Boy’s Life

Growing up in the 50’s in some ways was probably like growing up during any decade but in other ways it was very unique. I assume that things happening to me occurred to most 8 year olds…10 year olds…12 year olds. The progression towards independence was shaped by an understanding that things were good and going to get even better. Apart from the bomb shelters, duck and cover drills at school and the Dodgers moving to Los Angeles…I felt safe. As I look back I remember that most things that happened…happened outside.

Outside was where your friends were. Outside was where your parents weren’t. Any non-school day started by getting up and getting out. I would grab a BB gun and my baseball glove (and anything else I might use) to avoid coming back inside. Coming back inside almost always had unwelcome consequences. Mom (or worse, Dad) would assign chores, suggest grooming needs or clothing choices…all of which could wreak your day.

Outside was where your bike lived and waited on you for the next adventure. Your bike was a ticket to things out of reach otherwise. Going from home to the VFW swimming pool on North 1st or the Paramount Theater…even farther… was only possible because of the bike. The bike expanded your world to include McMurry College campus where the “college girls” dashed between classes. A 20 minute bike ride got you to Kirby Lake and lazy days waiting for the carp to bite. Your baseball glove would slip on to the handle bars and 15 minutes of peddling would get you to Dixie Little League ballpark. There the “Thompson Drillers” become the center of the universe for an hour and a half …and then back home in the dark. Then it was dark….

Now dark and outside is a hard combination to beat. Usually ditching the bike…most things were done on foot. Games like “hide and seek” or “tag” required running between the houses and was best at night. While most of my activities during the day were with the guys….everyone was welcome at night. Even my sister participated. Our yard without a fence was a great base for most activities. Consequently the lawn suffered greatly from tennis shoes, baseball cleats and even bare feet. The hard packed orange dirt only had grass around it’s parameter…something my Dad pointed out regularly. Home was in the middle of the block so a half block away from street lights….just the right amount of darkness. These last few moments of outside had to be extended as much as possible only ending when you heard…”this is the LAST time I’m calling you”. Only then surrendering to “life inside”. A bath, maybe a little television and then reading till the lights were turned out. Sometimes if there were good batteries in the flashlight … another 20 minutes.

During these years (most of the 50s) I had a subscription to the magazine “Boys Life”. For those unfamiliar, that is a publication for Cub Scouts and revolves around activities and products of interest to prepubescent boys. At a subscription rate of $3 per year it was an extravagance but such a great investment. I read every page…every article…every ad. Especially the ads. But it was the inside of the back cover that held the greatest interest for me. “Think & Grin” a page completely full of jokes. Jokes that young boys found funny. Hilarious even.

I would not have to memorize the jokes … they were so funny … how could I forget them. And then I would tell them. To family, friends, classmates and teachers. In any conversation I would find a way to work in “Did you hear about the…?”. Being armed with these most wonderful icebreakers I would go about my day and sometimes go up to strangers and, without any other explanation, just tell them a joke. I had an uncle, my dad’s brother, who I could almost make wet his pants from laughter. Uncle Roy was by far my best audience. But enough of my efforts with strangers resulted in smiles, laughter and good vibes it forever changed how I view those around me.

After all, who wouldn’t laugh at a joke like this….

Lady: Is there a smarter clerk to help me? Clerk: No Mam. The smarter clerks saw you coming.