by Jeff King
I have the luxury of living across the street from an elementary school. By the time I get home sometime around six during the week, it’s usually long been vacated---which gives our family its own private basketball court, track and large field on which to throw tennis balls to my round object obsessed Springer Spaniel.
Until recently, the playground equipment had a fairly thick bed of mulch underneath it. While not absolutely guaranteeing that a toddler falling from the rubber coated, non-slip surfaces would be uninjured, the odds of broken bones were considerably lessened.
Now the mulch has been replaced by a sky blue rubber/foam six inch deep material that’s nearly as springy as those enclosed children’s Moonwalk “bouncers” found at all school carnivals. You know the kind---the ones that are so soft and safe six year olds can jump three feet in the air, but inevitably crack skulls with another cellmate upon landing.
When I walk my dog after dark, and when I’m absolutely positive no one else is looking, I like to jump up and down on the spongy “moon” surface like the old Apollo Neal Armstrong video. Sometime I even spring (in attempted slow motion) from the first rung of the “lunar lander” jungle gym, boldly announcing “One small step for man, one giant step…” Well you get the idea. I know, it’s pretty hard to believe that a boy who grew up in the 60’s didn’t dream of being in retail all his life. And that I haven’t sought professional help.
It’s hard for me not to recall my own elementary school “playground.” Where instead of space age, spongy blue six-inch thick paint we had the newest, greatest invention of the day. One that was so durable and innovative it was nearly indestructible. I’m talking, of course, about asphalt.
I’m picturing two modern dads, upon seeing their toddler fall backwards four feet while falling off the monkey bars, laughing and saying, “So glad we got that spongy stuff installed! Jacob’s head would have been busted into a dozen pieces otherwise!”
The same scene in the late 60’s would have shown dad applying pressure and a handkerchief to their son’s bleeding head wound while noting, “Wow! That new asphalt isn’t damaged a bit! And the blood that doesn’t wipe up is hardly noticeable! I bet this stuff will last forever on our roads.”
It’s pretty difficult for modern school children to suffer any physical damage at recess. With bullying (hopefully) on the way out, most of them will have to wait until their first car at 16 to experience physical bruises, and their first date for emotional scars.
My own elementary school playground had the following “play” tests---now only suitable for Navy Seal training:
Metal Jungle Gym—Made of shiny metal bars, polished (and slippery) after many years of sweat stained, chubby little fingers grasping for dear life. Although about 100 feet tall, it was fortunately well positioned over a cushy landing mat of…solid, black asphalt. Every year it claimed a few broken arms and scores of chipped teeth.
Gravel Dodgeball Field—Bordered on two sides by jagged, crumbling eight foot tall limestone walls (which were fun to walk on top of, but that’s another story) and on another by about a four foot drop off. With a loose gravel base, players attempting to dodge a throw often slipped and fell, leading to untold abrasions. Of course, those were the lucky ones. Some skidded into a rock wall, leading to a diagnosis now called a “concussion,” which in the modern world means weeks of no play. We called this condition “getting our bell rung,” and it mostly resulted in being an easy target while shaking cobwebs out. The unfortunate few pitched headfirst off the four-foot drop off. Interestingly enough, our teachers actually encouraged us to play this game!
Wood “See-Saws”—What could be dangerous about a wooden plank balanced on a pivot, with young, evenly weighted children on both sides gently pushing up and down on a nice spring day? Nothing…if any of us had thought to use it that way. Instead we would load three children on one side and a smaller tyke on the other, then all jump off in unison. Said smaller tyke sometimes even kept their fillings intact when hitting the (what else) asphalt.
Metal Spinning “Thingy”—Not sure what the contraption was called, but it consisted of about an eight foot diameter slippery horizontal metal disk with a few handholds on the outer edge. Mounted about two feet off the ground in the center, it was designed to be gently pushed in circles. As if! Instead we’d load the contraption down with about a dozen thrill seekers and have 3 or 4 of the strongest boys start pushing in circles as fast as they could. As the disc started spinning faster and faster, the challenge was to see who could stay on the longest. He (or she) was the winner. The rest of them---the ones throwing up or heading to the school nurse to treat various breaks and asphalt burns---well, they weren’t! No participation trophies were given.
High School Hero?
by Jeff King
When my 90-year-old father was forced to downsize before moving into an apartment recently, I was mailed a big, tattered box full of---for the most part---things I had no idea still existed; the first record album I ever purchased (Saturday Night Fever by the Bee Gee’s), assorted 8-track tapes, and a St. Louis Cardinals helmet I got when I was 7. Yeah, I was a diehard Vikings fan at the time, but the Cardinals uniforms were on sale in our Minnesota Sears store and mom must have thought red and white clashed less with the furniture than purple and gold. Still, I wore that uniform 24/7 from Christmas morning until spring.
Among this unusual hoard were some tattered library books of the kind I used to read from about the 4th grade right on through high school. Books with titles like “One-Man Backfield,” “Tourney Team” and the “Coach Nobody Liked.”
As all the books are marked “Property of the Stewartville High School Library,” either they were picked up at some long forgotten “going out of business” high school book sale, or I’m about to be slapped with one of the biggest library fines in small town Minnesota history. I can only hope my current home state of North Carolina will refuse to extradite me to face punishment.
While the books all have different authors listed on the jackets, the writers seemed to have taken the same English by mail correspondence class. Here, in essence, are the basic plots:
Young boy (remember, this was before Title IX) is an average athlete, or occasionally a good athlete with a big problem (usually attitude). In the former, the middling jock is usually a bench warmer, whose primary function is occupying a backup position to a larger, faster, more physically mature “big man on campus” type who attracts the girls (although there was never anything more risqué than drinking malts together).
The coach, a big square jawed type who talks in clichés, is blissfully unaware that the timid, 140-pound boy languishing on the bench can throw the football 60 yards, hit 20 foot jump shots with either hand and just happens to have a moral compass more rigid than Mother Theresa’s. Surprisingly enough, while said coach is usually the best in the area, he’s somehow overlooked the budding hall of famer on his bench. As have all the girls in school.
Eventually something happens to the star player (suspension for bad grades, injury, etc...) and the backup is “discovered” when he does something heroic and unexpected (throws the ball back to the second string QB so hard that it knocks him down). The team, which has given up all hope of going to state when their star was lost, is now led to the finals by the newbie. Cutest girl in school, formerly girlfriend of star, now discovers newbie, who instead starts dating the only girl who ever paid attention to him. Of course, said girl finds new clothes and makeup and turns into a teen Elizabeth Taylor. Even former star player becomes best friend. Team wins state.
Occasionally, the main character in the book is actually the star player, but only because he has a severe flaw. Rocky Ryan, the hot shooting basketball player for Hillcrest High (don’t you love the alliteration), is suspended by his old fashioned coach for “being a sorehead.” And in the baseball classic, “Most Valuable Player,” we’re left to wonder if the team will win state, or “be torn apart by the self-centered actions of the star shortstop?”
I emptied our local libraries checking out (and possibly stealing?) books like these in the late 60’s and early 70’s. Judging by the many recognizable fellow teen names on the cards still in the back of these classics, I had a lot of company.
Why were these books so captivating? While I’d like to believe it’s because each book had a upstanding moral---don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t forget to thank the little people when accepting a really large trophy---the scarcity of TV options (only 3 channels), computers, video games and cell phones probably had more to do with it.
And I was the 140 pound, shy boy in the books. For the most part, a bench warmer in three sports, having missed my big moment only because of a few minor physical flaws (size, speed, strength and aggressiveness). None of my coaches ever recognized my super hero type hidden athletic tendencies in practice, what with them being subtly cloaked in strike outs and bad passes. And the pretty girls who dated our best players didn’t secretly long to be with me...or at least if they did it was pretty well hidden by their tendencies to forget my name.
Six Buck Adventure
Guest blog by Commander F. C. "FRITZ" Louderback, US Navy, Retired
It is a long story, after all my next birthday, I'll be 70. But, I'll try to keep it brief. I've always liked anything with motion: cars, trains, planes, boats, you name it. Living in New Jersey, at 12 years of age, I learned that I could obtain Working Papers that would allow to me to work on a farm. I already had a newspaper route where I, daily, delivered the Philadelphia Bulletin, and the Camden Courier to maybe 40 customers via my bicycle.
One of my customers was a small turkey and chicken farm, Flying Feather Farm, owned by a legally blind man, Mr. Johnny Boenitch. Why would a blind man want a newspaper? He wouldn't, but Mr. Boenitch wanted to assist a young entrepreneur, so he spent 25 cents a week for a product that he had no use for, just to help a much younger businessman than him.
I could have sold him last weeks paper, but I didn't have that kind of intestinal fortitude. I don't know how, but he knew that I never cheated him. It was a good business relationship, a simple one, but nonetheless, it was a win, win for both of us. So, naturally armed with the knowledge that I could get a real job working on a farm, I approached my friend Mr. Boenitch, and he hired me, and set my work schedule around my paper route's time demands.
It wasn't long that I learned that Flying Feather Farm also grew tomatoes during New Jersey's rather short growing season of about twelve weeks a year. This was a busy time, and the farm needed all the workers it could get. I volunteered, that If I could drive the tractor, I would give the paper route to my younger brother, and I'd work around the clock to help harvest the tomatoes. And, this is what I did. Recall now, I was at that time in my life, a full-fledged, 12-year-old-tractor-driver.
The tomatoes were sold to the Campbell Soups Company, that is all for the few that I put in my pockets and took home to my mother who served them for dinner, canned them, and froze them for the coming winter months. Nobody bothered me about the money that I was making and saving. My brother combined my paper route with his, and with tips was making over $10.00 per week. My mom was busy happily canning away, and my dad came home from work every night to a meal that began with a fresh tomato salad. The only problem, my earnings were burning a hole in my pocket.
Flying Feather Farm did not only get its name from the birds that it raised. As it turned out it was located next door to the Moorestown Airport, a grass strip with a gas pump, numerous tie downs, and a dive of a restaurant. Everyday that summer, I drove either the red Farmall or green John Deere tractor, listening to rock and roll tunes on Philadelphia's Radio 99, WIBG DJ's shows.
The music, such as it was, took care of my auditory senses, but my eyes soon became bored looking at endless rows of tomato plants with yellow bus loads of dark skinned men and woman, young and old, bent over the plants, picking the ripe tomatoes, putting them in baskets, and then stacking the baskets on the flatbed trailers that I was towing at an extremely, slow and most boring speed. My eyes wandered up to the sky, where [there were] little airplanes, some made of metal, but most were made of canvas and wood. They were silver, red, yellow, some were blue, and even a few were painted green. The thing they had in common, was that they all danced overhead Mr. Boenitch's tomato fields. They moved with the wind, they moved into the wind, they moved across the wind, they moved up, they moved down, occasionally coming in for a landing, and then taking off again into the wind.
These airplanes were a magnet that drew me, one day, to get on my bicycle, and bike on over to the airport for a closer look. I no sooner put down my bike's kickstand when a familiar voice rang out, "Is that you Fritz Louderback?" I could see that it was a man talking to me through the restaurant's closed screen door. But, in the shadows I could not recognize him. Feeling comfortable, having heard my name said out loud, I approached the door, walked in and saw that the man was an old neighbor, Mr. Ash.
“Would you like a cold Coke?” Mr. Ash asked. So, there I was, sitting at a table answering questions about Rancocas Woods, an extremely rustic town along the Rancocas Creek, where Mr. Ash and I had once both lived, but he and his wife moved away from first, and me with my family, maybe a year or two later. Looking back, what a coincidence, and what a life changing event it had been for me.
Mr. Ash owned an Air Coup, a really simple airplane that he kept at this airport. Funny, the whole time we were neighbors, I never heard that he was a pilot. On the corner where we lived, there was a monument listing the names of veterans of WW II living in Rancocas Woods. This was a prominent corner, where the school bus picked up us kids and took us to Masonville Elementary School. Waiting for the bus, I often read the names on the Honor Roll. Until that day, this is how I knew Mr. Ash, only a name on the WW II Honor Roll.
I polished off the six-ounce bottle of Coke, thanked Mr. Ash, and was ready to walk out the back door, after all I came to see the airplanes. Mr. Ash said something like "Hey, not so fast! You came here to take a flight, didn't you?" Then I saw that he was pointing with his finger to a sign that simply read "AIRPLANE FLIGHTS $6.00."
I didn't curse, when I was 12 years old, but I know, today, that my mind must have shouted to me, "HELL YES, LET'S GO!"
That afternoon was the first time in my life, to borrow a line from a famous poem, that "My feet slipped away from the perilous earth beneath them, that bound them so firmly."
You could say that I became hooked that day.
At dinner I told my parents about my six buck adventure with Mr. Ash of that afternoon. My dad said, "Son, I'm happy that you had the experience. Me, I have always been happy to have my feet on the ground. But, listen to me: Ash is a crazy guy, in the war he flew a bomber in Europe, he was shot down, somehow he was rescued and made it back to England, then the damn fool got himself back into the air just to go back and do it again. Stay away from Ash!" So I did...
But then, in '69, I won the only lottery that I ever won in my life. A letter from the local Draft Board told me to report for induction to the Army. It arrived on a Wednesday, I was to report on the following Monday and take a physical. My mother's cooking, and God had been good to me, I knew that I would not flunk that physical. I was no longer a 12 year old, and I wanted to fly, but I did not want the Army. So I flipped the bird at the Draft Board Office in the Camden, New Jersey's Main Post Office building as I walked to the Navy Recruiter's Office. A day later, I was on my way, on a train to Chicago, to attend Navy Boot Camp at the Great Lake's Training Center. Immediately after boot camp, I applied for and was selected for the Navy's Naval Aviation Cadet (NAVCAD) program.
About 18 months later I carrier-qualed, that is I made my first six landings on the USS Lexington, a Naval Aircraft Carrier in the Gulf of Mexico. After that I went on to become a Navy Fighter Pilot flying F8 Crusaders, then F4 Phantoms in Vietnam. I stayed with the Navy for 24 years. My last flight assignment was flying F14 Tomcats.
Finally, to answer your question, this past August 11th. the love of my life passed away. It is time now for me to find a new normal, so I am converting our little home into my man cave. I have boxes of model jet fighters, pictures and certificates galore, memorializing a career that I only wish I could do all over again. But, I felt the need to connect my man cave with that first flight with Mr. Ash.
There is an empty spot on part of my living room wall, just above a case holding my retirement flag and fourteen medals I picked up along the way. What a perfect place for a wood aircraft propeller. Just something like that first flight I took with Mr. Ash, from that grass field that has long since been covered over with a housing development.
by Jeff King
As I was dragged along on a trip to buy my high school freshmen twin girls new calculators for upcoming advanced math classes, I had a number of competing thoughts:
- When did calculators become so complicated? There were now so many buttons and letters I had no idea how the danged thing worked. If someone handed me one with the task of multiplying 17 x 6, I’m pretty sure I’d soon be using fingers and toes.
- When did they become so expensive…again? These contraptions were over $100 each!! I was old enough to remember a time when basic calculators cost a week’s salary…and had witnessed a downward price march until they were given away by grocery stores and banks like pens. Visualizing that declining cost graph in my head, shouldn’t stores by now be paying us to take them off their hands?
- And finally, exactly when did my little girls become smarter than me? I mean, since they’ve been teens they’ve obviously thought they are, but I reassured myself with the fact I have a cool looking framed certificate from a four year college, while they still take “selfies” on cell phones of themselves acting mentally deranged.
One of these twins is the same girl who in third grade, upon our return from a “back to school” shopping trip, indignantly asked why we hadn’t purchased “number 2 pencils, like her teacher asked??” Puzzled, I responded, “Of course we bought number 2 pencils, that’s the only kind they sell at Target.” With tears in her eyes, she held the package of pencils up to me and emphatically declared, “No you didn’t, it says right here on the package, NO 2!!!”
And now she was able to operate one of these expensive machines with all the buttons?
I vividly remember the first calculator I ever saw. It was the late 1960’s and my salesman father had won the newfangled contraption in a sales contest. In those days, calculators were $200 to $300---a week’s salary for many middle class people.
Word quickly spread in our neighborhood about the great new invention Mr. King had brought home, although when I think back, I wonder how it happened so quickly without Facebook, texting, cell phones, etc… Maybe someone had tied a note to our Springer Spaniel and sent her down the alley.
