It was Friday, early afternoon. Mom was humming Nat King Cole tunes as she hurried around the house, packing things for the beach at Lake Phalen. The temperature was in the high 90 s; the humidity weighed us down so it seemed as though we were becoming a thin layer of asphalt ourselves.

We drove to the beach instead of walking, not because there were many of us going but because of all the things my Mom had to bring along. She had a blanket, her pedicure kit, her back copies of Ladies Home Journal, a cooler of adult drinks and a jug of Kool-Aid for us. She also had a big umbrella that said "Vomella," advertising the factory she worked for and a folding chair with cup holders that skinned shins no matter how you tried to carry it. She let my friend Willie come along this time. He had to beg his Mom to let him go because she's afraid of the water and she's too over protective. I knew how to swim better than Willie. My mom made me take Red Cross-approved swim lessons since I could walk on my own. Willie's mom never made him take lessons. She said there were more important things to do than learn how to tread water, so Willie was considered a novice in water, at least that's what my mom said.

No floatation devices were allowed at the beach, but Willie's mom wanted him to take along water wings. For Willie to get permission to go my mom lied and said Willie would be able to use the water wings and not to worry. I knew we'd pay for her lie several times before the beach trip was over. My mom kept track of things like that and we would owe her.

Owing her meant watching my little brother use the water wings at the beach so she could read and not be bothered. I hated having to be responsible for him. I saw it as an end to all fun, but I knew this would be the compromise for bringing my friend along. At least I'd have Willie to talk to while paying my dues.

We helped carry a trunk load of necessities to a carefully selected spot. My mom flattened the sand with her foot, and then laid out the Holly Hobbie blanket, claiming our space for the afternoon at the beach. A cooler held down one comer of the blanket while a bag of Fritos and two shoes held the other three comers. "Don't step on the blanket," my mother warns. "I don't want any sand near me."

I often wondered why anyone would come to a beach and be so put off by sand, but I wasn't going to ask her. This was about the time she gave out assignments to me, being the oldest. I didn't want more responsibility than I could handle. I wanted to have some fun.

I was almost ready to break away, to enter the water with a big splash, when she cleared her throat. That was my cue to stand alert. "Watch your little brother and don't scream. I don't want you running around here, either, and kicking up sand on the blanket. Be careful, Bing, and don't jump off the raft, you don't know if it's over your head or not. Now go on, leave me be. I brought a good book that I want to read. There's sandwiches in the cooler and when you're hungry, help yourselves."

I was referred to as Bing only during summer vacation. My mom said I got as red as a cherry from the sun. So for as long as I remember, Bing has been my summer name. My little brother didn't have a summer name. His name was always Carl. Carl was my summer responsibility, my constant reminder that my vacation was never my own. I hated Carl for this and Willie hated him too.

"Go tell Carl to bug the lifeguard," Willie said as we slowly made our way to the water. So much for the big splash.

I told Carl to go grab the whistle from around the lifeguard's neck. "Go tell the lifeguard that you're a lost little boy and no one wants you bothering them."

I was sick of the responsibility, and I was sick of being called Bing. I felt older and stronger having Willie around, and I was about to let my mother know.

An announcement echoed through the beach. "A little boy by the name of Carl is lost. He's wearing red swim trunks and has blond hair. Would the parent of Carl please come to the refreshment stand."?

I knew my mom would be mad, but she had already taken off with her musician friend. They met down at the beach every other Friday and went for a long walk.

I counted to 300, and then heard the announcement again come over the loud speaker. I looked up at our blanket. All that remained was the black headband my mom had on when we got here. I knew I didn't need to be cautious any longer. We were on our own and Carl was now the responsibility of the lifeguard. He'd probably get free ice cream sandwiches to eat and maybe a whistle of his own because the lifeguard would feel sorry for him.

I was free of my responsibility. I could have fun with my friend Willie and not be bothered. I could dive off the raft and never get caught. Willie could pretend to swim in the shallow part and 'root me on' as I competed with other kids in diving strategies. I could pretend to be dead by floating on top of the water, weightless, and listen to the lifeguard row the rescue boat out to gather my limp body. I could juggle my three Koosh balls up and down the beach, collecting money for my optical illusions and ongoing tricks within a blink of an eye.

All this could take place before my mother would return from her walk and sit down on the blanket without sand. She'd wipe her face with a Kleenex and resume a less-active position. I would go over to her, stand at the edge of the blanket, notice my sandy feet and smell an odor like ammonia seep up my nose, a smell that mom said came from the act of love. We would greet each other with suspicion and then she would say, "Go on now Bing, I want to finish my book. Go look after Carl and quit bothering me." I'd sink out of weightlessness, swear off love and forget what it felt like to be free of responsibility.