For me, one of the interesting things about getting older is that not only do I have my earlier life and times to analyze and reminisce about, but I also have contemporary society to compare it to. This was made vividly evident to me at the Winslett Thanksgiving dinner last week during which the family regaled us with stories of what life was like for them when they were kids. They grew up in a small, old southern town that epitomized America’s perception of small southern towns. Andy Griffith wasn’t much off the mark in that respect, except that Andy didn’t dramatize the crazy things that kids like the Winslett boys and their friends did (and were able to do back then). Most of the action involved derelict cars and bicycles whose wheels dropped off or brakes failed at crucial moments in their stunts. But there was jumping off roofs (for no apparent reason) and capers involving firecrackers, too—all this done despite getting caught sometimes and whipped with a switch they had to find and bring back, themselves.
Listening to this joyous bunch reminisce about their childhoods made me think about my own childhood, which was very different. We lived in a small, old northern town. According to our parents, my brother and I were “good” kids, meaning we didn’t give them a reason to discipline us (we must have been very dull). I think my brother spent most of his spare time playing tennis, but I loved nature, and, when I wasn’t roller skating, riding my bike, or playing with friends, I’d wander alone through Gott’s Woods, a large parcel belonging to a house on the corner built in the 1700s. It was beautiful there, and I especially loved the many wildflowers and the small animals I’d come across. I’d daydream and make up stories with the woods as the setting. I also spent hours in the horse stables at the half-mile racing track our town was known for. My favorite horse was a gentle mare named Mommy. I still have the portrait of her that my artist father painted for me.
Although our childhoods were vastly different (raucous versus serene), they had freedom in common. Both my husband and I remember our mothers’ shouting as we left the house—“Be back for lunch,” “Get home before dark,” or “Dinner’s at six. Don’t be late,” and off we’d go. There was little to no anxiety about our safety.
Then I remembered what my students had said in a class conversation in 2014 about how their lives had changed after digital devices took over their lives. One student said that he felt sorry for his younger siblings because the whole family used to eat dinner together when he was little and then he’d go outside to play with other kids until dark, or watch TV with the family, or do homework. Now, they no longer ate at the table. The family members filled a plate with food laid out in the kitchen and took it to their respective bedrooms and got on the computer until bedtime. If they needed to speak with another family member in the house, they emailed, texted, or called that person on the phone. They all led separate lives.
And then I thought about my grandkids, who are home schooled. Will they sit around a table years from now and reminisce with glee about the video games they played with kids they rarely got together with or the lego structures they built by themselves? I worry about the future of our society as people become more isolated and rely on technology to replace human-to-human interaction and inspiration. It seems to me that the conveniences of the digital world come at a heavy price.
Are you more optimistic about all this? Do you have cherished memories of things you did as a child that aren’t routinely available to kids today, or do you know of kids today who are experiencing a fuller life made possible by living in the cyber world? Or is the digital takeover of society both harmful and beneficial? Let us know.
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I grew up in the Bronx. I was a teenager in the ’50s when Doo Wop and soft streetlights governed doorways and street corners. We hung out in schoolyards, diners, the park, the benches on the Boulevard, and church dances where the droning of Charley and Ray’s sexy “Your to Blame” guaranteed a dark corner on the dance floor would be Nirvana. It was a magic time. But it was all we knew. I hope that there is magic happening now as well. Here is a typical day from my magic time.
A Bronx day
It’s a May Saturday morning. The sun is streaming through the curtains of our bedroom on the fifth floor of 1610 Mahan Avenue in the Bronx.I’m 14 years old and it’s 1952.The guy who maintains the Indian museum across the street is cutting the grass. Bruckner Boulevard, down tat the end of Middletown Road is humming with traffic. I hear voices coming from the foyer. Ma and Grandma are up, and have been for some time. Dad is working a 48 hour tour with the fire department. My brothers are still asleep. I just lay there and think. Baseball and girls ominate my thoughts. Images of both keep criss-crossing in front of our bedroom ceiling, which is what I’m staring at. The guys will be going down tothe park soon. I’d better get up. If they choose up a game, I might miss out. Then again, the fields might be taken and we’ll hitting flies out on the grass outside of the fields. I can show up late for that. But, I’d better get moving. My brothers are stirring. We all share a bedroom. I’ve got the big bed. It just worked out that way. Maybe because I’m the oldest. John and Ed sleep in single beds against the wall. I sleep in a bigger bed in the middle of the bedroom. When the windows are open on a warm spring morning, the air from five stories
up flows over us like honey. It’s Saturday. Baseball for me, and who knows what John and Ed have up their sleeve. There’s always something to do. Hang out, go to the movies up at the movie theatre on Westchester Avenue, go down to the park by the waterfront, there’s plenty to do. Up and at ‘ em.
Ma, miraculously has breakfast ready by the time I come out of the bathroom. How’d she do it? She” senses” things in the apartment. Knows it’s pulse. Can tell exactly when something or the other is about to happen. Is always prepared. And Grandma does as much on another level that is has a deeper rhythm.
