One thing I have noticed is that in some ways - OK, in a lot of ways - kids today have it much easier than I did when I was a child.
Take bicycles, for instance. The first brand new bike I ever had? I was 50 years old and bought it myself at Walmart.
Now, they make bikes in all shapes and sizes, from little tiny bikes that 2-yearolds can ride to racing bikes and mountain bikes. My grandkids have had more new bikes than I can count. They outgrow one and get another.
Well, I went straight from a tricycle to a 20-inch boy’s bike. That is what I learned to ride on! A friend’s son had outgrown his bike and handed it down to me. I was thrilled! I didn’t care if it was a boy’s bike, it was a bike! I learned to ride on the rocky dirt road in front of our house and I was probably at least 9 years old.
Needless to say, it had no training wheels. Daddy followed me holding the bike up by the rear fender. And when he let go, my impetus carried me a few feet, and then crash! I did learn quickly though; nothing like the threat of pain to teach you good balance.
When my sister got too old for her bike - rusty blue in color - she gave it to me and my nephew got the boy’s bike. Her bike was quite a bit bigger, so it took some time to master it, but soon my nieces, nephews and I were riding everywhere. We lived on those bikes all summer long.
Back then, parents weren’t as fearful as they are nowadays if their children are out of sight for any length of time. Our moms would pack us a lunch, shove us out the door and say, “See you at suppertime!” I’m not kidding. We had no video games, no cell-phones, no 24-7 cartoons, just our bikes and our imaginations, and we used them well.
The first thing we would do was bum some change from our parents and ride to Springtown, probably two miles away and across two creeks. I would never even think of letting my grandkids do this today! But the world was a safer place back then. We would usually get off our bikes at the low-water bridge and wade for a while in the bone-chilling headwaters of Flint Creek. There would be other kids there as well, turning over rocks, looking for crawdads, and trying to catch the quick-silver minnows darting here and there in the sun-dappled water. Quite often we would “slip” and fall down, with a quick inrush of breath at the water temperature. But then it felt so good, and the sun always dried us off by the time we got back home anyway.
Now no one would let their kids do this today! Swim or wade with no adult present? No way! Our parents weren’t bad parents though, they just worried about different things - like finding the money to buy school clothes and keep us fed.
Anyway, after our little hiatus at the creek, we would peddle on down to Ruth Wasson’s combination post office and general store. I want you to know, I would give my eye-teeth right now for one of those cherry-banana ice cream bars on a stick that she stocked in her old chest freezer, along with Popsicles (banana was my favorite), Dixie cups and Fudgesicles.
We would sit out on the front porch of that old store and finish off our treats before heading back home. We were always a bit chilly from the combination of cold, wet clothes and ice cream, but flying down the road on a bike with the hot summer sun on your back, and trying to outrun the ever-present pack of dogs that inhabited the streets of Springtown warmed us up pretty fast.
And did I mention that most of the time we were barefoot? Shoes were for church on Sunday and school, period. Occasionally, we would don a pair of those old rubber flip-fl ops that hurt your toes really bad until you got used to them. But it was difficult to ride bikes wearing those, so we usually went without.
Sometimes we would stop at Riley’s Filling Station for a cold bottle of pop instead of ice cream. Nehi Grape and Strawberry, Orange Crush and Mt. Dew were at the top of our list.
Now when we got back home, we would lay our bikes down and push them under the barbed wire fence into the pasture, then wiggle through ourselves.The cattle had worn paths throughout the fields and these made great riding trails. We actually had names for the paths and the places they led to, such as Grand Canyon (the deep gully cut in the creek which was usually dry), Ghost Town (dead cow skeleton) and Baloney Hill (where we went to eat our baloney sandwiches).
We had an interesting episode with a black snake at Baloney Hill one early summer day. The mayapples had grown up about knee high to us and had completely covered the ground. As we were wading through them, we saw a giant black snake raise his head up above the mayapples.
You’ve never seen three kids climb trees faster than we did that day! We didn’t know then that snakes can climb too, but he chose not to follow us. As we sat there contemplating how we were going to get back down, we heard a loud pop and the limb my niece was sitting on broke. Now she had her arms wrapped around the trunk of the tree, so she went sliding down the tree, scraping most of the hide off of her stomach and chest. I’m sure her wails scared off any snake that might have been in the vicinity.
Just up the creek a little ways, a small hollow tree had fallen over in the water and created a perfect hiding place for bullheads. Quite often, my nephew would “noodle” a couple of bullheads out of that ole tree and we would conk them on the head with a rock, wrap them in tin foil and cook them in the fire we had built!
Yes, we did. We built campfires! I guess we had matches. I don’t remember how we got them; we probably just took a handful from the kitchen. Not happenin’ today. Anyway, if we weren’t home by dark or suppertime, whichever came first, we would hear our names being called, so reluctantly, and with dirty feet, clothes that smelled like fish, and tangled (and sometimes singed) hair, we would climb on the bikes and slowly peddle home, dreading the bath that awaited us. And we couldn’t wait to do it all again the next day!
If this story has jogged some happy memories loose for you today, then it has served its purpose. So don’t stop remembering….
Tamela Weeks is a freelance writer in the Gentry area. She may be reached by email at tamela.[email protected].
Opinion, Pages 6 on 07/24/2013