We breathlessly told our small town neighbors that this book sized plastic machine with numbers on buttons could add, subtract, multiply and divide…instantly and with perfect accuracy! I doubt that Christopher Columbus met with less skepticism when he told his crew the earth wasn’t flat.
Everyone gathered around our dining room table with notebooks and pencils (number 2, of course) and prepared to outwit the expensive newcomer in the room. Dad sat down in front of the calculator---because he had used it before, he was obviously the only one qualified to operate the complicated piece of machinery---and asked for suggestions on what numbers he should enter.
Someone would yell out, “How about 24 times 32” or “Divide 225 by 5”, and Dad would solemnly enter the numbers while we all frantically worked the same equation in longhand on our notepads. The calculator’s display would flicker for a second or two, as if it were thinking, and then an answer would appear in red illuminated numbers on the dark display.
Cries of “Wow, that’s right!!!”, or “How does it do that?” met each correct answer. After perhaps a half hour of trying to stump the midget math genius living in the plastic box, it slowly became apparent the calculator wasn’t going to make a mistake. Eventually, amazed neighbors filtered out of the dining room and out the back door, shaking their heads. For the next few days, people in our little Midwest town heard rumors of the wondrous tiny computer the Kings had and would visit to see it for themselves.
I don’t remember how long this lasted, or when other people first started to get calculators. I just recall we thought using them for homework would be “cheating.” And when I heard rumors one day that they might not only be used in school someday, but actually in plain sight of the teachers??!! Well, I remember thinking the idea was blasphemy! I might have even confessed such an impure thought at my monthly closed door meeting with the Parish priest.
Which gets me back to my original story of a shopping trip to purchase two of the world’s most complicated and expensive handheld computers for my daughters’ math classrooms. Exactly when did they start making these in pink?
by Jeff King
Now that I’m in my 50’s, elementary school memories have somewhat faded. I can only vaguely recall those dreaded annual parent/teacher meetings where adults----jammed into metal chairs designed for little people not yet three feet tall---droned on about my shortcomings while ignoring the fact I was in the room.
“Mr. and Mrs. King,” the teacher would intone somberly, as if reading from my previous teacher’s script, “your little Jeffrey has a lot of potential, but….” And here’s where she (it was always a she until fifth grade) would inform them of my numerous shortcomings; talking too much, not paying attention, a messy desk, and assignments not turned in, blah, blah, blah. Of course, true to form, I was usually not listening, or hearing vague background noises resembling Charlie Brown’s teacher.
As the 8th of 10 children, some of whom (sisters) had been excellent, highly motivated students who talked only after raising their hand, turned in everything on time and kept all their crayons neatly displayed in rows, and others (brothers) who had more or less not set the King male education bar too high, it was tough to do anything my parents hadn’t seen before.
Mom and Dad---or often just Mom, as Dad had to travel quite a bit and probably didn’t like sitting in a hard, tiny desk any more than I did---would nod somberly, glare a couple times in my direction, and promise the teacher that Jeffrey would try much harder. I’d get a half-hearted stern talking to when we got home, make vague, generic promises to do better, and went off to watch our black and white TV. And so it went through elementary school…lather, rinse, repeat.
I’d like to blame my mixed lifetime school achievements on a somewhat shaky maiden year. It’s one that most of you call “kindergarten.” I prefer to call it “the year I discovered I wasn’t going to get to play all day for the rest of my life.”
The only thing good about kindergarten, at least in my selfish “what’s in it for me” undeveloped brain, was that it was a half day. Parents these days seem to prefer all-day class for their five year olds, supposedly to better prepare the sponge-like minds for calculus later on, but I think there may be another motive; cheap daycare. Let’s face it, while kids that age are real cute at least twice a day (naps in the afternoon and sleeping at night) the rest of the time they’re mostly demanding, self-centered little creatures with an annoying penchant for seeking out dangerous situations. Sort of like a puppy, only three-quarters house trained.
Kindergarten combined many of the things that I hated: Sitting still and paying attention (something I had previously only encountered on Sunday mornings), drinking milk (I think I’m officially lactose intolerant) and napping. Especially the napping!
Just like full day kindergarten, “nap time” was not designed for children, but rather the adults. Even the few five year olds still taking naps could probably have made it three hours without some shut-eye. But who among us could blame a teacher for wanting a respite from having to corral the combined energy and inattentiveness of up to 30 five year olds? Unfortunately the teacher’s resting period usually backfired as she spent even more time trying to get at least a dozen pre-diagnosed ADD sufferers to lie still and shut up.
On the first day of kindergarten, mom prepared me to walk alone the one block to the local elementary school. Alone, you say? What kind of a mom would send their child to their first day of school unaccompanied??
Well, the sensible, matter of fact kind that was my mom. After all, she’d sent the last seven of my siblings off in that manner and they had all arrived, and returned, pretty much intact, and I had played with brothers in the school playground many times. So I pretty much knew the way without Google maps. Plus, she had two younger children needing her much more than I did by that time.
*Keep in mind that our family of 12 was considered middle class for the day. But middle class meant we always knew where our next meal was coming from, had a car and a decent house and got away for a one week vacation to some place within driving distance each year. Middle class did not mean a 4000 sq. foot abode, a two (or three) car garage filled with like number of vehicles, cell phones for everyone and unlimited cell phone plans, computers, video games, flat screen TV’s…well, you get the idea.
I was lugging the supplies needed for the arduous minute long journey to the great unknown classroom beyond. As my brain cells have been dying off quicker than they’re being replaced for almost 30 years now, I don’t recall the entire laundry list, but two items in general have been forever branded into my brain; a nap rug and a box of color crayons.
Big deal, you say. Everyone had a nap rug and crayons. And I bet you did! I bet you had one of those cool, store bought tri-fold, spongy nap rugs. I’m talking about the kind that had different colors on top and bottom, weighed next to nothing, but actually cushioned a 40-pound body from the hard, stained tile schoolroom floor. And I bet you had a nice, big box of crayons---probably with 64 rainbow colored hues and a box with a real, honest to goodness sharpener built into the back! Crayons with colors like midnight blue, burnt sienna, and raw umber.
I, on the other hand, had a box of 8 color crayons…with names like red, blue, and green. In fact, there were probably only 6 true colors, because the crayon company powers that be had decided even the most basic boxes had to contain black and white. Black came in handy for tracing things, but white?? All the books we colored on were white! When you find out what white crayons were used for, please email.
And my nap rug? Well, that’s what it really was. A rug! In fact, the pink, now threadbare, once shaggy cotton oval mat with a worn out rubber bottom had a long history in our family. It had originally lain beneath a small porcelain sink in our downstairs bathroom, protecting our valuable geometric design linoleum tiles from the ravages of toothpaste spit and soap spills. After many years, it was demoted from that noble cause and tossed just outside the kitchen for our somewhat rotund Springer Spaniel, Mitzy, to rest on between scavenging hunts to the nearby dinner table.
I’m not sure how the decision was made, but I can only surmise one parent must have seen Mitzy passed out on her side on the rug one day and had a brilliant idea, “Wow, if we just vacuum off the dog hairs and throw this ratty, pink rug into the laundry (at least I hope they washed it), we’d have a perfectly good kindergarten nap rug for ol’ whathisname number 8!” Lest you think I’m complaining, it was probably the first time in my life that I ever outranked Mitzy.
Needless to say, the rug---which was like laying a piece of cardboard on a cement floor---did nothing to improve my nap taking that year. If I ever closed my eyes, it was only under the direct orders, and glaring observation, of my teacher.
Later that day, mom met me as I trudged home on the limestone alley that ran down the middle of our block. Like moms everywhere, even ones who don’t shepherd their 5 year old to and from the front door of their classroom, she was curious as to how the day went.
“I guess it was OK,” she later recalled me saying. “I liked playing outside and the cookies were good. But if it’s all the same to you, it’s really not for me. I don’t think I’ll be going anymore.”
by Jeff King
Looking back, the consistent element in "play" in A Simpler Time was competition. Whether it was attempting to win a football game or purposely running into competitors in our nightly summer games of "500" where dad hit fly balls to all the neighbor kids, we all wanted to win.
Even activities that seemingly were not made for competition were transformed. Simply playing catch with a Frisbee wasn't enough entertainment, so we devised a game where two contestants stood on opposite sides of the street with the purpose of defending about a 12-foot section of concrete curb. The boy on one side had to skip the Frisbee past the defender on the other side, or have the "goalie" drop the Frisbee, to get a point. One major rule was that the disc couldn't go higher than the goalie could reach---which seems like a simple rule unless it involves two testosterone laden adolescent boys with still evolving ideas on "fairness."
We'd sometimes play this game so long on summer days that we’d develop cuts on the bottoms of our fingers from gripping the Frisbee so hard. A few Band-Aids later, the game would resume.
Everything we did involved competition. If we fished, we wanted the biggest, the first and the most. With two paper routes, we raced to see who could deliver their newspapers first and race home (I’m sure there are at least a few late 1960’s versions of the Post-Bulletin hanging in the top branches of bushes, on rooftops, etc…). We even competed to see who could get out of the most household chores (I retired as the undisputed, undefeated champion of that event).
One of our favorite events was climbing the large apple tree that was just outside our window. While even the biggest cowards (that would have been me) became proficient at climbing to a height of about 15 feet in a minute or so, the competition ended for good when we invited one of our elementary school friends home one day. The boy, who was born with just one arm and had a prosthetic "hook" on the other, took about ten seconds to climb to the very top of the tree (a feet we thought impossible), swinging his hook over branches and pulling himself up with the other arm so quick it was hard to tell what happened. Believe it or not, we blamed our defeat on his "advantage" of having a built in climbing aid! After that, the whole "tree climbing thingy" never seemed as interesting.
Despite being on numerous basketball, football, and baseball teams as a youth, my entire personal trophy collection consisted of one given to the winner of the local Boy Scout "Pinewood Derby." That’s the event where budding Boy Scout race car designers are given a kit consisting of a block of wood, some lead (and I’m pretty sure it was actual lead!), four tires and axles, and told to make a race car that would be entered into a miniature Soap Box Derby.
The smart kids---or rather the ones with ethically challenged dads with engineering skills---handed the task over to their fathers and showed up on race day with awesome, slickly painted, sculpted models that looked exactly like Indy car racers, complete with spoilers. Basically I entered a hunk of poorly painted wood that looked suspiciously like the block I had been given...only with wheels attached.
While I didn’t win any ribbons for "best appearance," my chunky block of wood beat all the better looking competitors in a series of winner take all challenge races. Not long after proudly bringing my little six-inch silver plastic trophy home, I decided to do what all the great ones should do, and I promptly "retired" from the scouts. Yes, I went out on top, but to this day I'm hopeless tying even the simplest knot.
Kids today may be just as competitive---whether it be competing for the highest grade point average (my gang would have had a good laugh over that one), shooting the most (fill in the blank) on their X-box games or having the most people follow them on their Twitter accounts, but I’m guessing they don’t hate losing as much as we did. Because in many of today's games, there are no losers.
When I "coached" my young son in his first few years of baseball, no one could make an out and we weren't supposed to keep score (although every boy did). At the end of the year, our unbeaten, untied, no win teams were awarded individual participation trophies. Even a few years later, when our league actually kept score and league records, every person on every team, got a trophy.
My own girls must have heard me rant on the subject quite a few times, because when we moved to North Carolina and joined a neighborhood swimming team, our novice swimmer 10-year-old twin girls found themselves “racing” in the slower heats. When they got out of the water following one of their typical "egg beater" performances in one of the slower races and found themselves solidly occupying 4th and 5th place, an adult met them immediately to give them "participation ribbons." Almost in unison, they smiled, put their hands up with palms out and chirped, "No thanks!" I don't think I've ever been more proud of them.
by Jeff King
As huge snowflakes drifted down from the sky outside our North Carolina house, making our neighborhood look like a freshly turned snow globe, I noted with interest the varied responses from our household. My Minnesota-born children, having spent half of their lives in the snow-starved south, were downright giddy, snapping photos with their phones and tweeting back and forth with their various excited friends. Visions of snowball fights and sledding danced in their heads. The only thing making the snowfall more perfect would have been if the snowfall had been on a school day, instead of a Saturday morning, as around here a flurry in the next county is enough to cause school bus lockdowns.
My wife, a Louisiana native who decided Minnesota winters probably weren’t for her after enduring a meager 15 of them, had a slightly different reaction. One that included frozen, chapped lips, painfully cracked hands and black boots with permanent white lines etched by continued exposure to road salts.
In my “Simpler Time” youth, it seems the verdict on winter was divided by a similar Mason-Dixon Line of age. Older people, forced to commute through the stuff and much too big for sleds, seemed to at best endure snow. But us little people? Well, we worshipped snow!
Of course the prime reason for our snow worship was the unique power the frozen precip had to single handedly free us from the bonds of boredom and adult servitude that was the local elementary school. Many weekday winter mornings my siblings and I listened intently to the static laced broadcast of the local AM radio station announcer methodically reading through a long list of school closings. As he reached the R’s and we knew our school (Stewartville) was coming up soon, the excitement in the room was incredible.
On those rare occasions when other schools in the area were closed and (horror of horrors!) ours wasn’t, the un-diluted, sleep deprived venom of otherwise cherubic Midwestern children was directed at the inadequacies of our School Superintendent (uncaring, sadistic), local snow plow drivers (reckless maniacs) and even the weatherman (obviously a confused alcoholic).
Fortunately, usually if other schools were closed, our district, which included many rural students on bus routes that easily drifted over, was closed for the day as well. After being informed by TV and radio that the snowfall, blizzard conditions and extreme temperatures made travel (and school) impossible and even unsafe, we did what every other child would do in similar circumstances. We put on layers of clothes, including ski masks, scarves, mittens and boots…and went out into the “dangerous” storm to play!
As children, we loved snow. It’s like having an endless supply of a moldable, slippery Play-Doh that could do miraculous things. When packed down, it made a great surface for sledding at the local park, as dozens of us waited our turns to hurtle down the hill and onto the frozen lake, over and over until we eventually tired of making the steep, uphill return trips.
We could also build cool snow forts, either by packing wet snow, or by tunneling into huge snow banks made along the street by plows. Occasionally, when the snow banks were very high, we could make the tunnels dozens of feet long. Our parents surprisingly didn’t seem too alarmed by the idea of the hard packed snow collapsing on and entombing their little Jeffries and Jimmies, but then again, families in those days were pretty large, so children might have been a tad more expendable.
One of our favorite pastimes was to pop out of our little forts on the side of the road and heave a flurry of snowballs at unsuspecting cars. If my own children pulled the same stunt nowadays, they’d probably be packed up and shipped to a boarding school, but for us it was a favorite pastime of winter. Usually our volley would miss the slow moving target, as it’s tough to aim when your legs are already running in the opposite direction. But on some thrilling occasions, there were satisfactory “thumps” of packed snow hitting metal (or glass).
Within seconds we were all hightailing it across nearby yards in a frantic attempt to reach the sanctuary of the middle of our block, where cars rarely ventured (even though there was a narrow alley). Usually our flight was the result of a false alarm, as the middle-aged housewife going uptown for groceries, or the elderly man heading in late for work, didn’t think it was worth their time to brave the cold just to chase snowball throwing street urchins.
But once in awhile…and boy, those were the times, a particularly athletic and adventurous driver would stop their vehicle suddenly, throw open the car door, and give chase! Even though we weren’t particularly good at fleeing, what with six layers of clothes and snow up to our waists, it was the highlight of our winter. Like a school of minnows fleeing a largemouth bass, we would scatter in different directions, knowing that while all of us wouldn’t escape, the odds were in any particular kid’s favor.
Usually whichever unlucky or particularly slow hooligan caught was given a good scolding or sometimes even the grownup tried and true threat of “telling your parents.” There were even a few instances of being cuffed on the head (remember this was when any adult was within their rights to physically discipline a young boy). And while the guilty party would shake and nod silently in fear, when the now much calmer and somewhat satisfied attack victim returned to their car, the “captured” kid instantly became the center of attention.
Like cockroaches returning when the light recedes, we all would filter back to ask questions of the day’s hero, “What did he do to you?”, “Is he gonna tell your Ma?”, “Did we dent his car?” The questions came fast and furious, while the boy answering them slowly changed from quaking fear to boastful pride at being suddenly notorious.
