch across from me. “Just sitting here with Amy”.
Our conversation is interrupted by a shriek from Julie.
“Oh my god! SOMEONE POOPED!”, she yells.
We hop hurriedly down from our trees to investigate. Sure enough, a pile of human poop sits near the base of the tree, hidden behind the wide base of the trunk. We all plug our noses, standing in a circle looking at each other, wondering what to do next. We decide to go find Jackie to let her know.
Jackie and a few other staff members investigate the poop and grab a shovel and a bag to dispose of it. We let out a collective groan when we’re told that no one can play in the trees for the rest of the day.
We spend the rest of the day trying to determine the identity of the mysterious pooper, singling out possible suspects who had been lingering near the trees earlier in the day. Rumors run wild, and people whisper in corners, glaring suspiciously at those outside their friend groups. As discoverers of the poop, our group has a relatively solid alibi, and we share our list of possible suspects with others before anyone tries to point the finger at us. By the next day, no one has come forward to reveal themselves as the pooper. That was pretty much the end of that.
***
We stand in clusters, waiting to line up and board the yellow school bus. I adjust my red flower-patterned blouse to cover my stomach, feeling self-conscious about the pink, sparkly bikini I’ve chosen to wear underneath my clothes. I’ve reached that awkward tween phase where I’ve begun to scrutinize every imperfection – the stubborn baby fat around my belly, my freckles, and crooked teeth. The sun beats down on my face, and I push at my glasses that keep sliding down my sweaty nose.
It’s beach day at Rec, and I’m looking forward to an afternoon at Carey Lake in Hibbing. I board the bus and slide into the seat next to my best friend, Sam, placing my beach ball backpack on my lap, as we discuss what we want to do once we arrive at the lake. A group of boys up front is reprimanded by the bus driver for being too rowdy during the ride, shouting and punching one another as boys that age do.
We arrive and quickly claim a spot on the sandy beach. Someone has a disposable camera and snaps pictures. They aim the camera at me, and I smile back awkwardly, squinting my eyes in the bright sun with my backpack tossed casually over my shoulder, purple hairbrush in hand.
I unload the contents of my backpack – sunscreen, a towel, and the latest issue of Tiger Beat magazine. The boy band, Hanson, is prominently displayed on the cover.
The Best of Hanson!
All new pinups!
Books!
Quotes!
Concert Pix!
And much, much more…
I lay back on my towel using the magazine to shield the sun from my face. I look over to my right and spot the group of popular kids tossing a frisbee back and forth. Being shy and awkward, I envy their carefree approach, how everything seems so easy for them. I angle myself in their direction, hoping they might notice my magazine and engage me in conversation. I imagine myself casually offering insight into the latest celebrity gossip, coming up with witty comebacks and making everyone laugh. Convinced that I can be cool, they’ll ask me to join them in their game of frisbee, finally accepting me as one of the popular kids. I’m interrupted from my daydream by Sam, asking if I want to go swimming.
I tuck my magazine into my backpack and join Sam, our sisters, and some of our other friends on the shoreline, grateful for this small group of people who I can be myself around. We dart in and out of the water, playing games of Chicken Fight and Marco Polo all afternoon, the sun a sparkling backdrop.
***
I lean my head against the window as we drive down Highway 73, on our way to - what is now - the Balkan Community Center where we are hosting the Montellioni Family Reunion. It’s been over a decade since I’ve visited, the days of Balkan Rec now a distant childhood memory.
We pull into the parking lot, and I feel a twinge of sadness as I look around at the changes. The original building has been torn down, replaced with a modern-day structure with a blue exterior and smaller footprint. The trees we used to play in as kids have been cleared away. I suppose the intent was to make the area feel more open, but to me it looks exposed and vulnerable. I picture the ghostly limbs of the trees waving in the breeze and feel silly as I swallow past a lump in my throat.
More change greets us as we enter the building. Gone is the stage where we used to perform plays and dances. The out of tune piano with the broken, yellowed keys and the scarred pool and foosball tables have been hauled away. The room with all the crafts and candy no longer exists. The new layout is small and simple, mostly consisting of a kitchen and an open room to host community events. I even miss the musty smell that used to linger throughout the building.
My sister and I set up a table in the entryway and sort bags of t-shirts into small groupings by family. Family members begin to arrive, hugs and greetings commence, and the room is filled with laughter and conversation. We spend the afternoon playing bean bags and bocce ball and eating food.
Later, as I sit at one of the circular tables, the opening notes of Eh Cumpari, a family favorite, echo from the speakers set up in the corner. I jump up from my seat and join some of my family members where we create a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room, shouting out the lyrics in our best attempts at Italian.
♫ A fumma a fumma a la trombona
Pa-pa-pa-pa pa la trumbetta
A ting a tin, you viulin
A pling a pling, you mandulin
Tu tu tu tu you saxofona
You friscalette, tipiti tipiti tam♫
***
I often think about my younger self, the girl that was so worried about being popular, eager to move on to the next phase of life. The girl with the brush and backpack in the chance photo that would end up marking an era. I wish I could tell her that change doesn’t always feel better, although it’s often inevitable. Buildings get old, things break down, new structures take their place. I want to tell her that one day she’ll feel nostalgic for such a beautiful and imaginative time in life - days filled with games, crafts, beaches, trees, and spoon phones.
Change and all, I’m grateful the Balkan Community Center is still standing, continuing to provide much needed local services and community cohesion. Balkan Rec shaped me and the dozens of other kids that walked through its doors. It was a place that never tried to pretend it was something it wasn’t, and in its simplicity, it allowed us to create, to imagine, to remember the simple joy of being together.
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