In the days before air-conditioning became commonplace in Miami, our house seemed to tremble from the relentless rays of summer sun. The kids spent the day outside, where tiny breezes sang through the palm trees, as we entertained ourselves with a ball, a jump rope and skates.

With a big piece of yellow chalk, we drew squares on the sidewalk and then played the classic game of hopscotch. We also played the alphabet game, which involved bouncing a ball while singing: “A, my name is Anna and my husband’s name is Art. We come from Arizona and we sell apples.” Whoever made it through the alphabet without faltering was declared the winner.

On some days, we skated along the brutally hard sidewalks in our native Miami gear—baggy shorts and midriff-bearing tops. Being somewhat clumsy, yours truly often crashed her knees against the concrete, which led to screaming my way into the house for first aid. I’ll never forget my Aunt Rita, who dipped a tiny brush into the bottle of orange medicine and painted a heart upon the wound—which somewhat lessened the volume of my pain.

When we jumped rope, the pace started gently enough, but often exploded into “hot pepper,” which necessitated daring and skill for the participants. I did my best not to get tangled in the rope, which swept the sidewalk in powerful arcs, while the kids sang an age-old litany: “Bluebells, cockleshells, evie, ivy, over; I like coffee, I like tea, I like the boys, and the boys like me.”

Sometimes I wish I had a time machine and could return to those days. I would love to try my hand again at skating with my aunt nearby. I would love to see the concrete block house with jalousie windows, terrazzo floors and the white brocade couch that was off limits to kids. I would savor the sound of my father whistling at dusk to call us back home.

My best friend, Alice, and I invented our own ways to while away the broiling summer days. She had a black cocker spaniel named Junior, and whenever I slept over at her house, we would attach a makeshift bowtie to his collar and put a white chapel veil on his head. Fortunately, Junior was a patient fellow, who endured our antics as long as he was paid in treats.

On Saturdays, Alice and I often took the bus to the blissfully air-conditioned Trail Theater. There, armed with celery sticks, we proceeded to noisily munch to our hearts’ content in an effort to disrupt the movie for everyone. No one considered our antics as hilarious as we did, and their annoyed looks soon silenced us.

When I went to college, my parents sold the concrete block house and bought a condo. They died six months apart when I was 29. For decades, Alice and I exchanged long, detailed letters, until she followed them a few years ago.

Fortunately, I have discovered my own version of a time machine, although it wouldn’t make headlines in a scientific journal. You see, when I pray for folks long gone, I am transported back in time through God’s grace. Suddenly, I’m standing beneath a palm tree next to the concrete block house. There is chalk on the sidewalk and skates strewn on the lawn. I see my mom in the kitchen making supper, while my father whistles a familiar tune into the darkness.

As for the couch, it remains forever off limits to kids, although it wouldn’t surprise me to glimpse Junior sitting there someday, looking rather feisty and decked out in his chapel veil.