None of the hoodlums in this snow chucking gang went on to a life of crime, as far as I know. A few may even have gone on to a career in education as administrators. I’m guessing when it comes time to make the big decision for snow days, they smile just a little when saying, “We’re going to have to call off school!”
by Jeff King
My 83-year-old mother died suddenly on Christmas Eve in the hospital, surrounded by all ten of her children and many of her grand and great grand children who had gathered in a small Minnesota hometown to celebrate the holiday.
The concept of “A Simpler Time,” with a Norman Rockwell carefree childhood, could not have been possible without a mom like ours. We confidently set forth each summer morning on our adventures, knowing that lunch would be ready at noon and any wounds we garnered along the way would be quickly bandaged by the reliable resident nurse we called mom. And if a few of our friends happened to tag along when we slammed the screen door and yelled, “What’s for lunch?” Well, they were welcomed with a smile, open arms and a place at the already crowded table.
To say we took mom for granted would be a fairly large understatement. I was unaware at the time that not every mother cooked delicious, varied dinners every night for twelve people and expected (and got) no thanks. Slow roasted meats, mashed potatoes, fresh baked bread...we had no idea just how good the food was, since it’s all we had ever known. Yet inevitably, with ten very finicky children, at least one would not be thrilled by the normal delicious four-course home cooked dinners placed in front of their ungrateful faces each evening.
“I hate roast beef (or chicken, or ham, etc.)” at least one would whine. To which my dad would usually growl, “You’ll eat what we put in front of you!” At the time it seemed mean spirited for some reason, but now that I’m a parent myself, serving frozen pizzas and canned soup to my own children many nights, it seems somewhat understated. Mom, knowing each of her children’s least favorite foods, usually managed to have a small side dish already made to stifle the latest whiner and prevent a scene.
Motherhood was a 24 hour a day, seven day a week job when I was growing up, and somewhat different than today. It was rare that Mom drove anywhere when Dad was at work---in fact for quite some time we had only one car. A visit from a neighbor or the Avon lady, a quick chat from an actual milkman---those were often the highlights of a typical workday. But she never complained. Never felt life was passing her by, because her children were her life.
With ten children in our own house, and a number of other large families on the same 12-house block, the idea of a “play date” had not entered the lexicon. Had another lady in town brought up the idea of getting together for the express purpose of letting their young ones interact, I’m pretty sure Mom would have thought she was on an episode of “Candid Camera,” our generation’s idea of being “punked.”
While Mom was a Blue Ribbon champion example of 50’s, 60’s and 70’s motherhood, some things were definitely done differently in “the day.” I don’t recall her ever asking any of us to wear a seat belt while in the car and we were allowed, even encouraged, to eat cookie dough containing raw eggs numerous times. She let us ride our bikes pretty much anywhere on our side of town, although not allowing us to cross the busy highway that was our Main Street until we were 10 years old or so, and wasn’t even aware there was such a thing as a bicycle helmet.
In hindsight, Mom had the perfect balance of being our “rock,” who was there when we needed her, and giving us enough leash to experience, and sometimes fail, at life. We had a small lake a few block from our home, so rather than forbid us from resisting the magnetic pull of the most exciting part of a young boy’s town, she made sure we all took swimming lessons at a very early age at the municipal pool. Most of us became excellent swimmers and spent many summer days playing at our little pond.
I don’t ever recall Mom saying she “loved” us when we were little, but I never doubted for one second that was the case. If you were sick, or hurt, you could be assured of her undivided attention until the crisis was over. If you were hungry after school or basketball practice, she would drop what she was doing and make you something to eat. Our clothes, while often hand me downs or with sewn patches, were always clean. She saved money by cutting our hair (unfortunately very apparent in my old photos), sewing and buying (and cooking) in bulk.
Mother made our home the “it” place for all of our friends to hang out at. She didn’t care if our baseball or football games tore huge hunks out of the lawn...or even her other passion, the garden. She never made any of our friends (or us) take off our shoes when we ran in and out of the swinging screen door. The house was always clean enough to be presentable, but cluttered enough to be comfortable. For as long as I can remember, most of her children, and their children, and even their children’s children, have returned to a quiet, though pleasant, little town in southern Minnesota to celebrate holidays. To be with her.
At her wake and funeral, I was surprised to see how many people, including “kids”---now in their 40’s and 50’s---who I hadn’t seen in years, showed up to pay their respects. I was touched that they took time out of their lives to say goodbye. An event that could have been very sad, instead was filled with laughter, memories of her warmth and hospitality, and many stories of growing up in “A Simpler Time” on a block filled with children. The wonderful mom, the woman who made every visitor to our large house seem welcome, even in death managed to be the perfect host.
I’ll miss you mom. We all will. But I’m sure there are children already in heaven---ones that didn’t have a mom like you---who need you more than we do.
Must See TV
by Jeff King
I, like all of my nine brothers and sisters, learned to read at an early age and enjoyed a good book. Not that we had much choice in the matter, because during my early formative years we didn’t own a TV.
One of my earliest memories is of waiting at a back window in our large, three-story early 1900’s house for Dad to return with a big "surprise," which turned out to be an average-size black and white TV. Our first! He proudly perched it on a thin wire TV stand in the family room, and we all laid down in front of it on the worn carpet to watch…for hours.
There wasn’t a lot of "must see TV" for a young boy in those days. Of course there were Saturday morning cartoons, which started somewhere around dawn and lasted about three hours. For some reason, while I could barely struggle out of bed on school mornings, I had little problem rising to my favorite programs of the week on Saturday.
Cartoons back then still featured characters that were dead set on killing each other. Tom’s sole purpose in life was to consume Jerry, Wily Coyote was constantly trying to drop an anvil on the Roadrunner’s head and Elmer Fudd tried every Saturday to blast that "wascally wabbit."
Fortunately, the "powers that be" have decided all this cartoon mayhem is much too violent for little minds, and modern cartoons (even Tom and Jerry are friends now) are almost violence free. Which I guess would be great, if kids nowadays weren’t too busy blowing up Nazi’s or chopping heads off aliens on their X-box or Playstation games to watch.
I’m old enough to remember when shows bragged that they were "in living color" and stations went off the air each night to the Star Spangled Banner. In the era before remote control, even though our TV only received three stations (local NBC, ABC & CBS), I would perch a few feet from the set, quickly twisting the dial back and forth whenever the action lulled or a commercial came on.
Cries of "you’re going to break the g******m TV!" or "if you sit that close your eyes will go bad" from my father pretty much went unheeded, and I don’t recall any of our TVs suffering a broken dial or any of my nine siblings going blind.
In our very Catholic family, my father set strict rules on what could (and could NOT) be watched. Anything with someone getting shot, Like "Rat Patrol," "Gunsmoke" or virtually any World War II or Western movie, was "A-OK." Any hint of hanky panky between two people of the opposite sex was completely off limits. Even shows considered laughingly tame by today’s standards, like the "Partridge Family" or the "Brady Bunch" were occasionally turned off if someone’s lips got too close to a member of the opposite sex. I shudder to think what pops would have done if two characters of the same sex had kissed. Although it would be interesting to see what a TV looks like when dropped out of a third story window.
The only way I can make sense of my Dad’s logic is that---while he trained in a bomber crew towards the tail end of World War II---he had never actually been shot at by the enemy, so the reality of bombs and guns killing someone may have been lost on him. But as the father of ten, he knew darn well how dangerous it could be when two people got to kissing!
One of my fondest memories of growing up was the whole family (OK, at least Dad, the boys and a few of the girls who had a crush on Little Joe) watching Bonanza, The Wonderful World of Disney and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom back to back to back on Sunday evening.
First up was "Wild Kingdom," which featured Marlon Perkins---a smallish, intellectual looking type in khaki---and his much more burly compadre’ Jim trying to decide what surly, dangerous animal needed to be wrestled to the ground and captured this week. Usually Marlon would stand at a safe distance and explain what was going on ("Jim will attempt to jump out of the tree on top of the 400-pound long tusked wild boar and tie his legs together with the shoe string clutched in his teeth"), and then---only when the critter was pretty much subdued---come to his partner’s aid.
Often we were treated to somewhat odd vignettes of animals I was pretty sure didn’t belong together interacting ("the raccoon knew he had to quickly leave before the leopard spotted him" Marlon would drone in his monotone voice). Only years later did I find out many of the scenes were actually shot in a zoo! Knowing my Nebraska insurance funded heroes were such frauds could be the reason I am such a loyal State Farm customer as an adult.
Next was probably my favorite---the Wonderful World of Disney. As much as I liked the variety of what old Walt decided to show each week, I really enjoyed the opening scenes showing visitors at his Florida theme park being "attacked" by a huge hippo or encountering ghosts in the haunted castle. As we lived all the way up in Minnesota and had a dozen mouths to feed, we never actually got to visit the park as a child. But it wasn’t for lack of whining!
And last, but not least, was my father’s favorite show---a western about a kind, windowed Dad (who eventually moved on to dog food commercials) and three brothers who didn’t look even remotely related. My favorite was "Hoss," the heavy, good natured one who would only shoot or beat someone up if pushed really, really far (which seemed to happen often). My sister’s favorite was "Little Joe" the good looking youngest son who was always being rescued from trouble and continually suffered the cruel fate of having any girl he was interested in killed by the end of the show. I think there was another brother, but who really cared about him?
Before the opening scene---when the old western map started to burn from the center and the four riders came towards us while cool theme music played---I knew it was time to start making popcorn for the whole family. Cooked on top the stove with lots of oil and butter in huge quantities, it was the best popcorn in the whole world.
When I had popped enough to fill a huge, battered metal tub---the same one my father soaked his feet in almost nightly after a hard day’s work (Hey! It was washed after his soakings and none of us thought it was even strange at the time!) we’d sit around munching while the Cartwrights fought bad guys and Little Joe courted his latest ill-fated love. I’ve recently tried making popcorn the same old-fashioned way in my home, and while everyone tells me it tastes great, it doesn’t seem quite as good as I remember. Maybe it was the foot washing tub?
An Invention of Olympic Proportions
by Jeff King
Our internet/TV cable was accidentally cut by someone working on our sprinkler system the other day, and my children got a 24-hour glimpse into just how rough my wife and I had it while growing up.
Without the ability to watch psychotic mom’s battle it out with a controlling maniac masquerading as a children’s dance coach on TV, or the means to comment on their friend’s latest picture of themselves (usually taken in the bathroom mirror) posted on Instagram, they were left as helpless as newborn fawns.
"Why don’t you read a book?” I asked meekly, just trying to be helpful.
“Daaaaaaad…...” responded one of my teen daughters, rolling her eyes heavenward and wondering how any adult could be so insensitive to suggest such a thing when school wasn’t even in session.
Eventually they gathered around my I-phone like crack addicts sharing a pipe (their own smart phones having been rendered inoperable through multiple falls on concrete) and peered into the screen while they accessed the internet through our home’s last connection to the civilized world.
I would have been condescending to them, but realized without my phone I couldn’t do my favorite evening activity of checking emails and reading hometown newspapers either.
Thinking back to my own internet free---in fact mostly color TV free---childhood, I remembered some of the many games we invented to fill all the spare time a digital free world had.
One year, after watching the Olympics on fuzzy black and white TV, and in particular the track and field events, we decided to host our own little version in the back yard. For our main event, croquet mallet sticks with the heads removed were pounded into the ground throughout the lawn and string was tied to them for a makeshift set of hurdles.
With two sets of three hurdles running roughly parallel from our back steps to the limestone gravel alley, we started our first event, called the “Roughly 20 yards (and back) low, medium (and some high) hurdles.” Pairing off by age, our oldest two runners prepared to set a “New World Record” in the inaugural event. One boy with his dad’s “borrowed” Timex sat in a chair and served as the official timer until it was his turn to run.
The “hurdles” turned out to be very popular with the local gang. The new event provided the boys with a few of their favorite things: competition….and mayhem.
Unlike real hurdles, which are designed to tip in the direction the runner is moving (who also rarely hits them because of years of practice), our hurdles were set at a height deemed correct by the older, bossier boys, and while they had a little “give,” otherwise served to trip anyone catching even a toe on them.
For the most part, the first few tandems of older budding track stars raced the twenty odd yards to the rock alley and back unscathed. Then the fun came! With a new (for them unreachable) “World Record Time” on the books, younger boys were nevertheless determined to best their elders and give it their all. But hurdles that had barely reached the first racers’ knees were almost waist high on some of the younger brothers.
With fresh legs and keen concentration, the younger sets of runners generally cleared the first few hurdles, even if at times their efforts more resembled the “Fosbury Flop” of high jump fame. By the time they reached the last hurdle (posted maniacally just feet in front of the rough limestone alley rocks), fatigue and fear of not posting a good time had taken over.
For pure, unadulterated fun, I’m sure even “modern” boys would prefer to see a real, live high speed face plant into skin cutting rocks over even the best video game action. I know we (or at least the ones who didn’t experience it) sure did!
By the end of our first event, about half the field had bleeding red “raspberries” on their faces, knees, the palms of their hands…and even some on their backsides. With so many of their peers watching, no matter how much the battle scars hurt, there was absolutely no crying. No, I’m pretty sure that came later, when concerned (“What in the *!#@ were you THINKING??”) Mom’s washed out their wounds before spraying them with that faithful germ fighter from Hell…Iodine!
We had other Olympic events---the bowling ball/shot put (ended when Dad’s expensive favorite ball cracked on the driveway), the sharpened rake handle javelin throw (after just a few tosses even we realized nothing good was going to come of that), but the hurdles were our favorite. We learned to handicap the races and make them fairer by lowering the strings to fit the height of the shorter participants.
We proceeded to race all afternoon and into the early evening one summer day, with new participants filtering in from surrounding neighborhoods every now and then and demanding their chance to claim the record for their “country.” As evening fell, and we made the painful discovery that depth perception suffers in low light, the wipeouts became more common and more spectacular. In other words, it became even more fun.
While I remember the event vividly, I don’t recall ever doing it again. Maybe it was because our parents made us dig out and pick up all the croquet pole “hurdles” and put the heads back on them. It seemed pretty unfair to us at the time, since we never used the mallets for what they were intended anyway (although we did try to chop down Dad’s favorite tree once by pretending they were axes, but that’s a story for another time).
I’m guessing the real reason is that over a dozen boys woke up the next morning sore, and some with bed sheets stuck to stinging, iodine soaked wounds. What had seemed so exciting, so cool, the day before…well now it just hurt. Maybe that’s why the real Olympics are every four years.
Hot Summer Days
by Jeff King
A common complaint among “our generation” of adults is that children today don’t play outside enough, and when they do, they aren’t able to keep themselves occupied. And I don’t count spray painting graffiti on cars or seeing whether the metal pool furniture floats as “keeping themselves occupied.”
Looking back---and comparing my childhood with that of my own children’s’---it’s fairly apparent why we might have had a tad more imagination. We didn’t have nearly as much cool stuff to do indoors as they do know! Let’s put my childhood and my 17-year-old son’s head to head and let you decide:
Getting the “gang” together: Before I had a driving license, I had few options when wanting to see what my friends wanted to do. I could call them on the telephone (since our own version of texting, the telegraph, had fallen out of favor a few years earlier), or I could walk, bike, or even (gasp) run over to their houses…one at a time…and see what they had planned.
There were a few problems with calling. For some of you a little bit older, or who grew up in a more rural area than my town of about 3,000 with one stoplight, the issue could have been calling on a party line, where one gossipy neighbor could tie up the line for hours at a time. Fortunately, while we didn’t have a party line, we did have our share of gossipy neighbors (particularly our moms), who could also keep individual phone lines busy for hours. And this was before the era of call waiting or caller ID. So calling eight friends, one at a time, could take all afternoon, which would generally mean whatever we planned was now bumping up against dinner. Biking around town? It was generally a hot summer day, and while teens have changed in some ways, a teenage boy even then didn’t like to have to exert himself too much.
My son, when he wants to get a group together for whatever teens do (I don’t want to know), just “tweets” something like “whaz up?” (I don’t pretend to know the correct lingo) to his 1,200 followers. He could post it on Facebook, but most of the teens in my area have cooled on the use of this archaic social network, ever since really old people like parents and companies figured out how to use it as well. Why over a thousand people need to know he’s looking (or “tweeting)) for something to do, when as best I can figure his circle of friends he occasionally “hangs” with number less than two dozen, is beyond me. But this method does seem to work quickly and very efficiently.
