This weeks Sunday Scribblings Submission
Being a Baby Boomer means that millions of us share similar childhoods in the 1950's and 1960's. It seemed like there were kids in every nook and cranny all over every neighborhood. All of us were outside in the afternoons, swarming in packs divided by age and sex.
We all had younger brothers and sisters who wanted to tag along. The common command given by the General (your Mother) was, "Watch your younger brother!!" Which you would reluctantly obey, keeping him in the corner of your eye as he played in dirt and made mud pies hoping that he would try to eat one so that you could go slap it out of his hand. Or have him tag along so that when you needed to know if there was hostile animals in the brush at the base of the jungle, you sent him in first. And the best, send him unsuspecting to someones front door to see if So and So could come out to play, knowing full well So and So was under "house arrest" for some crime, like talking back, and not allowed to come out and play. He was good for chasing down errant kick ball shots, and running home for some forgotten "tool" to be snuck out of the garage (like the hedge clippers).
When he would graduate from tricycle to bicycle, he would be made to stand command and watch over the bikes lined up in front of Giles store, so that no one would inadvertently come along and knock them over. For his services, he might get a piece of penny candy, or a ten cent ice cold pop from the Pepsi machine in the front of the store.
When the afternoon began to turn into evening, when our Dad's began to arrive home and the traffic in the streets began to pick up, our Mom's would step on the front porches of our homes and begin to call us home for supper.
Their voices could carry over from one block to the next.
"Your Mom's calling you!"
Mrs. S was the best, because she bellowed! We all would snicker when she called in Tommy and Debbie. I can here it now still in my minds audio replay, ...
We would scamper home, disappearing into those warm inviting homes to a hot meal waiting for us, homework and bed.
The next day we did it all over again.
The only terrorist we had in our midst was the teenager Torchie King, who terrorized our mothers with his red hot rod, which he would tear down the kid lined street at 50 miles per hour throwing dirt and rocks and having us all running for cover.
Back, back, back many years ago when life for a kid was that simple.