Grandma is the long range planner.’Mom is the tactical officer. Mom operationalizes daily things. Grandma works in the background setting overall
strategies. And Dad just works like hell trying to fund the whole magilla. It’s a pretty good team. I chug breakfast down, and I’m out. Sneakers are on and grab my glove. I can smell the spring smell as I go out into the hallway outside our apartment door. The super opened the hall windows and warm spring air is sweeping through the apartment house. Life is fantastic. Down the stairs. I never use the elevator going down. Two steps at a time and left hand on the banister and use the post on the bottom to swing and pick up angular momentum for the turn that will take me to the next set of stairs.The same thing again. Five flights. Then down the two or three steps to the lobby and out through the two doors to the street. The sun hits me as I hit the sidewalk It’s warm out. Perfect for baseball. The guys are probably around the corner, hanging out by Tony’s candy store. About 20 steps or so to the comer and there they are. Paulie, Miller, Charlie, Chick, and Jack are there already. Paulie and Miller are having a catch. Everybody is in T shirts. A few of the girls are there too. My cousin Mimi is there. She’s PauIie’s steady. There’s going to be a good crowd. The day is perfect. In about an hour or so a lot of guys show up and we head for the park Pelham Bay Park is only a few blocks away. It’s got two semi-pro fields that are kept in great shape. Once in a while we catch them empty and choose up sides. There’s enough of us today for a game, but the fields are aready taken. Big guys. No way we are going to chase them off. They’ll’ kill us. We pass the fields and go to the long stretch of grass by the stadium. A bunch of guys from somewhere else are playing” fast pitching in” against the stadium wall with spaldeens. No problem, where we play we’re not in their way. One of-the guys grabs a bat and the rest of us run out in the field. Flies are up. Catch a fly and you get a chance to hit the ball out. Also, if you pull in a grounder and the batter sets the bat down in front of him, you throw the ball on the ground toward the bat and if it hits the bat and bounces up in the air and the guy doesn’t catch the ball before it hits the ground again, you get up. So, there’s two ways to get up. Getting up is great because you get a chance to show how far you can hit the ball. The whole idea is to hit the ball over everyone’s head and back them up as much as possible, That way, their throws home are wimpy and they’ll probably miss the bat that you lay down. A few guys can really sock the ball. It’s not always a size thing. It’s a swing thing. Some guys can get a lot more bat to the ball than other guys can. But big arms do help, and some
of the guys who are working out are not only are having a good time just wearing T shirts in front of the girls, but are slamming the ball as well. Pays to
work out when warm spring mornings come around in the Bronx.
Some of the guys are hanging around talking with the girls who showed up. They play once in a while but take long breaks on the grass with the girls. Others,
like me, are confirmed 14 year old bachelors and play constantly. Not that we’d rather split our time like the others, but we have only connected bat-to-ball in
this life, and not lips-to-lips. We play till about 1 o’clock in the afternoon and it’s really getting hot. We’re all sweating and getting tired of what we’re doing.
Someone says he’s thirsty, and that’s it. We pack up and head for Tony’s candy store for egg creams or lime rickys. I go upstairs for lunch. Ma does it
again. Lunch is ready on cue. A quick sandwich and a glass of milk and I’m out again. I hear the guys downstairs in front of the candy store below our
livingroom window. I stick my head out and yell “Where we going this afternoon?” Someone says,” Up to the “pillbox”. That’s the name we use for the
Pilgram movie theatre up on the avenue. There’s a matinee that everyone wants to see. The “married” guys have their arms around their girls as we walk up
and talking about the morning. “Did ya’ see Paulies’ shot?” “Man, that ball was a mile up there. I could hardly see it, Or, “Jack spent the morning talking with the girls again.” “Said he hurt his finger and couldn’t swing” And it went on and on until we reached the movie.
We hit the movie in the middle of the show. Makes no difference to us. We just “married” guys make out over by the wall. Most of us though, just sit there and sound on the movie. Piss off the matron a couple of times and she almost kicks us out.
The walk back is through the lots on Crosby avenue. The movie was a swashbuckler and the lots have old foundation walls that we climb on and jump
off with the sticks that we picked up for swords. The movie is reenacted many times with new endings that favor our individual fantasies.
Home in time for supper. Perfect timing. My brothers are home too. Ma has supper on the table. It’s another miracle. The day has been great. Life is perfect. It will always be like this. But there’s that girl thing, and how come hitting the ball felt better than talking with the girls? What’s Jack know that I don’t? Heck of a choice. Baseball is better. Or is it?
Wonderful, “alive” account, Frank. I feel as though I spent that day with you. Great imagery. And it sends a very different message that many kids today will be unable to send when they’re older, i.e., “When I was a kid, I stayed inside and played video games on the internet with my friends.”
Also, check out Frank’s blog
https://lfyadda.com/frank-said-gpt-5-1-saidthe-quantum-collapse-of-cultural-meaning-on-antiques-roadshow/
I enjoyed reading these reminiscences. My childhood was much more solitary — inside reading most of the time. My mother was very protective and there were few girls in my neighborhood. I do remember my younger brother going out to play. Then, of course, there was the time he set the wooded lot down our street on fire!
My brother, who was a good kid, did something similar, Nancy. I was about four-years-old, and my brother was nine. I still see my dad sitting on a chair outside our burned down garage (with car inside) with my brother sobbing in his lap. My father was so nice to him. I wonder how many fathers would have had that reaction.
Having grown up on a Wisconsin farm in the 1940’s and 50’s, I can’t imagine how different my life had it been with today’s technology. Instead of walking in the woods with my dog, ice-skating on the pond, climbing apple trees, picking wildflowers, feeding the barn cats, catching fireflies at night …the list goes on and on, I’d be sitting in my bedroom with my phone and computer. Even with the addition of television into our home, we at least gathered together as a family to watch it. At the time, I didn’t appreciate my rural existence and envied my “townie” friends. I now feel so fortunate to have experienced this precious time in my life as it is a time lost forever.
That sounds like an idyllic childhood, Judy. You were so lucky. I do hope that farm kids today still get the chance to grow up like that.