Planning: Even if I were able to contact all of my closest friends, our options on a hot summer day were fairly limited. In fact, if we were in our teens, a “teensy weensy” hurdle might have prevented the whole gang from meeting. It was a four-letter word called… JOBS! But for comparison sake, let’s just pretend this whole planning thing were happening at a younger age, say 10, when most of us just had paper routes, lawn mowing or even farm chores to get in the way.
The old standby at 10 was to play baseball. All of us liked to play, and could amazingly do so fairly well without a real field or even an adult to organize/watch us. But by midsummer, the average day in southern Minnesota was around ninety degrees and pretty humid. Not exactly New Orleans weather, but when you had spent six months battling sub freezing temps, a pretty good shock to the “path of least resistance” 10-year-old boy system.
That left the local stagnant pond called the “lake,” which by mid-July looked pretty much like a petri dish at the Center for Disease Control, or our friend’s finished basement. As air conditioning was scarce in the late 60’s, and most of our basements looked more like dungeons, this basement---with its handsome dark faux wood paneling, linoleum floor and fluorescent lights---was as good as it got.
We had a “veritable plethora” of options in the cool basement. TV would have been a great one, but they didn’t have one down there, and even if they did the antenna would not have been able to pick up the huge number of channels (three) in the area…all of which would have been showing soap operas anyway.
So that left arguing---about who the best Minnesota Twin was, if you really could get germs from girls---the usual important subjects, or making up some version of an indoor sport. Our two favorites were hand hockey, played on our knees with a ping pong ball as a puck and card tables on either side of the basement as goals, or baseball, which used a masking tape “strike zone” on the wall and a hand as a bat…and a ping pong ball. (Curiously enough, while our indoor games always seemed to involve a ping pong ball, I can’t recall this family owning a ping pong table.)
When my son’s friends come over (after having been summoned through their smart phones), they tend to hang out in the coldest room in our house, the “bonus room.” When I was growing up, we didn’t have a room in our much larger old house called a “bonus room.” I guess with ten children there weren’t any extra rooms, but I think if my parents are jealous they could probably refer to me and the last three or four other sons as “bonus children.”
I’m guessing the “bonus” room is called that because it’s the room in our house situated right over the garage---the same space where 1960 families used to store important things like nail filled lumber and hardened paint from past home projects. But in our house, it’s called that because the dogs are always able to find plenty of extra pizza or chips on the floor (or couch) after kids depart.
The TV in our bonus room is a flat screen wall unit with about 3,000 channels (I’ve never actually counted), and various on-demand movie channels. But to my son’s friends, it’s basically a big video game screen. Each day his gang can decide whether to take on world power Spain in soccer, kill zombies, lead the armies of ancient Rome, hit the beaches in Normandy, take over far away planets or blitz Peyton Manning. My friends, on the other hand, were pretty dang fascinated the first time we saw the bouncing ball of light on a black screen that was Pong.
Interaction: In the late 60’s, because the games we invented in the basement involved everyone participating, there was usually a lot of healthy, deep discussion. Like “There’s NO way that was a goal,” “You’re cheating again!!” and “No, If it hits the lamp it’s a TRIPLE!!” Occasionally one of us could persuade another to see their point of view, particularly if the debate opponent was smaller and weaker.
My son’s gang (near as I can tell in my short forays into their lair) is decidedly more civilized. While a few of them compete on-screen with occasional mild trash talking, the rest stare down at their phones, texting and chuckling about something another friend…one who presumably didn’t care enough about them to actually show up…is texting back. I’m pretty sure National Geographic could do an entire magazine article (excuse me, I mean web blog…how 1970 of me) about the complex social circles that are the modern teen. There are obviously over 1,000 teens out there fascinated enough about the pearls of wisdom my son has gleaned in all of 17 years to subscribe to his “Tweets,” a much smaller number who come to his house consistently, and some unknown number between these two extremes who for some mystical reason command his attention when he’s supposed (again, pardon my vintage logic) to be interacting with the people in the same room.
For years my biggest regret growing up when I did was being in the pre-Big Wheel era. I’m talking about the red and yellow plastic trikes where kids seemed to scrape their behinds on the ground while doing complete 360-degree spins. Or at least that’s how they were portrayed on TV in the late 70’s on commercials that aired for the express purpose of reminding me how lame my own wobbly metal trike had been.
Now, having watched over my son’s shoulder through the years as he defeated Grant at Gettysburg or dunked over LaBron James, it’s become difficult to keep up the charade. I’ve got a confession to make; as a ten year old I probably would have ditched every ping pong ball…and probably every friend and all my siblings…for an Xbox.
Why We Played Outside
by Jeff King
In a somewhat feeble attempt to perhaps recapture a tiny sliver of my carefree boyhood youth, I’ve started collecting various “vintage” toys (I refuse to call them antique) from when I grew up in the 60’s and 70’s. On a shelf above my office desk are a working set of Rockem’ Sockem” Robots, the first Pong video game, a heavy metal Tonka Truck and a Mattel “Talking Football” game.
Each of them, and others I’ve bought mostly on eBay, brings back vivid memories of a time that has probably grown much more fun now that it’s faded away in the rear view mirror. And at my age, when recollections of Friday night can be pretty fuzzy after just two Miller Lites, being able to conjure up sharp details from 40 years ago just by touching the well worn box of a favorite toy can be very rewarding.
While I find most of my “gems” on eBay, I rarely purchase them through their auction format---preferring to have the instant satisfaction of the “Buy it Now” button. Sure, I probably end up paying more, but after 40 years of separation from the loud, clanging ball bearings shot from a toy automatic weapon enclosed plastic shooting gallery…well, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.
When the latest box arrives on my porch, I’m almost as giddy to open it as I was on that Christmas or birthday so long ago. Unfortunately, instead of flimsy wrapping paper, these boxes arrive having been packaged by home based entrepreneurs with way too much tape and time on their hands. By the time I’ve scissored through the black Gorilla masking tape and pulled out the mildewed shower curtain or carpet padding the amateur seller had so cleverly used, I’ve pretty much forgotten what I bought.
Inevitably my initial thoughts on seeing eBay’s latest gem are the same; first, a “How COOL!!!!” Then, a flood of memories…of other neighbor boys I haven’t seen in years, or long ago arguments with brothers over rules. And finally, though I hate to admit it, there’s always a little disappointment. As in, “boy, there’s really not much too this---I can’t believe this kept us occupied for hours at a time.”
Even so, I’m always excited to run my new found vintage gems past my wife, my twin daughters, and especially, my now teenage son.
One would think that my son’s first exposure to Dad’s adolescent toys, when I bought him a modern copy of an authentic 1960’s electric football game, would have cured me of this masochistic habit. My son was about ten at the time, into sports and video games and genuinely excited as we opened the game and started setting it up. We took about 15 minutes putting the little plastic players on their bases, and lining them up in realistic defensive and offensive positions as I explained to him the intricacies and nuances of the game, how it worked and what would happen when we turned it on.
He was grinning like a Jack O’ Lantern and excitedly asked, “Dad, can I turn it on now!” Like the proud Dad I was, I just smiled back and nodded. The football field immediately started to hum and vibrate very loudly, as the tiny footballers bounced up and down and banged against each other like modern teens in a mosh pit, with most of them toppling over and the rest quickly bunny hopping to the relative safety of the sideline, where they bumped furiously against the metal rail until I hit the off switch.
“Wow, Dad!” my son exclaimed, “are they supposed to do that?” I assured him they weren’t, and for the 1000th time realized that game (or power tool) instructions are not just in the box for packing material and probably should at least be glanced at.
After spending another 15 minutes perusing said instructions, realizing there was a speed vibration control, and setting up the red and green figures in a semblance of a Power I offense and a 3-4 defense, we were ready again. My son once again hit the switch.
“Dad! My running back is heading the wrong way!” yelled my son, pointing out the obvious. He neglected to mention that his center was also holding hands with my middle linebacker, with both dancing in circles like square dance partners, and the rest of his linemen were either blocking each other or heading for the sidelines for an urgent water break.
“Wow, Dad!” my son repeated, “are they supposed to do that?” And as I paused to respond, memories of my own electric football games of youth flooded back. No, they aren’t… but sadly, it seems, they always did.
My son never pulled his embarrassing new “old” game out from under his bed, even to show the neighbor boys, and in one of the two moves we made since it somehow got left behind.
As I’m probably the prototypical glutton for punishment, I’ve looked to my son for approval in every toy I’ve since collected in the past six years. When my huge, rusting Tonka dump truck with the yellow flaking paint and the real rubber tires---just like the one we used to bury cat droppings in our outdoor sand box all summer---arrived in a battered Charmin toilet paper box stuffed with smoky smelling newspapers, my teenage boy was fairly impressed with how rugged and large it was.
“What does it do, Dad?” he asked.
“What does it do? What do you mean, what does it do?” I replied in a pretty offended manner. Then I stammered, stuttered, hemmed and hawed a few more seconds as I tried to recollect. What the hell did we do with them for hours at a time?
“It was sooooo cool, “ I replied, realizing too late that even the use of the word “cool” was dating me as much as the metal toy I had in my hands. “Every boy in the neighborhood had at least one of them---some had bulldozers, some had cranes or other construction vehicles---and we’d build lots of roads, and dig pits in a huge sand box located right where Grandma’s enlarged kitchen is now. Of course every once in awhile we had to remove some “surprises” left by the neighborhood cats, who thought they had found the mother of all litter boxes.
“What were the roads for?” my son innocently enough asked.
“What were the roads for? What were the roads for??” I responded incredulously, at once both offended at the question and wondering why, exactly, did we spend all day building the roads?
“Because they were fun to build, that’s why!” I sputtered in response. “My brother Kevin might use his back hoe or excavator to dig through a sand hill, another neighbor boy might use his crane to pick up the excess sand, and the rest of us would pull up our dump trucks to take the sand and then deposit it on the other end of the sand box. Eventually we’d use bulldozers to flatten the surface until we had a pretty good imitation of a real road.”
Satisfied with myself for such a well thought out response, I folded my arms and smiled in victory. My son, however, looked even more puzzled (if possible) than he had after our electric football experiment.
“After your road was built,” he asked slowly, as if searching for the answer himself, “what did you do the next day?”
As if I had finally found the “Ah ha” moment, I quickly (and a little smugly) replied, “You know the sand that we moved to the other side of the box? The next day we built a road through that sand mountain.”
“Oh” said my son, with little expression. “Great dad. Pretty “cool” toy.” And he walked slowly away with his head down and cell phone in hand, texting one of the many friends and acquaintances who seem to prefer typing to each other in small, abbreviated sentences rather than actually talking. Call me paranoid, but I’m fairly certain he wasn’t portraying me, or my new “old” toy, in the most positive light.
Boys Will Be Boys
by Jeff King
In "A Simpler Time," boredom---especially in the summer---was a dreaded, inevitable foe for a ten-year-old boy. With no 24-hour cartoon network and no video games (and no air-conditioning), we had but one weapon to combat a youngster's worst enemy; Our imagination.
And while usually our imagination was harmless (ping pong hockey on our knees in the relative coolness of a neighbor's basement), occasionally the combined brain power of a pack of adolescent boys would conjure up activities that might not have been fully sanctioned by neighborhood adults.
For instance, a smoke bomb smuggled into our fireworks-free state of Minnesota by some "wild and crazy," risk-taking Dad might have been considered fun all by itself. Light it, watch the colored smoke rise into the summer air, ooh and ah a little, etc. But a simple re-positioning of the device, say, maybe by the intake of a neighbor's central air conditioning unit, and now you had honest to goodness, laugh until you're silly, ten-year-old boy fun!
Not only did we get to see the beautiful blue colored smoke waft into the air, we got to see it slowly appear on the inside of the one story house's window. Plus, we got the additional entertainment of seeing the owner of said house charging through the front door, and (if we were really lucky), maybe even a chase!
There were a few other times when our imagination got the best of us (we're really sorry Mrs. Nelson, but to this day we didn't think our bb guns range would even reach your purple Martin house, much less knock one of those suckers down). But we weren't bad kids. Let's just say that sometimes our unfettered imaginations didn't allow for the myriad of outcomes that might be possible.
For instance, having made the discovery that a magnifying glass could be used to burn a hole in a dry leaf on a sunny autumn day, we gathered a whole pile of leaves in a secluded area of the neighborhood by a vacant house. If you happened to be driving by on the nearby street that day, what you witnessed was not eight small boys dancing around a bonfire in some kind of Boy Scout ritual. No, those boys were dancing on the fire in a valiant attempt to end a somewhat out of control magnifying glass science experiment. Sixteen melted Converse tennis shoe soles and Mr. Ringey's "borrowed" extremely long garden hose later, the experiment was a qualified success.
*As a side note, while very few young boys these days are aware of the many other uses of a magnifying glass, I'm here to tell you that it's not a good idea to be the one to educate them. When my own son was about eight, he was "helping" me unload a container of nautical products we had shipped from India. In the container was a sample of nice, bone handled antique style magnifying glasses, my son was pretty bored, and it was a beautiful sunny day...Well, if you haven't seen where this is heading by now, I applaud you. Obviously your maturity level is much higher than mine!
In my defense, my extremely honest looking eight year old double secret promised this would be our little secret. Yet when my phone rang the next day and my wife's first words were, "Your son is out on the driveway with a bunch of his friends and a magnifying glass..." I was pretty sure where she was going.
As I mentioned before, we weren't bad kids. For instance, in the case of the vacant house mentioned in the burning leaves incident earlier, we would never have thought about breaking into it had someone remembered to lock it! We were not the kind of children to smash a window or kick a door in. But if the back door had a padlock and the padlock wasn't closed? You might as well send us an official gilded invitation through the mail!
The story was that both of the elderly occupants of the large, white house had died suddenly, and within a short time of each other. Because of that, the house and its belongings were pretty much left the way it was when they were alive. We knew that because we'd peered inside through the many first story windows more than once, hoping to catch a glimpse of something cool, like a ghost or a body or something.
Had any of us discovered the opened lock by ourselves, I'm guessing we would have done the right thing and reported it immediately to our parents. But finding the door to a neighborhood Wonderland open when you've got the combined bravery (not to mention stupidity) of almost 80 years of adolescent boy brains working together as one? We were going in!
I (like I'm sure all of us) was basically scared to death to enter. This house had been the center of most of our best ghost stories all summer, and while it was somewhere around noon on a sunny day, I wasn't at all sure spirits didn't work daytime shifts. Of course, to hide this fact I, like all of us, talked really loud, acted tough and made lots of jokes. (Years later this practice finally paid off, when I was able to hide my insecurity the same way upon meeting my future wife for the first time.)
The kitchen was the first room in the house, and it appeared as if any minute someone would be coming downstairs to cook breakfast. Everything, from table and chairs, to pots and pans, had little dust on it. The only thing even remotely interesting to us was a box of bendable, colored straws. I remember the straws vividly for a couple of reasons. One is that we took them---which technically made us thieves, but I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations is up and I'm not sure how long they could lock up eight adults for taking a box of straws over 40 years ago. And the other was---what the heck were two old people doing with cool bendy, striped, colored straws anyway?
By the time we reached the living room and the huge TV, the kind that was semi-camouflaged in a coffin-sized piece of walnut-colored console furniture that was popular at the time; our fears had subsided a little. The house seemed a lot less haunted, and a lot more like, well, every other boring house in the neighborhood. (Only without the matching, dull grownups.)
We turned on the TV, and nothing happened. Guess it didn't strike us as unusual at the time, as we understood the whole anal-retentive, fixated deal adults had about electricity---like how it was expensive, money didn't grow on trees, and we shouldn't leave lights on cause they worked all day to pay for..., yada, yada, yada.
Then we traveled upstairs where, just like downstairs, nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Our apprehension level had risen though, because the upstairs did not have as much light, and because for all we knew the people that had lived here died in these very rooms! Even our jokes and brave talk tapered off, until we were pretty much as silent as boys in church. (On second thought, remembering church, scratch that. We were much quieter than in church).
In the middle of the hallway we discovered a rope hanging down from the ceiling. While none of us had seen a trap door to an attic before, the rope had a handle, we were curious boys, and before long we were pulling a whole stairway down magically from the ceiling! Our sense of adventure overriding our fear (not to mention our common sense), the leaders of our gang started to ascend slowly up the stairs into the dark scary attic.
