Nostalgia Season
As if Christmas season weren’t enough to bring on the nostalgia, I’ve been nudged back into “small kid time” by two recent requests. My sister is compiling a collection of memories of our parents from each of the six siblings. And the daughter-in-law of my cousin requested a short essay along similar lines.
I can’t say for certain whether time has added a patina to history, whether I’m looking back through rose-colored glasses, or if we really did have an idyllic childhood. I only know that being a kid in the fifties suited me perfectly. We lived in the middle stretch of a dead-end street anchored by our elementary school at the bottom and my grandparents’ house at the entrance. Two sets of aunts and uncles lived in the neighborhood. Over the years, what had been an apple orchard eventually turned into a totally populated street, and we were there to see the construction. Oh, the glorious mounds of dirt! The heavy equipment! We marched as armies up the hills and into the foundations cum foxholes. We played hide-and-seek through the framed shells of future neighbors’ abodes. In small packs we migrated from house to house, going home for meals and bedtime.
As we got older, the borders of our neighborhood expanded. We rode our bikes to friends' houses and walked to junior high and high school, both a decent haul. (This is where my kids will roll their eyes and say, “Yeah, Mom. The character-building thing.) So I have to add a disclaimer here and say that this was Utah and it snowed, so of course parents would give us a lift occasionally.
The thought that sticks with me is the freedom we felt because of the relative safety of both the neighborhood and the era. As long as the parents knew where we were and with whom, we were free to come and go. Adults didn’t intrude into the world of childhood. We weren’t scheduled with an abundance of activities, yet we never lacked for things to do. If moms and dads worried about their kids getting snatched by strangers, they didn’t convey that to us. The usual hazards of scrapes and bruises and occasional broken bones happened. Stuff does. Nowadays when I buckle on a helmet to bike or ski, I wonder how any of us made it to adulthood intact.
Our situation wasn’t unique. When talking to peers, the stories are similar all over the country. One grew up in urban Chicago, another in plantation Hawaii. Cars and front doors were left unlocked. Kids had room to roam, responsibilities, and aspirations of becoming anything they set their hearts and minds to achieving.
If there’s a wish for the New Year, it would be to give that sense of security to the current generation of children everywhere. Mid-eastern children shouldn’t have to worry about being bombed in the marketplace or their own homes. African kids should be called in for dinner and know there will be food on the table. And Americans growing up in the land of plenty should be able to run and play and live without fear in those precious early years.
