Web-based social media like Facebook is wonderful even though it’s been heavily bashed recently. In fact, just a few days ago I was unexpectedly “discovered” by two mates from the past. I am getting ahead of myself so more about that later.
My wife and I participated in a group that uses many events from our individual pasts as key elements of the training. It was a very productive but challenging because I had such limited recollection of many past events in my life, especially my childhood. I never did figure out the reason and felt a bit embarrassed and even robbed. Fortunately, my wife who has known me since pre-adolescent days could jog my memory enough to make it through the training. (I wish I could have screened all she chose to remember.)
A few days ago, a whole new (old) area of my shrouded childhood reopened. What a delight! Two childhood playmates, sisters in fact, contacted me on Facebook. I could tell that they must be far removed from our childhood home because they both used the very non “rural Pennsylvanian” term “stream” for our old neighborhood “crick.” I am still not sure of their current whereabouts and details about their lives but it (re)opened a whole new vista in my recollections.
It’s as if they were used as two keys necessary to open a spillway of a dam in my mind. As I get older, I am increasingly nostalgic. However, this exploded as if someone started a Technicolor projector after endlessly sitting in a darken theater. Thoughts of idyllic barefoot summers—being outdoors “to play” from what seems virtually dawn to dusk; crayfish, toads, nests of baby bunnies, and Garter snakes; building endless forts; and also wading to build ingenious dams in the “crick.” I remember climbing Horse Chestnut trees and catching lightening bugs (fireflies) and playing Cowboys and Indians—even though there were only two boys in the neighborhood and I as the junior never got to be the Cowboy. Belching steam locomotives were gulping water from a big wooden water tank just across the road from our homes. And yes, there were hobos getting off the trains to request a meal from Mom well over a half a century ago.
Back then, most childhood names ended in “Y” with some variation from our given names—Johnny, Betsy, Bobby, Patsy. Not like the Ethan, Olivia, Logan, and Ava or some of the names today—these were different and now are considered “old fashioned.” I was the youngest (until a couple of sisters came along) and a devoted “follower.” One of the girls tells of her father wanting to oil my squeaky tricycle wheels but being rejected by my mother because “she liked being able to easily hear where I was.” There was little to break the bliss other than rain and temporary bumps and bruises which could be taken care of by the first available mother. Winters were limited by darkness but still very outdoor play-based with snow forts, sledding, skating, and snowballs. Wet clothes dried hanging by a coal stove in the kitchen.
Life was generally good until my talented male friend got heavily involved in baseball. I lacked his talent and spent a lot of time missing him even though he fought with me a lot. The only alternative were the girls I mentioned above along with their little sister. They weren’t into Cowboys and Indians at all. You guessed it—I was drafted to play “house” and all that goes with it. I was “Daddy” to countless baby dolls and thus the reference to mates at the beginning of the tale.
I moved away from our “boring” neighborhood when I was seventeen never to return for more than visits. You know, I never did become a Cowboy or an Indian (and certainly not a baseball player) when I grew up. However, I did become a proud husband and father. I haven’t gotten it “all right” by any stretch of my imagination. However, I am so grateful for all the “insignificant” factors that faded into the crevasses of my memory. What I was so eager both physically and mentally to move away from back then is priceless vintage hidden treasure today. Thank you, ladies, for being the keys to unlocking the treasure trove of small town neighborhood memories and heritage. Buried in there is the fertile soil that nurtured so many of my values. I am truly grateful to revisit such a wonderfully significant early chapter of my life.