And that's when we heard it! A low, moaning noise coming from downstairs!! To say that eight small boys have never run down a stairs faster in the history of mankind is to severely underestimate how we literally flew. If you remember the vintage arcade game called Centipede, you'd probably get a good idea of what we looked like coming down.
I'm not sure who noticed it as the fear train rumbled through the living room on the way to freedom, but someone did. The TV was now on. That fact did little to slow us down at the time---in fact it even made our Converse shoes fly faster, until the remaining rubber soles from our magnifying glass experiment were left on the linoleum floor of the kitchen as we passed through.
As we caught our breath (and checked our shorts) in the relative safety of a garage a half block away, we tried to make sense of what had just happened. Ten-year-old minds may spend an inordinate amount of time discussing and fearing ghosts, but the only thing that allows them to sleep at night is knowing they aren't real. If we were ever going to sleep again, we needed to rationalize what happened. And quick!
Eventually we came to a logical conclusion that I cling to even now, when things go bump in the night and my own children look to me for strength. The TV had not been turned on for awhile, at least for a few weeks. And TVs back then took awhile to warm up---especially when cold. The noise we heard was probably the sound of the TV (which we thought didn't work) finally starting to warm up, which would explain why it was on as we blew by.
Our gang unanimously agreed with the verdict and slunk away to the safety of our respective houses to "check on lunch" (be real close to mom). A few of us I'm sure even slept that night. And after a few days had gone by---in the light of day, and with at least half a dozen boys for support, we crept close enough to the house to see the lock was still open.
One day, on a dare, we even raced into the kitchen and retrieved the one thing of value in the house; the pack of bendable, plastic, colorful drinking straws. Then someone told his parents about the lock, and the house was soon off limits to our gang forever. You see, we really weren't bad kids. Just bored.
by David Haulman
The name doesn't sound like much---the platform. But, to my two brothers and I, growing up in New Orleans in the 50s and early 60s, it still brings to mind our happiest childhood Christmas memories. The platform was a large horizontal plywood surface, about eight feet square, that Dad would erect about two feet off the floor in the corner of our living room. Upon this surface, we'd lay a covering of white sheets, to simulate snow, then assemble and position a lighted "Plasticville" miniature town that included two train stations, a church, a school, a fire station, a gas station, a motel, several homes, and even a water tower. Surrounding this we laid parallel tracks for two large-scale electric train sets---a freight train on the outside, and a passenger train on the inside. At the center of this display, we'd position a real Christmas tree, about four feet high, adorned with ornaments and big colored Christmas lights---the kind that were popular in the 50s. At the base of this "giant" tree, we'd place our nativity scene. Finishing touches included a sprinkling of glitter upon the "snow," and the tacking of a brick-patterned cardboard border to close the gap between the platform and the floor.
The sight of this sparkling miniature town, with running trains around the perimeter, was a joy to behold. Neighbors would ask to see it. We couldn't wait to get home from school each day to "run the trains." Dad was from Altoona, Pennsylvania, so trains and snow were typical of his Christmas memories, and now, of ours.
Boating in "A Simpler Time"
by Jeff King
Got a great deal recently when one of our favorite vendors contacted us to buy a number of cool, hand carved wooden speedboat models for half price. While they aren't cheap (even 50% off they run nearly $250), they are incredibly detailed, with real leather seats and "plank on plank" wood construction. And at over 2 feet long, they make a real statement on a fireplace mantel, bookshelf or desk---looking like one-of-a-kind models that sell for over $1000.
I grew up in the 60's (and 70's) when a few of these rumbling dinosaurs still prowled the water. But the boats that I, my five brothers and my father favored were---to put it mildly---somewhat more modest. While racing across the Mediterranean with Hollywood starlets in an Italian-made Riva wood speed boat may get anyone's heartbeat going, for sheer excitement (and terror) I would take a flimsy 14-foot aluminum boat---filled with five young boys and a dad who could barely swim---as an approaching storm whips up whitecaps on a frigid northern Minnesota lake. The gentle "putt-putt-putt" of the tiny 3-horsepower outboard, relaxing in any other setting, could barely be heard above Dad's loud yells to quit rocking the boat and make sure our life jackets were tied tightly.
Before the era of hand held cell phones and weather radar updates, my slightly paranoid father had to rely on good old fashioned weather "instincts" to get our little rental bathtub on and off the water. My brothers and I all loved to fish, and once in a while through serious negotiating (and maybe a dash of whining with a pinch of crying thrown in) could get Dad to take us out of the little lake bay and into...THE BIG LAKE!
"The Big Lake" was the area around the point, where it was rumored huge fish lived, and windswept waves could swamp even the biggest fishing boats if one were unlucky enough to be caught in a storm. Of course, with those boats boasting huge engines that could get them up to speeds approaching 40 mph, and our rust bucket's outboard motor having less power than Mom's new vacuum cleaner, their margin of error was a lot greater.
At the time, I can remember being exasperated at how cautious my father was. If he saw a cloud peaking above the trees in the western horizon---a distance that could be twenty miles or more---our fishing trip could be called off. Now that I'm a parent myself, I wonder why the hell he even contemplated risking his family on such suicide missions!
One at a time he would tie us tightly into the bright orange, Coast Guard approved life jackets---the ones that were guaranteed to keep your little head out of the water if you were unlucky enough to fall in, but made it impossible to look behind you without turning your entire body 90 degrees. Then he'd grab each of us off the dock, stacking us neatly along the flat wood bench seats in some degree of order (oldest brother near the anchor, youngest near Dad) until we were packed in like an old world Irish immigrant sailing ship. Then he'd tell us to "sit still, shut up, don't touch anything, and, oh, by the way...have fun!"
It usually got pretty warm as we sat like cordwood in our life jackets, long sleeves and windbreaker in the calm 80-degree northern Minnesota sun ("It's a lot colder on the Big Lake," he'd inform us). Eventually, after checking the gas tank a half dozen times, looking off into the distance for a cloud and making sure the wooden oars were on board as a backup, Dad would start...or rather attempt to start...the tiny outboard engine. As if the poor man didn't have enough to worry about, it often took dozens of pulls, checking gas lines, etc. to get the old rental outboards started. And that was in perfect weather, with no waves...at the dock! Columbus himself may not have ventured into the Atlantic with such a worthless crew and no reliable method of getting home.
We'd eventually (and I use the term "we" very loosely) get the motor sputtering and push off into the dock into the great beyond. I can remember being extremely sweaty (the cool breeze of the Big Lake not yet having hit us), with a sore rear end from the unpadded wood benches and almost asphyxiated from clouds of burning oil and gasoline. But I, like each of my brothers, would be grinning from ear to ear as we started what promised to be a great adventure.
Our many rows of crooked teeth could have served as traps for the clouds of mosquitoes and horseflies in the calm bay, that is, if our little engine would have propelled us fast enough to catch up to them. As we rounded the peninsula that led to the open waters of the Big Lake, the welcome cool breeze (if it was a wind, Dad would do a u-turn) would hit us and Dad would look nervously as the formerly mirror-like water started to develop "ripples" that could have topped, say, six inches or more.
Our fishing excursions usually didn't last more than an hour or so. And I'm sure it was the longest sixty minutes of Dad's life. We'd surprisingly catch quite a few fish, mostly small, but extremely aggressive northern pike that would attack virtually any colorful, outlandish jig that we tied on our cheap, beat up little Zebco rods and reels.
The boat would drift above weed beds in 15 feet of water while each of us let our jigs down near the weeds, then moved them up and down rhythmically in hopes of driving the fish into a feeding frenzy. From a distance our boat probably looked like six human oil derricks methodically rising and falling, but with so many lures in the water, it usually wasn't long before one of us had something on their line. Then there would be a frenzy of yells, tangled lines and cries to "get the net!"
If a cloud would suddenly appear over the horizon, even if it seemed to be skirting way around our lake, Dad would say something like "you don't want to be caught on a lake during a lightning storm" and broach the subject of going back to the dock. A vote would be taken, and despite the final tally usually being 5-1 to stay on the water, surprisingly the one vote seemed to have the power of half a dozen.
More than once our outboard failed to start, which resulted in a long row with our clunky wood emergency oars, or if we were lucky, a tow from a faster, more powerful boat. Such engine failures only served to further dampen my dad's enthusiasm for "Big Lake" fishing trips.
On the days when the boat did start, we'd smile a little less on the way home. Sunburned, smelling like fish, with cuts from wayward hooks and chafing on our neck from the stiff orange life jackets, we probably looked more like refugees off the coast of Cuba than the successful fishermen we were. But it's a memory that will still make me smile when I'm sitting on my bed in the nursing home, and one that is every bit as sweet as an expensive, fancy wood speedboat.
by Jeff King
One of the necessary evils of growing up, even in "A Simpler Time," is the fact that (by law, I think) a boy has to have parents. Parents are to a young boy what a throttle is to an engine, they regulate the amount of fun you can have, the amount of sweets you can eat and the time you have to go to bed.
As an adult, I'm now aware that I was pretty lucky in this department. I had two fairly non-psychotic adults who I'm pretty sure loved me and, despite my feelings at the time, probably had my best interests in mind. They were there when I needed them (car rides, food and applying band-aids) and for the most part stayed out of my way as soon as I left the house each summer morning.
But as a child, I thought that the two adults in my life could be...well, pretty unfair! We boys loved to use the term unfair, as in "The other boys get to ride their bikes to the quarry and we can't...that's unfair!
So what that the quarry was a deep body of water surrounded by high, crumbling limestone cliffs and claimed a drowning victim every few years? And who cared that it could only be reached by biking a few miles along a busy highway with no shoulders? Oh, and that it had signs surrounding its perimeter that said "No Trespassing"? Our parents obviously didn't want us to have fun and were just unfair!
Like all dads (I think they take a class or something) mine was well prepared for the unfair line. "Life," he'd say as if it were a recording "is not fair." Once I was spectating during a fight in the living room between two of my five brothers. My Dad heard the noise and came on the run to break it up and spread a little of his "tough love." Unfortunately for me, the guilty culprits heard him coming and split, while I was caught and given a few whacks over the rear end, which didn't so much hurt physically as it did mentally, because it was so unfair!
"What did you hit me for?" I squeaked between sobs, "I was just watching!"
My father, the anger gone now and realizing he might have been a little rash in his rush to judgment, thought a moment and replied (as only a dad could do), "Well, you probably got away with something before, so this just evens it up." And so he reinforced the idea...that life is not always fair (but it does apparently even out in the long run).
Whereas my dad believed in "spare the rod, spoil the child"---which seems like child abuse to most modern parents even though it was a required course in the parenting manual 40 years ago---my mother worked more on threats and psychological warfare.
Just as Dad had read the male parenting handbook of the 60's, Mom had obviously absorbed some lessons from the pink covered "How to Tame Young Boys" (Mom version). Instead of physical punishment---which she had pretty much stopped after breaking a blood vessel whacking one of us---she often used the tried and true, "Just wait until I tell your Dad when he gets home!"
While this statement was rarely good for stopping a full blown argument or fight, it did give us a slight pause at least. If she really did tell Dad hours later, there would be hell to pay! Fortunately, my Mom was not a big fan of conflict, so by the time six o'clock rolled around and Dad was rolling into the garage in his big LTD station wagon, the 2-3 hours of relative peace and tranquility was far too valuable to lose by ratting out her children to the family enforcer.
My mom's personality was much more conducive to raising a large family. When I tell people today that I'm one of ten children, inevitably they say, "Oh, your poor Mom!" But to anyone who knows my parents, the one who was in over his head was my father. My mom was much calmer, able to examine a child's potentially broken finger while stirring dinner on the stove and talking to the next door neighbor on the phone about a potential Avon visit.
My father was a worrier, with constant visions of house fires with trapped family members and horrible car wrecks with multiple fatalities (although ironically, like most people of the era not concerned enough to make us wear seat belts). The clash in styles made for some interesting disagreements at times about parenting. As the saying goes, "Opposites attract...and then they spend the rest of their lives pissing each other off."
Like most young boys, we mistook our mom's easy going nature for her being less clever than we were. When we used the "Mrs. Nelson said it's OK to have her sons stay overnight if it's OK with you" line (even though we had not broached the subject with Mrs. Nelson yet), we thought no other ten year old had ever been so conniving. As a parent now myself, I'm going to go out on a limb and admit that after raising seven older children, it probably wasn't my mom's first ride in this rodeo.
If my father could be a tad unpredictable in his temperament, my mom was "Old Faithful." On long summer days she watched us slam the screen door (an act that would have completely set Dad off) each morning without a comment and then cheerfully called out "come home when the noon whistle blows." When the town whistle blew (all small towns seemed to have them in that era), we would show up to a fully prepared meal of "sloppy Joes" or grilled cheese sandwiches, often with a half dozen neighborhood boys in tow. And Mom would feed each and every one of them without a second thought.
Mom had secret weapons in the parental/child wars: Disappointment and Guilt. As hard as it is to admit, even a creature as seemingly self-centered as a 10-year-old boy, has a natural impulse to want to please his mom. It's not something we would have admitted to anyone, and our friends would have ridiculed us if they knew, but the impulse was there just the same.
Here's how it works: Two boys fighting over whose turn it is to do dishes (let's just say for example's sake, me and my then evil, self-centered younger brother Kevin). As we verbally argue for fifteen minutes over a chore that would have taken ten, Mom quietly starts doing the dishes. The hypothetical Kevin walks off feeling he won, while I wander over and tell Mom quietly I will do them and take over. An amateur psychologist might say I'm still bitter about this hypothetical episode, but it does point out that a even a callous boy can feel guilt.
In general though, in my ten-year-old eyes my parents seemed to relish limiting our fun. Just because a few boys suffered concussions and broken arms playing tackle football running into the concrete basement foundation on our narrow side yard, they banned tackle football in that location!! How unfair! And while other neighborhood boys had dads who bought cool M-80 firecrackers, powerful enough to blow apart rotting tree stumps (and possibly a hand), ours would only let us play with the lame Black Cat fire crackers!
See what I mean? Parents are really people whose job is to take the fun out of a carefree boy's daily life. "Fun suckers" we would probably have called them.
When I was young, I dreamed about the day when these adults wouldn't be able to tell me what (or how much) of something to eat and where I could go. Unfortunately, as my wife is only too quick to point out, perhaps I could still use a little of this evil parenting.
My tendency to eat the whole box of sweet cherries, even though I know I'll eventually get sick from them. And even though I could go pretty much anywhere and do anything, now that I'm legally (if not actually) mature, I usually choose to stay at home each weekend, doing yard work, watching TV and just hanging out. Oh, and doing one more thing: telling my own children they're too young for whatever plans they've concocted for the weekend.
You see, I, too, have become a parent.
by Jeff King
If you were a child growing up in southern Minnesota in the 60s and your parents had vacation time, it was assumed you would go "Up North."
The boundaries of "Up North" were never defined, as far as I could tell. Once or twice each summer in regular daily visits to our little local lake---a shallow mud hole of a damned up river---we'd even find campers with Iowa license plates in the parking lot. To them, even though our town was only about 20 miles above their border, our tiny park and man-made pond might have constituted "Up North."
But to pre-teen, adventurous Minnesota-born-and-bred boys, "Up North" meant at least north of the Twin Cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis. And the further north the better! Up where the lakes were crystal clear and ringed by tall pines; where the call of loons could be heard over the crackling of a campfire...or at least where you could whine until Dad let you try to putt a golf ball into a clown's mouth, feed corn to mangy looking tame deer, or put a quarter in an arcade machine to watch trained chickens playing the piano. A boy could only take so much serene wilderness before he had to have a little fun!
I remember my parents taking various parts of our large family on trips to different lakes and campgrounds each summer in the annual quest to find the "perfect" summer vacation spot. I'm assuming they were looking for a tranquil place where they could sit by the shore in lawn chairs, sipping a beer and reading books while listening to the waves and the birds. And my guess is they might have eventually found it, if they hadn't had anywhere from 6 to all 10 of their constantly bickering children in tow.
Our week long vacation was usually taken smack dab in the middle of a Minnesota summer, just when the novelty of being out of school all day had started to run its course. While adults may romanticize the era before video games and all day cartoon channels, in actuality it was pretty much impossible to play in the hot, muggy outdoors all day without getting a tad bit bored.
