Childhoods Lost

[fringe_elemental]

In light of what’s been going on in clown world lately, I’m of a mood to wax nostalgic for a little while.
What triggered it for me was the battle over children wearing masks in school and how it troubles me that their lives are being stolen out from under them. I see them masked in the few stores that I still frequent and I think that they could just as easily have been my grandchildren and it breaks my heart.
In a week I will be 55 years old and I never saw this coming. And during the time that I will be writing about I couldn’t have even pictured myself at 30!

My Grandmother died when I was 8 years old and that’s when I turned into a little boy.
And NO, this is not a shout out to the gender dysphoria crowd, not at all.
I don’t really remember life as it was when she was there...all I can remember of that time is being forced to wear the cute little dresses that she made and walking the short distance to the elementary school in winter with my little bare legs feeling the cold and wearing shoes that didn’t keep my feet warm.

I then became what used to be called a tomboy. Remember those?

Maybe it was in my heart all along and I was free to be who my mother let me be, to do all of the wonderful things that are meant to make children strong and build healthy immune systems.

Of course I got sick-we all did, we still do and always will (although it no longer seems to be allowed).

I made mud pies. I caught salamanders, snakes, crayfish and tadpoles. I played in piles of autumn leaves with shear joy. I even got bumped by a car once while running across the street….I recovered my balance and continued on my way without a second thought, no doubt leaving behind a stunned driver.

I played in the snow. All day. With my jacket hanging open. With my pants crusted up to the knees, I would come in only to change my shoes, put the ice crusted ones under the radiator, check the plastic bread bags that I wore to keep the layers of socks dry and go back out again to continue riding an old wooden sled with questionable steering and metal runners face first down a curving alleyway.

I went on day hikes with my best friend Michael without the paranoid micromanaging ministrations of today’s modern mothers. We made friends with other people’s dogs and horses and turned over rocks in shallow creeks in search of things to catch.

I knew my neighborhood like the back of my hand, knew where all of the good rhubarb patches were so that I could sneak a quick snack, break off the leaf and eat it while on the go.

We played in the streets until well after dark. We raced our bikes full speed around a blind curve at the end of Sherman Avenue.

In the summer time it was a special event to sleep out on the porch, riding our small mattresses down the stairs with glee. For we knew that we would then go roaming the sleeping neighborhood in our pajamas in the middle of the night!

We celebrated real holidays. Moms crafted makeshift costumes of clowns or ghosts or pumpkins and we went out into a night full of promise with our bags, unescorted. We ran through the streets chasing each other between the cars and houses and only wanted to come home so that we could pour our loot out onto the living room floor and run our fingers through it’s riches.

In our small town some homeowners would make lanterns out of cut off milk jugs and set small candles inside them to light their sidewalks for Christmas. My sister and I would always sneak a few and light them in our bedrooms on Christmas Eve in an attempt to stay awake until the morning. It never worked!

And now it saddens me to think of the children who will never experience the magic of childhood, hidden behind their masks.
My childhood was far from idyllic, I have just chosen to hold the magical memories closer to my heart than the negative ones. And these I’ve shared are but a few.

Can you see the snow falling through the light of the streetlamps on a quiet western Pennsylvania night when you are staring down at a phone, texting a “friend” on social media?

Can you race locomotives on a hand me down bicycle (and sometimes win) while sitting on the couch, staring at a screen, gaming for hours?

Can you defend your best friend with flying little fists when you have had enough of seeing him get picked on by a neighborhood bully or are you clattering away on a keyboard insulting strangers whom you will never meet?

Writing these last few paragraphs has made me cry and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m so grateful for these memories or am feeling the emptiness of those who will never experience them.

Colleen

PS Can't seem to get the picture sharing thing yet. Can't say I'm crazy about this format.