I was having a conversation with my grandson while driving around our farm in a four wheel ATV. He was tolerating my running commentary on all the things I thought he should know, but whenever he could, he would continue reading the book he’d brought along. I asked, “what’s that book about”, and he replied, “lots of stuff”. I glanced furtively at the title and probed him further. “Yeah, I’ve seen that book around. “What’s the most interesting thing you’ve read?” He grimaced at having to continue this conversation, but replied tolerantly, “I rather liked the Ten Commandments, but I’m not sure that I agree with them all.” I pushed a little further, “what is it that you don’t agree with?” “Well”, he said, “ one of the commandments said that you have to like only one god.” Now he had my curiosity aroar. “What’s wrong with that”, I asked. He scratched his head for a minute, turned his eyes upward and opined, “well, I kind of like Zeus and Mars and some of the others too. It seems to me that having lots of gods rather than one would be better.” I could not think of anything to say that could add to the conversation at that moment
Granted, he’s an unusual kid, but then again how many eight year olds would even be reading The Dangerous Book for Boys. The drift of this, some would say, gender biased book, is that in this age of modernity, boys no longer are drawn to the things of our own childhood. They no longer are interested in building a tree house, or catching a horned toad. Their parents will no longer allow them the joy of creating a secret hideout in the nearby woods, and their father certainly can’t help them make their own kite. The subtext is that by removing freedom of action and thought, we’ve created generations of safer, saner, and probably blander kids. Certainly they are products of different experiences. We have, therefore, removed a little bit of danger and joy from their lives.
As I look back through the decades to my own boyhood (which I freely admit may not be typical of anything) I recall, more than anything else, having to create my own experiences. Let me offer an example. Although baseball no longer holds quite the place it once did in the lives of 8-12 year old boys, there is still the organized father coached tee ball, graduating into some form of Little League with paid umpires and often paid coaches, private tutoring, mother organized car pools, select traveling teams, fifty team weekend tournaments, paid summer camps run by worn out ex-pros…..well you get the idea. Yes, I had Little League too, but I rode my bike to practice, played two games per week if we were lucky and the weather permitted. But what I really remember were my imaginary games played most afternoons, bouncing a much scuffed and taped ball off the front steps of our house. These were nine inning affairs, full teams and plenty of action. Yankees vs. the White Sox every day. The Yankees almost always won unless Nellie Fox or Luis Aparacio had particularly heroic days. On the rare rain out days, I listened to Mutual Broadcasting “Major League Game of the Day”, and if I was lucky, I could fill out both lineups from my shoe boxes of baseball cards. No adults need apply. No X Boxes needed.
For real danger though there was our periodic goat head races. Not that they were organized or planned. It generally derived from a group argument about who could get across the playground the fastest…barefoot. It might not seem like much now that we are used to the lush bermuda or St. Augustine grass parks filled with ergonomically designed, safety assured playground equipment. But then, the only thing our playground had in abundance was grass burrs, weeds and goat head stickers. The object of this very manly contest was to make one’s way across the field faster then anyone without stepping on and being crippled by the ferocious, and some said poisonous, goat heads stickers. This contest, you can see, required no equipment, little organization, no entry fees, and no coaching,(except for the peanut gallery shouting directions from the sidelines). Ok, I know this sounds a little lame, but if you had ever stepped full force on a goat head, and had it impale your heel, you would get the drift. Needless to say this was a parent free activity.
I’m continually amazed at the number of wheeled vehicles each of my grandchildren and their contemporaries accumulates. Each a product of endless engineering, product marketing and finally, organized competition. Think of it, skate boards, scooters (motorized and otherwise) of all types, off road bikes, on road bikes, racing bikes, in line skates, heelies, etc, etc, etc. All parentally supervised of course….”don’t get off the side walk, yada, yada, yada.” I had two things with wheels, not counting my much used American Flyer wagon which I used to collect coat hangers in the neighborhood. I had my stripped down, hand painted (black of course) Schwinn that was my primary mode of transportation, and a home built scooter built from discarded roller skate wheels and scrap lumber by my older cousin, Sonny. The bike was a necessary but not sufficient element of membership in the Black Cobras, which my neighborhood pal, Richard, and I oversaw with the rigor of 32nd degree Masons screening out prospective acolytes. In addition to the bike, suitably stripped and painted, one needed a certain J’ne sais quoi to be considered for membership in the Cobras. That and a reckless attitude about curb jumping and flying down St. Mary’s hill with little regard for life or limb.
My point is this. I don’t think the authors of The Dangerous Book for Boys got it right. It’s not so much the absence of danger in what boys do today versus what they did then, it’s the presence of imagination in what we did then. Our activities weren’t pre-packaged, engineered, and sanitized. They were most often spontaneous, barely organized, and created out of whatever was around us at the moment. They were childish, inexpensive, sometimes dangerous, seldom harmful, and almost always fun. I freely admit that they are not to be replicated today. We’ve moved on to a different place. There are more exogenous dangers to be dealt with, technology has created what we could not, and our lives are more rushed….and yes, perhaps we achieve more at an earlier age. But I’m nevertheless wistful about the past, and I would like for my grandsons (and granddaughters) to know some of the simple, foolish, dangerous pleasures that I knew.
As a parent and grandparent there is nothing so dear to me as the physical and mental safety of my get. That will always be my first priority, but a close second will be for me to allow and to encourage them to think and act on their own. As my father-in-law once said in talking about raising children, “there’s a lot to be said for loving them a lot, and leaving them alone”.