Most years, my father rented one of those magical little "pop-up" camper trailers that served as a u-haul for the 6-hour trip to the lake of his choice, and then cranked open to reveal a mini Holiday Inn once we arrived. The "Trip Up North Eve," when he would drive up with this year's rented model, was almost as much fun as the actual trip, as he could be easily convinced by a gang of watching kids to show us all the incredible features. We "oohed" and "ahhed" at cool things like working faucets, a refrigerator and a kitchen table that folded down to become another bed.
Once the trailer arrived, it was pretty hard to sleep, as the trip "Up North" was less than 24 hours away. Dad wisely---despite constant pleadings---wouldn't let us sleep in the opened camper trailer, knowing that starting on a long trip with sleep deprived children was suicidal at best. But he left the trailer open to "air out" and for us to play in until bedtime.
One year, just a day before the second biggest day of the year in the 11-year-old boy calendar (Christmas being the biggest), there was a little accident that threatened our highly anticipated trip. My younger brother somehow fell on his head while coming down from a neighbor's tree fort and was knocked unconscious. And to this day I feel somewhat guilty that as I stared at his motionless body for a few moments, thinking he might be dead, my overriding thought was, "Oh great, there goes our vacation!" After some consideration on how I might be able to hide his condition (or perhaps his body) from my parents, some tiny vestige of brotherly concern took over, and I raced off to get Mom.
Eventually he must have turned out to be alive and at least semi-OK. Our kind, elderly, right-out-of-Hollywood small town doctor stopped by the house to take a look at him, shined a light in his eyes, gave him a few aspirin and decided that---even if he may have a mild concussion---a little fresh air and sunshine might do him good. The fact that the fresh air was mostly going to be coming in 60 mph gusts through my chain smoking Mom's window in a crowded, un-air conditioned station wagon for say...maybe eight hours, didn't seem to concern him too much.
These days when I take my own family on vacation, the kids have video games and movies to play on computers and cell phones with which to text friends and surf the Internet. My dad's huge station wagon with the wood sides had none of those modern conveniences, but it did have something that must have been thought up by a masochistic car designer with no children. I'm talking two seats in the rear that faced each other!! I'm guessing that my parents hope that same car designer has been designated for the hottest part of hell.
Imagine up to six children, all related and usually boys, who pretty much don't like each other much on a good day. Now put them in two cramped bench seats, facing together, with so little leg room that each boy had to sit with legs touching in alternating fashion with the body across from them. Now add a little 90-degree plus, humid summer weather and no air conditioning. Toss in a few suitcases that didn't quite fit in the tent/trailer. And top with a six-hour drive that might become as much as eight hours because of traffic, or Dad's determination to double check the trailer hitch, brake lights and ropes holding the rest of our luggage to the roof every 30 miles or so.
Nowadays, I find myself upset when my children's trip entertainment is interrupted by their bickering. But when I grew up, the bickering was the entertainment. Jostling for leg space by kicking, elbowing the brother sitting next to you, or arguing who was taking up too much room occupied almost the entire trip. Threats to stop the car and commence beating children were so common from the front seat that we had to do our best to stifle yawns between "Lord of the Flies" physical negotiating sessions for more space with our seat partners.
The highlight of the trip "Up North," and one that was usually used as a bargaining chip by Dad ("If you don't fight on the way up, we may even stop at...") was Paul Bunyan Land! We pretty much knew that, no matter how much trouble we were on the way up, we liked Paul Bunyan Land way too much for our Dad to pass by. Not stopping might have resulted in a pint-sized mutiny. And since he was usually looking for another excuse to stop and check the trailer, ropes, etc., stop we did.
I know now that Paul Bunyan Land, which has been replaced by a huge car dealership and a home center on the busiest road taking wealthy Minnesotans to their northern weekend retreats, was what might kindly be called a "tourist trap." But no group of excitement starved small town tourist kids were ever happier to be "trapped" than our family.
The most impressive thing about this roadside amusement park was a towering statue of Paul himself just inside the entrance, sitting on a giant chair in what can best be described as a cave made of tree trunks. At the time, we thought he was at least 300 feet tall, but looking back on it I'm pretty sure we exaggerated by just a little (maybe tenfold?). Outside the front gate was another, smaller statue of his Blue Ox. I'm guessing he was relegated to the outside because he wasn't housebroken.
What happened as we walked through the front ticket gate towards the huge Paul Bunyan altar never ceased to cause a mixture of wonder, amazement and...though I'm a little embarrassed to admit it...yes, fear. Because without fail, when we walked towards Paul, he would look at us with those huge, basketball-sized glass eyes and say in a deep, booming voice, "Welcome to the King family." Then he would proceed to welcome other families, by names, which were walking in behind us.
The first time I heard him say this, when I was probably just out of kindergarten, I was frightened enough to seek refuge behind my dad's legs. Eventually I acted tough to impress my older brothers, but the thought that a giant plastic sculpture somehow knew who we were made me feel more than a little uncomfortable...yet thrilled at the same time.
Years later---older and wiser---we peaked through a crack in a small hut at the base of the statue and solved the riddle. A man with a microphone huddled inside, talking in a deep "Paul Bunyan" voice one minute and listening to the ticket takers giving him inside information on new arrivals through a speaker the next.
It was a real-life imposter unveiling worthy of the scene from the Wizard of OZ! We should have been relieved and excited, but all I can remember is feeling mostly disappointed, like the moment you knew for sure that the overweight, bearded guy with the jolly laugh really didn't bring the Christmas presents. So we handled our feeling of disappointment the only way we knew how---by showing every little boy within earshot what we had found and spoiling the whole spectacle for them as well!
Paul Bunyan Land had the requisite rides that most small amusement parks had, like a roller coaster, Tilt-A-Whirl and a small train that circled the park at a speed so slow women with baby strollers passed you by. But what I remember most were the super cool, trained animal arcade vending machines! Okay, they probably weren't technically vending machines, because while you did have to put a quarter in the machine, you didn't really get a chicken or a rabbit---even though there was one in every metal and glass contraption.
The animals in the glass boxes had been trained to do simple (for us, probably not for them) tricks, whenever a coin was inserted. After completing the trick---pecking on a piano, knocking a floating ping pong ball into a mini-basket, etc.---the animal (usually a chicken) would get a small reward of food.
On busy days, the animals got so many "rewards" that they sat lazily in their glass cages and sometimes even refused to perform for a quarter. But on slow days, many would peck on the glass as you walked by, acting like miniature carnival barkers trying to lure you and your jingling pocket of quarters.
My brothers and I could never get enough of the animal games---even preferring them to the rides or standard fair contests. Unfortunately, one year (I don't remember when, but it was probably the same year that the yearly batch of "orphaned" bear cubs no longer were displayed at our favorite Indian-themed gift shop) the machines were no longer there!
I'm guessing this happened during the formative years of the animal rights movement. And while I don't want any animal to suffer (makes me now wonder how incredibly fortunate the gift shop was to get "orphaned" cubs without fail each year), it seems to me that if I were a chicken (and I've been called one more than once), I'd probably prefer a life of ping pong basketball and watching gap-toothed ten year olds through glass than sitting in a windowless room laying eggs all day.
Eventually we would reach whatever lake Dad and Mom had deemed worthy of the King family invasion this year. And with over 10,000 in Minnesota, there wasn't too much difficulty finding a new one, although they pretty much all looked the same from the screened in window of my camper bed, as I listened to the buzz of mosquitoes (some inside) and the calls of loons as the sun went down. And at that northern latitude in the beginning of August, the sun barely seemed to set at 10 p.m. before rising way too early the next day.
We loved doing the things kids do at a lake...swimming, looking for frogs, fishing, building camp fires. I was a particularly avid fisherman (almost obsessively so my siblings might say), fishing constantly off the dock for whatever pan fish I could catch for hours at time and even refusing to join my siblings at the weedy patch of "swimming beach" that usually consisted of a dump truck's worth of playground sand.
Years later, after struggling financially to put most of their kids through college, my parents did well enough with my Dad's new business to buy some land from one of the campground owners and build their own, beautiful cedar cabin with two stone fireplaces. My own children loved to go there for many summers, doing many of the same things I did as a child.
For a few years when they were young, we stopped on the way up at Paul Bunyan Land, before it was sold and later demolished. My kids were initially semi-impressed and seemed to enjoy the rides, but by the time they were about eight years old the novelty had worn off. I guess when you're raised on video games that simulate far off galaxies or actual NFL football games, riding a 2 mph miniature choo-choo train around a dying amusement park doesn't quite pass for high entertainment.
My Shrinking Hometown
by Jeff King
I visited my small, Midwestern home town recently and was struck by a catastrophic event happening right before its citizens' very eyes. And the town folk seem to go about their lives every day blissfully ignorant of what's going on.
It seems my home town is shrinking. Not quickly, mind you. In fact, I've gone back to the parents' house many times without noticing it myself, even though I knew something was not quite right.
My first inkling came years ago when I took a short stroll to the local river to check out an old favorite hideout and fishing hole. Even the term "short stroll" should have been a clue. When I was 9, the two block trek to the river was a long journey, requiring a wagon filled with everything needed for the latest adventure. Fishing poles, a battered green metal tackle box, soft drinks (or "pop" as we called it) and even sandwiches were necessary. I don't imagine the pioneers headed west in covered wagons with more supplies than we carried.
Along the way I passed through the playground of my old elementary school. Sometimes when we played baseball on the field tucked in one corner, the biggest, oldest left handed batters (if they really, really connected), could send a ball soaring up the hill in right field and off the red brick wall of the school, narrowly missing a few windows.
But wait a minute! Someone either moved the school closer or the backstop isn't where it used to be. The school doesn't seem to be even 200 feet from home plate! Even girls can hit that far. Can't they?
On the right was the terraced, gravel topped field where we used to play dodge ball (we called it bombardment and willingly went to school early to play). It was bordered on two sides by a towering limestone rock wall that only the bravest, most foolhardy boys would jump from to impress the girls. Or at least it used to be. The puny walls surrounding the field now didn't look to be much more than four feet high! Heck, even a coward like me would have risked jumping off a wall like that---at least if my grade school crush, the new girl who rode her pink bicycle with the flowered basket by my house every day while I "happened" to be in the front yard---was watching."
The school itself had shrunk too. Of course, part of that was because the city had decided to tear down the older part---the part with the cool dome that looked a little like the state capitol if you squinted and imagined enough---because of fire concerns. Even the "new" part of the school looked like someone had thrown it in the dryer on hot and forgot to take it out soon enough.
But it was when I reached our "hangout" (way too quickly I might add---I didn't even recall exerting enough effort to need a sandwich), that I realized something was wrong in "Hooterville."
When I was a boy, "Sucker Valley," as we called the widest part of the Root River located about a quarter mile under the lake dam (a distance that had since shrunk to about 150 yards), was our oasis from the hustle and bustle of city life and parents. From the dirt path winding through the woods lining the river, we had to gingerly ease our way down a bare slope (which could be treacherous when wet), to a muddy knoll standing above the water.
The fact that there was no grass anywhere along the journey attests to how often this area was used by us and occasional interlopers. Dozens of fish bobbers, dangling monofilament line in the breeze, confirmed just one of its uses.
From "Sucker Valley"---so named because the ugly, inedible sucker and its close relative, the carp, were the predominant catch---we could hear the continual hum of tires crossing the bridge on the main northern entrance to town. Otherwise, with the canopy of leaves and birds chirping, we could have been in the boundary waters of northern Minnesota. OK, if we ignored our noses, which was tough to do with the town's sewage treatment plant located just up river.
The river, which ranged from rushing to babbling water under the dam (depending on the season), moved slowly in Sucker Valley, with only foam bubbles floating gently by in the dark water giving a hint of movement.
I suppose this spot appealed to us for many of the reasons above, but maybe because it gave us all a reason to do what we most enjoyed---cast our little Zebco 202 plastic spin cast reels as far as we could! We heaved our night crawler, bobber combos with all our might, trying as hard as we could to get close to the far bank (I wonder if we had been fishing on the other side if we would have been satisfied fishing a few feet into the current?).
Rarely, very rarely, did a lucky cast land in the overhanging tree branches on the far side of the river. Sure, it meant a broken line and a lost hook and bobber, but like a flag planted on Mt. Everest, the swaying bobber bore witness that someone had conquered the unconquerable.
Only the strongest, most athletic boys could hope to attain such a feat. Boys like Leif, who I think won the local punt, pass and kick competition every year and pretty much aced any athletic competition we could think up.
Imagine my horror to find that Sucker Valley is disappearing! Never mind the Polar ice caps or the Amazon, this was way more serious! Nowadays even I could flip a worm weighted bobber across the river...underhand.
I tried telling a few old friends who still lived in town about the problem, but they just smiled and told me to have another drink. I guess ignorance is bliss---at least until they drive up to their shrunken garage some night after work and find a certain car doesn't fit.
Since that day I have seen more proof of the shrinking of my home town. The long, dangerous bicycle trip to the "other side of town" (divided by a busy highway), is a leisurely five minute walk. The huge metal grain elevators (some of the biggest in Minnesota, my dad often bragged), seem like, well, slightly bigger than average grain silos. The immense, lush green football field with the towering stands (at least on the home team side), now appears to be just 100 yards long, with somewhat underwhelming bleachers and spotty grass.
As my hometown has more than twice as many people as when I grew up, perhaps the "newbies" don't realize how big everything in town once was in "the day." Back when the boys in our "hood" roamed these huge, wide open spaces freely on hot summer afternoons, boldly going when no boy had ever gone before.
A Simpler Christmas
by Jeff King
No thoughts about "A Simpler Time" could ever be complete without memories of Christmas as a child. Some of my most vivid, fondest memories are of that day, one that was looked forward to for months and then seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.
With a family of ten children, Christmas was (and still is) a ritual. Each of us expected three gifts---one from Santa, one from our parents, and one from whichever sibling drew our name from a hat. Presents were wrapped upstairs on Christmas Eve (except Santa's, which were usually the largest, hardest to wrap gifts) and brought down to our nine foot Christmas tree---which had been elaborately and painstakingly decorated in antique ornaments and lead tinsel.
When lead tinsel was outlawed, we saved the banned substance by removing it carefully piece by piece for a few years until the pieces fell apart if not handled delicately enough. Eventually we tried the new fangled light, kid-safe stuff, but it was deemed worthless and a decision was made by the powers that be (our oldest sister and Mom), that our tree would hence forth be tinsel-free. After much discussion, it was also decided that Christmas would still go on.
As number eight in the pecking order, my main job was to bring a few presents down to elder sisters, who would painstakingly place the package in the perfect place---known only to them and obviously an art far too subtle to be trusted to a mere boy. Then I would wait around for awhile, gawking at the brightly colored lights and staring wondrously at my distorted reflection in the large shiny glass ornaments until told to "move away from the tree, before you break something." Despite hearing this admonition about 1497 times while growing up, I'm pretty sure no child (or dog) actually ever broke one of them.
Some time after all the tinsel and ornaments had been placed on the tree, my father was expected to remark that we had "the prettiest tree in town." While we were unaware that our small Midwestern town had conducted a contest, no one ever thought to question him and to our wondering eyes, he had to be right.
Our stockings, all handmade out of felt with our names in glittery script, were arranged by birth order on the fireplace mantel. By the time I arrived, the mantel wasn't long enough for all 10 of us, so Mom and Dad's stockings had been moved around the corner. Eventually, my two youngest interloping brothers arrived and bumped a few elder siblings' stockings around the mantel to Mom and Dad's stocking purgatory.
We always tried to go to bed early on Christmas Eve, because the "big show" of opening presents was always on Christmas morning, and we couldn't wait for it to happen. But putting young, very excited boys to bed an hour early (we shared a room in our younger years so we wouldn't keep every one else awake) was usually a recipe for disaster.
With no one tired, we would talk until late into the night about what we hoped to get. Every minor noise outside or downstairs would lead to momentary wide-eyed silence or a fast dash to the window to catch a glimpse of a fat, jolly old man, or maybe some reindeer. Occasionally one of the older brothers, perhaps not quite as into the whole St. Nick thing, would tell us to shut up before he killed us, so he could get some sleep.
In the morning, we were not allowed to go downstairs and look at the presents until everyone was up. Dad would usually tell us what time that would be in a heavy negotiating session the night before. We'd lead with 6 a.m., he'd counter with 8 (a few party pooping older sisters would whine for nine) and eventually a compromise of about 7:30 would be reached to a background of disappointment from all involved.
