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Foggy Memories of Childhood Adventures
By Patti Pfeiffer
His response seemed rather odd. Upon informing my hubby of mosquito spraying occurring in our area that night he replied, "Do you want me to put air in my bicycle tires?"
Puzzled, I paused and pondered, attempting to correlate the seemingly unrelated items. Then it occurred to me -- he remembered my childhood story I shared so long ago.
I have no idea what we were thinking or what prompted such craziness yet it happened every time the steady B-R-R-R humming of the machine sounded. It was an alarm calling us into action. Immediately my brother Matt and I hopped on our bikes and chased after the vehicle dispelling a thick, white, eerie fog of poison intended to kill skeeters.
Those were the days, the good times. When being a kid brought adventures of the simple sort, of the outdoor kind. When a torrential rain delivered buckets of thrills: stomping through puddles, running barefoot in overflowing ditches.
And later when rain drops ceased we eagerly waited for construction to begin. It didn't take long for crawfish to build their pagoda-styled structures, a tail-tell sign signaling opportunity. Before construction was complete, we'd rob the refrigerator of bacon, gather twine and began fishing for crawfish.
Big ole mudbugs found pork an irresponsible rare treat. Within seconds there would be a tugging, triggering a recoil of twine. Carefully pulled to the surface there would be our prized catch, long skinny antennas wiggling, eyes bulging and pinchers forcefully clamped down on their delicacy. We always freed our captured crustaceans. It was, after all, the thrill of the catch.
Weekends brought night escapades -- catching lightning bugs, playing kick-the-can and occasionally the delinquent activity of wrapping a teacher's house with toilet paper.
Days ushered in crack-the-whip, backyard football and baseball games. We rode bikes without helmets. Being street smart, crossing guards had yet to be invented.
Firework season caused street warfare. Garbage can lids were our shields; bottle rocks our ammo. Dirt clod fights were friendly exchange.
Favorite events were slumber parties, outings to roller- and ice-skating rinks.
The driveway was for hopscotch and jumping rope. The grassy front yard for practicing cheers, cartwheels and backbends. The side yard for making a monorail, building tree houses, forts and rope swings.
There were weekly competitions to determine who among us could stand on our head the longest.
Catching a grass snake was the ultimate. A mason jar filled with sand the perfect window into the red ant world. Antknapping a bunch we'd relocate the insects into the jar, sprinkle sugar and watch the worker ants for hours designing and digging intricate tunnels.
My most-unique fashion accessory was a chameleon, jaws latched on my earlobe. Changing colors from green to brown it matched with several outfits. Of course that dangling trinket was complimented with my prized mood ring.
A playing card, attached with a clothespin clanking against bike spokes made us peddle harder, go faster. Mom's good bath towels were made especially for Batman capes.
Tin cans were multi-purpose: Life-sized and string attached stepping on top we'd master walking on metal miniature stilts. Several linked via long line, they became walkie-talkies.
Climbing trees was second nature. Hanging on monkey vines was good for a fall or two and/or bloodied and bruised arms.
A daring feat consisted of ringing a doorbell and running. A big chore was assisting dad while he climbed the ladder and hung Christmas lights, cussing all the while.
Watching television on the weekend resulted in the same charge, "Turn that darn boob tube off and go outside and play," Dad bellowed.
Mowing yards meant allowance. It wasn't optional, hired-out or open for discussion. Collecting bottles and cashing them in provided change for purchasing candy cigarettes.
Afternoons of picking dewberries were rewarded with homemade-from-scratch pies. Weekend getaways were often family trips to Galveston and crabbing expeditions.
Dodge ball was the ultimate PE activity and a most-favored game.
Soft drinks were allowed in school only one day a year, during that highly-anticipated Play Day.
The best tasting, most refreshing drink came not from a plastic bottle but out of a rubber water hose.
Oh life was so much simpler and wholesome back then. We survived, thrived and learned to be creative. Little things often led to the biggest and the best.
Patti Pfeiffer is a Star Local News columnist, freelance writer and author. She may be contacted at pattip913@msn.com
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