By about 5 a.m., usually at least one of the brothers was up and whispering, "Jeff, you up yet?" Within seconds, all except the oldest in the room was wide awake, wondering what time it was and whether it was OK to wake everyone else up yet. That hour or two wait was to a normal hour what a human year is to dogs. By the time 7:15 a.m. rolled around (parents generally accepted a 15-minute grace period on Christmas morning when surrounded by a bunch of gap-toothed grinning boys at the foot of their bed), we were so excited we were having seizures.
With Dad's approval, we were given permission to wake up the older siblings, never an easy job, but one we all accepted with glee. We never could understand why they weren't as giddy as we were. Then all of us waited at the top of the stairs for everyone to get out of bed, while Dad went downstairs to get his trusty Super-8 movie maker ready for the big event.
In a decision made before I was born, someone had the bright idea of coming down the stairs Christmas morning in birth order (something you never escape in a large family) while Dad filmed the procession. In retrospect it was a great move, because when our holiday films are spliced together you can see everyone growing up in a minute or so before your very eyes. Smiling young girls in flannel pajamas with glasses on and hair sticking out in seven directions are seen just one or two years later as fully dressed sullen teenagers, makeup on, hair combed and holding their hands up to ward off the camera lens.
When Dad turned on the blinding light of his Super 8, the only other object beside the sun that could cause blindness if stared into, it was our cue to move down the stairs! The first few boys (although in older movies sometimes an elder sister was carrying an infant or toddler) would come bounding down 2-3 stairs at a time while being admonished to slow down. There was usually a slight break before the teenagers would appear, all holding up their hands to shield the harsh light and begging Dad not to film them.
We would immediately run to the presents---especially the ones delivered by Santa that were usually too large to do anything more than put a bow on. Then we'd sprint to our stockings to check on the candy and small present (usually a comic book) inside.
Even the "official present opening" was run like the German train system in our family. Or at least for the first ten minutes. We all sat around the tree (oldest children and Mom and Dad got the chairs, as if we would have sat in them), and waited for one of the Gestapo---I mean, older sisters---to give each of us a present to open.
The idea behind this fiasco was grand; enjoy Christmas, let everyone see what the other person gets, share the fun and wonderment, and let Dad film the moment. The reality was at least one crying child, or usually two or three as they waited impatiently to open a gift. To keep the youngest happy, they were each given a present quickly and as each child up the ladder grew more impatient, the parceling out of presents grew more fast paced until pretty soon the sound of ripping paper and delighted screams filled every corner of two rooms, with Dad's camera light whipping crazily from kid to kid and Mom yelling at him to slow down or we'd have poor film like last year.
And Mom was right. Whether it was Dad's thrifty side showing up again (film was very expensive) or his impatient side, our Christmas films look a little like a cross between the Zapgruder Kennedy assassination video and a Bigfoot film, with flashes of grinning teeth, wrapping paper, flannel pajamas, and confused dogs.
When every present was opened (about half an hour tops), and two large rooms were piled deep in discarded wrapping paper, boxes and ribbons, it was time to make the big decision. Which present would we play with first? No matter how much I liked my favorite, it always seemed like one of my brothers had a more interesting gift, and I'm sure they felt the same about mine.
For about five years, starting when I was seven or so, I received the "new improved" version of my favorite gift...electric football. Every year the TV ads showed excited boys setting up the tiny players---neatly painted in the colors of the previous year's best NFL teams---on a field surrounded by realistic looking fans and press boxes. In the ads, the players blocked and ran much like the real thing.
In reality, each game (despite its promises), was a lot like the previous year's version. The tiny players, which had looked so cool in their miniature Packer and Viking uniforms on the box, turned out to be plain green or red plastic. Fine print said something about having the option of painting your own. At an age where staying in the lines on a coloring book was a major feat, painting thread thin stripes on a two inch high man was not going to happen.
The fancy stands with realistic looking fans and press boxes? Flimsy pieces of cardboard that fell apart as you leaned over them to set up your team. Even so, my brother Kevin and I would spend fifteen minutes setting up our new teams for the first play with eager anticipation. Sure, last year's version turned into a field of crazily dancing, bouncing figures mostly going in circles when the "on" button was pushed. But this year...well, this year, things would be different! I'd seen the ads many times, and they promised the game was so much better.
After finally getting our respective teams set up, with a magnetic "ball" stuck firmly on the "quarterback's" base, and after arguing hotly over which team got to set up the last person, we were ready to turn on the game! With eager anticipation I would hit the switch and...the light plastic players started jumping madly, with half of them heading back in the direction of their own goal and most of the others hooked into another player, spinning in circles and looking more like a square dance than a football game. If the "quarterback" did manage to head in the general direction of the correct goal post, he usually would do an inexplicable 180 degree turn, to screams of "NO, NO!"
It was about then, a half hour before church with the admonition of Mom to go upstairs and get dressed, that fatigue and reality set in. Christmas was over. After all the anticipation, the dozens of lists that were tore up, re-done and tore up again when a new TV ad stoked our fancy, there was nothing more to look forward to. As happy as we were with our new toys (unless we got "yuck," clothes), the reality of playing with our long awaited gifts never quite lived up to the hype.
Traces of "A Simpler Time"
by Jeff King
Sometimes as adults I think we're so busy reminiscing about our own childhood, and focusing on what we consider negative, modern influences on today's children, that we fail to see some things haven't really changed that much.
Recently I read where Plato (or Socrates or some other Greek guy I probably should have studied more closely) lamented way back then how bad children were becoming. It's a common theme running through society for as long as humans have wrestled with that evil nemesis called puberty.
Our current neighborhood is filled with children-most of them ranging from infants to teens-and as far as I can tell, there's not a budding Jeffrey Dahmer among them. In fact, take away the XBox 360's, the I-Pods, and the cell phones, and these strange, short people seem....well, a lot like us when we were little!
Take "Ben and Henry" for instance. I've never even met "Ben and Henry," but I've heard about their entrepreneurial spirit second hand a lot lately. First, there was the "Ben and Henry" cucumber stand, proudly selling fresh produce to the Highcroft neighborhood since July. I attempted to glimpse the 5 and 7-year-old brothers, but by the time my wife dragged me down the street to buy some cucumbers, the stand was closed, all the product was sold, and "Ben and Henry" were presumably at the bank turning the proceeds into a high rate CD (or "disc" as my daughter calls them).
Recently, bright neon flyers have appeared around the neighborhood advertising "Ben and Henry's Skateboard lessons." I'm just guessing, but after their first business venture---one that involved sitting behind a table selling a product that is not easily or quickly replenished---the brothers were looking for something a little more exciting with no supply chain issues.
Our neighborhood is filled with girls playing "four-square" on the driveways and boys roaming in small packs up and down the sidewalks doing all the things boys do (catch bugs, sharpen sticks, etc...).
A favorite game of the younger boys is to look for "aliens" in the small woods behind our house. They strap on backpacks, tote anything that looks like a gun (make that "ray" gun), and carry small bottles to take alien samples. Occasionally they emerge screaming out of the woods shouting "Aliens!!" so convincingly I look for a closet to hide inside.
My twin daughters and their friends thought this game was so silly they took it upon themselves to argue with the boys over the very existence of aliens. Getting nowhere, they proceeded to use Dad's computer to fashion a very slanted, one page opinion poll asking people whether they believe in aliens, which was then deposited in every mailbox up and down the street (with a deadline and a return address). Results were almost even and did nothing to resolve the issue.
Here are a few of the other games we've witnessed that reassure me kids really haven't changed that much:
Ant cruises. To the average adult, a small, foot-deep "baby" pool in the back yard is a mosquito breeding ground waiting to happen. To the neighbor boy and his friends, it's the Atlantic Ocean, the piece of scrap lumber is the Love Boat, and a few lucky, hand picked ants get the pleasure of riding it.
Frog Races. Who can forget the stubborn determination of one of our favorite neighbor girls, insisting that her well-trained frog---obviously showing the visible signs of being hugged a little too tightly---was just resting?
Dueling Forts. Not to be outdone by the efforts of the boys who had built a "fort" in the woods using pieces of lumber and junk they "claim" the local farmer had discarded, the girls decided to build their own fort. With the whole rest of the woods to build their new castle---including areas totally invisible to the competition---where do you think they chose for a location? That's right! Within spitting distance. Coincidentally, as the girls ventured forth for building materials and their own fort grew larger, the boy's fort shrunk.
Before A Simpler Time
by Jeff King
"Dad, I'm bored." I heard those words from one of my ten-year-old twin girls early in the second half of an exciting women's basketball game we were attending between the home team Duke Blue Devils and the Virginia Cavaliers.
Never mind that we were in Cameron Indoor Stadium---a historical venue that Sports Illustrated named one of the five best in the world---for the first time. Or that the crowd was going crazy, the band was loud, the score was close, and the action on the court was end to end. My daughter was, well...bored.
To her credit, Ellie is an action girl. She loves basketball---when she's playing it---and is not as obsessed with video games as most of her generation (such as her brother). Normally I would have taken this moment to go on one of my famous ten minute "rants," filled with phrases such as "when I was your age...," "kids nowadays...," "I would have killed...," etc. But just days earlier, I had read my 85-year-old father's memoirs of growing up on a small farm during the depression, and quite frankly, I was feeling a little guilty about how interesting my childhood had been by comparison.
Unlike Ellie's 200 TV channel, YouTube, homework on every night youth, mine was a lot slower. And while we weren't poor, with ten children in the family anything beyond food and clothing was considered a luxury we could probably live without.
In comparison with my father's youth, though, I lived a fast-paced, care-free existence. His memoirs---written in a factual timeline from his youth in the 20s up through his service during WWII---brought that home to me for the first time.
My parents grew up fairly close to each other in a rural part of Minnesota just northeast of St. Paul, Minnesota, on small farms. One of the highlights of my father's youth was the monthly visit from the local pig buyer, since the kindly man---besides being one of the few visitors they ever saw --- also brought Dad and his siblings candy. My dad didn't know the gentleman's granddaughter at that time, but he would marry her (my mom) one day.
Dad's father was strict, not prone to the rants I'm famous for, but rather for carrying a big "stick" and being willing to use it if not obeyed right away. When the whoosh of the kerosene lighting the corncobs on the kitchen stove woke them up at 6 a.m., the children were expected to immediately crawl out from under their heavy buffalo fur blanket (they slept in an unheated upstairs room) and get ready to start the day's chores.
The farm had no electricity, no running water, an outdoor outhouse and 50 acres of land made barely tillable by the extensive drought of the 1930s. So between plowing, planting, milking cows and harvesting crops, there was not nearly as much emphasis on "play" as there is today.
When a pig was butchered, the tough bladder was saved to use as a ball (I'm guessing that's where the word "pigskin" for football came from). Frozen cow droppings were functional in a game of pond hockey, and the large water trough the farm animals used was good for hours of good clean (or maybe not so clean) fun.
Children had no supervised, sponsored teams to belong to, and were mostly on their own for entertainment. This might explain Dad's ill conceived lighting of the hay pile in the hog pen on his sixth birthday---a feat which almost resulted in the barn burning down and amazingly didn't result in a whipping (it was his birthday).
Excitement was rare, visitors were scarce and many people (such as my mom's hog buying, candy giving dad) were born, raised and died in the same house.
To his credit, my father has seen a drastic change in how children are raised, and for the most part, has changed too. "Spare the rod, spoil the child," and "children are to be seen and not heard," are not phrases uttered by many teachers or parents these days.
He's noticed that his children have raised his grandchildren differently than he did, just as he was more lenient than his dad. When the first of his ten children rarely (if ever) struck their children in anger, I'm sure he expected there to be hell to pay in the future. But as all have grown to be respectful, intelligent, college-educated adults, he's grudgingly admitted that perhaps the newfangled "hug your child" and explain method might be OK (although as he says, with 10 children it would have taken way too long).
This brings me back to my daughter being bored, in a loud, colorful, famous sporting venue on a Sunday afternoon.After reading just days before about one of my father's most exciting moments of his youth: when they bought fresh peaches and were able to use the soft tissue the fruit came wrapped in to replace torn pages from the Sears catalog in the outhouse. And I thought I lived through...A Simpler Time.
by Jeff King
One aspect of having stores that sell nostalgia in high traffic areas is that we get to hear a lot of comments about how children have changed so much over the years. Usually the person making the comment is not talking about for the better.
I may be a little naive, and the suburban middle class neighborhoods I've raised my children in may not be an accurate cross section of Americana, but I'd be willing to put the vast majority of youngsters I encounter up against my own youthful gang of "hooligans" any day.
Say what you want about computer games and 24-hour cartoon channels and the Internet, but hypnotized children who have highly developed "gamer thumbs" are fairly impossible to wrench from their favorite speaker chair, much less have enough time or energy to get in trouble. When they do venture outside, it's either to a scheduled "play date" (a word that is never used in our household without visible scorn), where anxious moms form a protective wagon train around their bubble wrapped bodies, or to venture three whole houses to visit a friend (while mom watches from the porch to make sure no one kidnaps them during the 10 second trek).
I'm guessing my own children could get into some of the same mischief my "gang" got into when I was young. If they ever got bored. At least I hope so.
Most of the time, the trouble we caused was not because we were mean or poorly parented, but because we were "boys being boys" who ran out the door each summer in the AM, returning only for meals. On Saturday morning we were glued to the TV set for the 3-4 hours of cartoons that showed various animals wreaking mayhem on each other. After that, all bets were off. I'm not sure what girls our age did back then because we lived on a block that was blissfully free of the annoying little creatures (at least that's what we thought in elementary school-our opinions of them changed drastically a few years later). My own sisters were all older, and other than being Mom's eyes and ears, were not much good for anything else.
We lived in a small world of grand plans that didn't always come to fruition. Tree forts that were drawn up to be three stories tall with secret passages and trap doors became rickety scrap wood platforms that gave way under the weight of two 60 pound bodies. "Official" inter-neighborhood football games complete with full football uniforms became backyard argumentative brawls between rival teams sporting mismatched helmets and rags stuffed strategically to resemble real pads.
Once in awhile, though, the actual events came close to living up to the hype, even if I'm relatively sure our blissfully ignorant parents might not have agreed.
I'm not even sure how one of our favorite games started (I'm relatively certain it wasn't on a play date). The game never had a name that I'm aware of, but for now I'll call it "bike wars."
In retrospect, it was something that might have evolved if children from one of Mel Gibson's early apocalyptic movies were crossed with "Lord of the Flies," with just enough Mayberry RFD thrown in to keep it from getting totally out of hand.
We lived in the "older" part of a town of about 3,000 people, on a block that had about 20 boys within 4-5 years of each other. Since all we did was play sports (and cause minor trouble) many of the best athletes in town lived on our block. About three blocks away was group of about 15 boys who lived in the "horseshoe," so called because the local river bent around their houses. In our youthful innocence (or perhaps just youth), we hardly knew the boys from the "horseshoe" even existed. When you're banned from crossing the street, three blocks was the equivalent of from New York to Los Angeles now.
As we reached the middle years of elementary school and gained the sweet freedom of our Coast to Coast "sting-ray" bikes (the only kind you could buy in our town unless you were a dork) with the cool banana seats, a whole new world opened up to us. I imagine Columbus would have felt much like us the first time we laid eyes on the strange boys from the horseshoe. (Okay, we went to school with most of them, but up to that time were unaware they actually lived somewhere in real houses and everything). Our original bike forays into each other's "territory" started peacefully enough, with curious stares as we pedaled furiously by each other in opposite directions. I don't even recall which group fired the first salvo, although as we had the same devious minds that thought to put smoke bombs in the air intake of the one couple on the block who wouldn't let us cross their yard, I'm guessing we were the guilty party.
Initially, if we saw "horseshoe boys" on bikes near our block, we would pedal furiously to intercept and head straight for them at full speed. As we came close enough to see the look of fear in their eyes (or at least we liked to think it was fear), we would brake hard with our feet (no sissy hand brakes on those babies) and come screeching to a halt within feet (or inches) of their bikes. After a few back and forth insults, each side pedaled away. No harm, no foul.
One day, while out "scouting" for intruders (a game that could get pretty tedious if the horseshoe boys had other plans), myself, one of my older brothers and another older "gang" member spotted two unsuspecting bikers pedaling on a street that intersected the one we were on. To this day, one of my biggest weaknesses is that I'll do anything to get a laugh, no matter how silly it makes me look. So to impress my two older partners in crime, I immediately pedaled as fast as I could on a solo "attack." Like World War I ace fighter pilots I had read about, I came racing down a steep hill and out of the sun (OK, maybe I made up the part about the sun, but it was a steep hill), straight towards my clueless victims with my older, stronger wingmen struggling to catch up.
Just about five yards from the horseshoe biker boys, I heard my wingmen start to lock brakes as totally startled faces consisting of about 80 percent eyeballs swung my way. I waited until the last possible moment to impress my compadres, and then.pushed my foot hard against the brake...nothing! Oh Sh..KA BOOM!!! I went flying over my handlebars and ended up upside down on a thick carpet of (thankfully) unmowed grass. As I tentatively did an inventory to check for broken bones and bruises, I raised my head and noticed my beloved Stingray imbedded in what had been a new bike, but was now a metal pretzel.
Thankfully I had missed the seemingly uninjured pilot of the t-boned bike, but he looked as stunned as I felt. Meanwhile, my brother and other fellow gang member were laughing hysterically. My mission was accomplished!
I never did tell anyone that my brakes had failed (or I had not hit them correctly in the excitement). Word of my suicide mission spread, and the story made me look too good to let a little truth stand in the way.
In a weird way, my little "accident" became the Reese's Peanut Butter cup moment of a popular new game. I had combined two things all boys loved to do---ride bikes and smash metal things together. I was the Abner Doubleday, the James Naismith, of the neighborhood. After that, both armies continually were out scouting for the "enemy" to attack. Bikes were rammed together until one side or the other would flee (usually the outnumbered side). Surprisingly there was very little boy-on-boy violence, as both sides seemed content to avoid injury while crashing two-wheelers together. Scouts were always being sent out to find the enemy and reported back with their whereabouts.
Even the younger kids---the ones we deemed too likely to get hurt or, worse yet, blab to Mom---were enlisted as "mechanics" in our family garage. When a bike was too mangled to ride any more, it was brought to the "mechanics" in the garage to fix. The younger boys were ecstatic that they got to play with Mr. King's metal tools (which were generally off limits...when he was home) and hardly noticed that we "borrowed" their bikes while ours were being worked on. I don't recall how many summers our favorite game lasted and what exactly made it end. It's probably not a stretch to think that even our parents could not remain clueless to the mismatched rims, broken spokes and occasional crying five year old.
If my own children played the same game today---which they wouldn't because their new bikes purchased each year so that they perfectly fit and have handbrakes and water bottles are far too precious---we'd probably have a quick meeting with a child psychologist. "Mr. King, your child has been involved in a very dangerous game that is likely to turn him into a violent psychopath if we don't intervene," I can imagine the doctor saying, before adding that "at least he was wearing his bike helmet."
by Jeff King
I used to think my parents (particularly my father) were entirely too uptight about our safety as I was growing up. Now that I have my own children, I wonder why they were so lackadaisical about our well being, and how we ever survived to adulthood!
Perhaps that's why families were larger "back then." Just like fish that lay millions of eggs in the hopes that a few will survive countless predators, famine, and disease to repeat the cycle, my parents had ten children. They raised us similarly to how they were raised, which means we were turned loose on the world every morning during summer vacation and expected to return for meals when the noon whistle blew and at 6 p.m. (when Dad's top blew).
Up to a certain age---basically until we could ride a real bike---we were limited to our city block consisting of twelve houses and an alleyway. But once we had the sweet freedom that a new Coast King banana-seated bike could bring, our world expanded all the way to...the lake.
To call Lake Florence a lake is probably a little like calling my blog literature. It was actually a slight widening in a lazy river that meandered through the farm fields of southeastern Minnesota. Caused by a sixty-year-old limestone dam that rumor had it once powered a flour mill, the lake had, in prehistoric times, been a popular gathering place for local swimmers and boaters.
Over the years, farmers tilled closer to the river's banks and floods carried the rich, black topsoil downstream, where it was deposited in the still waters of the lake. By the time my gang and I first started our daily visits, the once proud vacation destination filled with northern pike and bass had become a shallow muddy pond that was the home of only rough fish like carp and suckers. But it was our muddy pond.
The dam had a spillway about 200 feet wide and fifteen feet high, over which excess water would flow in varying amounts. In the spring, when the snow melted, the river could turn dangerous with water so high it only dipped a few feet into whitewater below the dam. Most of the year, though, the water topping the spillway and flowing over the moss-covered 45-degree concrete spillway was only inches deep.
To an adult, the gently flowing water over a limestone dam made for a Kodak moment. To a kid, though, it was the ultimate waterslide. I don't recall any adult ever saying we couldn't slide down a slippery, slimy hard concrete dam into boulder-strewn pools filled with snapping turtles and broken beer bottles. But then again, I don't recall any one ever asking them.
Through trial and error, we became smart enough to not slide down in our shorts or pants. The green algae growing on the dam left matching colored stains that were hard to explain to parents. We learned to slide down in our white underwear instead. Our undies could be left at the scene of the crime, and we could wear our dry clean shorts home, sneak upstairs and replace them --- leaving Mom none the wiser.
The "lake" was the center of our idyllic summers. We fished almost every morning for the easy-to-catch, hard-fighting carp---a rough fish that was mostly responsible for keeping the lake vegetation-free. Although carp were considered inedible by most adults, we loved to keep our catch on wire stringers and drag them home to show mom.
Mom acted excited and pleased every time, commenting on how large they were and how they would make such good fertilizer for her garden. Looking back on her acting ability, some of what she said (and we believed) might have been good fertilizer as well.
My hometown for years discussed dredging the once-proud lake and the local newspaper ran many stories of feasible ways to do so. Benefits, bake sales, and other fundraisers were held annually for the "Lake Florence project" until, one day after many years, the newspaper proudly announced that our town had enough money to purchase a used dredge costing many thousands of dollars!
That spring, the town's populace waited anxiously for the lake to thaw and the inevitable spring flooding that would occur. Dredging could start after the lake level returned to normal. Soon our lake would once again be a deep, clear body of water befitting its status of one of the 10,000 lakes bragged about on our state's license plates.
Then, in the middle of the night, with ice flows pushed up against the aging dam, the unthinkable happened. The dam burst. Fortunately no one was injured down stream, but the end result was a small town with a hole in an aging dam too expensive to fix and a big, used lake dredging machine for sale.
My hometown did a good job of turning the missing lake into a park, featuring a (clean) rushing stream flowing through a grassy park---with a nice safe fishing pond that boasts a wood fishing dock. Except during the annual 4th of July celebration, it doesn't seem like either the river or the pond gets a lot of kid traffic these days. The river---while not deep---has fast flowing water, and the pond---although it has a handicapped accessible dock---is of unknown depth.
Modern parents, what with their much smaller families of 2.5 children, can ill afford to lose even their most obnoxious child to the pond, the river, or the occasional car on the sleepy side streets surrounding the park. A new pool is being built in town, complete with large, state of the art slides made of plastic, with rounded edges to prevent cuts and teenage lifeguards to prevent drowning.
As a father myself, I'm sure what most young boys would choose between the giant plastic waterslides and the moss covered dam of my youth. And I'm sure they would learn the underwear trick almost as quickly.
by Jeff King
Growing up in a small Minnesota farm town, sports played a huge part in my daily life. Before the age of Xbox and Nintendo (I got a Pong video game in high school for Christmas, but the novelty of watching a ball of light go back and forth on a TV screen waned by that evening), a boy had to entertain himself.
Fortunately, I had five brothers and lived on a block that had a huge surplus of boys near my age. Somewhere around first grade, my younger brother Kevin and I made the acquaintance of three brothers newly arrived to the "hood" who shared our somewhat fanatical love for sports. A limestone gravel alleyway ran behind our house, and while idly flipping rocks at whichever of God's small creatures hopped or flew by, we noticed three strange boys about our size walking towards us down the alley.
We proceeded to do what any self respecting boy would do in a similar situation---we changed our direction of fire and started lobbing rocks at the new boys. Minutes, and a few minor cuts and bruises later, we had learned a few things: The new boys (the Nelsons) had really good arms. All other things being equal, three arms would eventually beat two. And finally, we might have found our new "bestest" friends.
Along with a few of my brothers, we formed the core of a loosely knit "gang" of about 15-20 boys who played whatever sport was in season, in whoever's yard had any grass left on it. In summer, it sometimes took an hour to round up enough boys for a decent game of baseball.
Just getting a game together took negotiating skills worthy of Henry Kissinger. One mom, whose son owned the only decent uncracked baseball bat in the neighborhood, had to be convinced that her son was not going to be an NC this time. NC stood for "no count," meaning the boy was either too young or too poor of a player to actually saddle either team with. They got to bat and run, but their out (and run) didn't count. We thought the letters were an early PC way of letting these boys play without hurting their feelings, but eventually everyone knew what the letters stood for, and even four year olds refused to be labeled with them.
We'd have to promise another set of parents that their kids would come home this time when the noon factory whistle blew (even though we'd probably ridicule them if it happened in the middle of a game) and our own parents that we'd hit away from the house this time to prevent any window breakage. Sometimes we were so hard up for players that we'd even stoop so low as to ask my big sister Nan to play, which hurt in a couple of ways. She was a girl, and quite frankly, she had a better arm and could put most of us to shame in the field.
Usually the games were a lot of fun, with plenty of timeouts to argue out calls and the score. Sometimes, though, the actual game lasted about half as long as the organizing did. Someone would get his feelings hurt when we picked teams (you have to remember in this pre-PC world teams were picked by tiny dictators based purely on talent) and threaten to take his bat (or ball) home. Or a hard hit ground ball would take a bad hop when it hit the one island of grass left on the infield and bloody a boy's nose (leading to pleas to "don't go home until the bleeding stops, or they'll never let us play again!"). I don't remember any set number of innings we played, and I don't recall anyone ever actually winning a game. Games either were severely shortened by the aforementioned problems, or seemed to last to infinity, with calls to come home to dinner only serving to pause, not end, them.
We loved baseball and could imitate all our favorite players. We batted in the crouched, weight back stance of Minnesota Twins batting champion Rod Carew, waving our tiny little bat while waiting for the pitch and chewing a big wad of gum (Carew used tobacco). The pitcher would turn away from the plate (like Louis Tiant) and look skyward during his motion before turning to hurl a pitch towards the plate (or more often, the batter).
We longed for a real field-one made of grass with perfectly manicured dirt infields and real chalk lines. Once in awhile we'd take Dad's lawn mower and a bag of Mom's flour to our back yard, mowing the base paths as short as possible and dropping small handfuls of flour in what would pass for a straight base line if viewed from say, the Moon.
For about six weeks each summer, we got to play in a real, honest-to-goodness baseball league! We got Super Value hats and colored t-shirts with feared team names, like Ace Hardware and Berg Snyder Drug. We were bad. From the moment we got our first schedule we had it memorized, and boy, were their some anxious moments if the sky started to cloud over on those precious nights when team 2 played team 4.
My Dad, for his part, liked baseball. He could be begged to hit fly balls every night after supper in huge games of "500," where 15 boys yelled "I got it" even before the ball hit his bat. He sort of knew what teams we were on---and I'm pretty sure if you would have asked him where his boys had disappeared to on a Tuesday evening, he would have guessed it had something to do with baseball. But he had ten children, and besides, the ball fields could easily be bicycled to by any of them without his help. To this day, I wonder what his response would have been if I had asked to be driven to practice.
Things are a little different with my children. Though blessed with no more athletic talent than their middle-aged father (Secretariat's father wasn't a plow horse), they have the best that middle class America can offer. Immaculate ball fields with scoreboards and lights (which are for some reason locked during non-practice times in case a child dares play without an adult). Soccer fields with grass like putting greens, and volunteer coaches trained to say things like "Good kick, Megan," even though Megan is afraid of the ball and it hit her by accident when she was dodging it. And well-lit indoor basketball courts with real leather balls that don't have to be re-inflated every time they play.
They love to play sports too....with an adult supervising, in an organized league-one that costs lots of money, and has fancy uniforms that they manage to outgrow in six months. But organize a game in the neighborhood, by themselves, between scheduled practices or games? Not so much.
I'm continually amazed, as my ten-year-old twin girls carpool back from soccer practice with other neighborhood girls, why they don't organize their own games at home. They can't wait for practice, love to play, have a school yard just across the street and plenty of kids in the neighborhood. I've even (in their words) "ranted" on the subject at length a few times. But the field at the park lies vacant 24/7 even while kids complain of boredom.
I'll be going out to our driveway basketball hoop---the one that sees little use---in a few minutes to "shoot some hoops" and prepare for our twice weekly old man games at a local park. And within minutes of the sound of my basketball bouncing off the pavement, you can be sure I'll have children filtering over from across the neighborhood. First to watch, then to say, "Can I play too?"
by Jeff King
The other day I actually read (I usually delete them) a chain email about the difference between the way "we" (people over 40) grew up and how we're raising our own children. In particular, how we survived chain smoking, beer drinking pregnant moms; stood on car seats with no seat belts, and rode bikes with no helmets. And I'm guessing that if you're reading this---you survived a similar childhood.
I couldn't have been 10 years old when I "inherited" my first newspaper route from a brother who had graduated into the world of real jobs. And back then, part of running a newspaper route was having to collect payment each Saturday morning.
So there I was at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, casually holding my blue bank bag---a bag that could swell to over $100 by the time lunch rolled around---and strolling along the edge of a busy highway that bisected my small Minnesota town. My barely 70 pound body was shook by the rush of air as large semi-trucks carrying goods to and from the huge Twin Cities metropolis over an hour away hurtled close by.
No one, not my parents (who I've been told loved me) or even the crabby adult who supervised the paper carriers (who I'm sure didn't), ever mentioned that carrying a bank bag bulging in cash along a busy highway might not be a good idea. And I sure never gave it a second thought.
Any one of the hundreds of cars or trucks that passed me each morning could have screeched to a halt, pulled me inside, taken my money and sold me to a child brothel in Thailand. And they would have been long gone before my parents or any of my nine brothers and sisters would have figured out who belonged to the extra plate that went unclaimed at dinner.
Yet it hindsight it wasn't in tramping along the highway that I faced mortal danger. No, it was when I was invited into the more than 70 homes, apartments and businesses along the way. Most of my route consisted of harmless looking enough people---like Mr. Larson, who used to carry huge cans of milk on a rural milk route and was unafraid of dogs, which he told me after I was chased into his yard by a yapping dachshund. Now at an age approaching 90, he wasn't even able to get out of his porch chair to get the newspaper.
My collection route also included a series of four apartments located above stores in aging brick buildings on Main Street. The people who lived there were a transient lot, often moving without notifying me or anyone else, and I'd keep on delivering papers until I noticed a huge pile of them in front of the door, or until I knocked on the door one Saturday morning to find a new tenant.
I'd clutch my bank bag and payment ticket book, open the sagging door leading from the alleyway, and stomp my way up wooden stairs lit by a single bare light bulb two stories up. Often, my hard knocks on each of the four doors would yield no response. I noticed that people who lived in dilapidated apartments slept in later than most home owners. Occasionally I'd hit the jackpot and a fat, middle-aged man in a tank top t-shirt and three days of facial hair, smoking a cigarette and smelling of alcohol, would slowly open a door and ask me what I wanted.
Whereas most of my route customers knew me by name, and I knew them by where they wanted their papers delivered, the people who came and went in this building and a few like it on my route didn't seem to remember me from week to week. Most didn't remember that they even got a newspaper, and as I look back on those days, I wonder why they got them myself. But it was before cable TV and the Internet.
I never experienced anything I considered threatening, although in retrospect more than once I was called "a cute kid," which to anyone who knew me as a buzz cut, big eared, buck toothed youth is proof enough that some of these people may have been still under the influence. In fact, the man in the t-shirt was one of my biggest (only) tippers.
I have three children now who are either at, or approaching, the age in which I got my first paper route. My wife and I are a little apprehensive about letting our children walk by themselves a few blocks to a friend's house. And we live in an upper-middle class neighborhood with little outside traffic.
But I'm not convinced that the world I grew up in was that much safer. We grew up in a world before cable, 24 hour news channels and the Internet. Nowadays, we all know the names of Polly Klass and Joan Benet Ramsey, even though most of us lived nowhere near them. I'm afraid if the t-shirted man had turned out to be the stereotypical pedophile he resembled---instead of a nice, harmless, big tipper with an alcohol problem---the people in the next town 12 miles away would have been none the wiser.