They Will Never Know
One of the strangest bit truest phrases that was stated this last weekend when we gathered for about the 38th time for the Good Ole Boys of Leighton reunion at Sawgrass Plantation was this: “Nobody had it better than we did growing up with friends closer than brothers. It’s sad however, that our grandkids will never know what it was like to grow up like we did.”
Profound and to the point.
Growing up in the fifties and sixties was special. We were Mayberry before Mayberry. Sometimes, I think the producer, Danny Thomas, slipped into Leighton unannounced, turned at THE redlight and found his hit show. It’s awfully ironic that so many of our crew, donate their time, skills and money for the St. Jude Trail Ride held in July. Of course, St. Jude Children Hospital was founded by Danny Thomas with a pledge to eradicate childhood cancer in our lifetime.
What will they Never know? How about:
Pulling a Coke (every soft drink was a Coke) from the ice water and chipped ice in the cooler near the front door of the general store. They were cold enough to crack your molars. Busting a watermelon on a chert rock in the garden and scooping out the heart with one hand and sprinkling salt from Momma’s stolen saltshaker with the other one.
Slipping on a new pair of Chuck’s (Converse All-Stars) and listening to that squeaking sound as the rubber soles hit the hardwood. New shoes on a clean floor were pure magic. Slick shoes (Buddies or Pies) on a dirty floor meant busted tailbones and teeth.
Having your date slide across the bench seat covered in plastic and give you a peck on the cheek. The sparks would fly. Not love sparks but static electricity. Our grandkids would have to Google a bench seat to even know what we are talking about. They could never comprehend a pillow between the bucket seats, next to the gear shift for 4-in-the- floor.
Drinking Tennessee River water at the point after football practice during football camp. You drank upstream from the players bathing with Ivory soap. Ask any football camp veteran and they will go into detail about sitting on the rocks and mussels, too tired to stand up and slurping handfuls of water. As far as I know, nobody died from drinking from the river. A few thought they were going to die but that was from the 3-hour practice on Bitterweed Hill in triple digit temperatures with the August humidity in the nineties.
Eating a couple of Leon cheeseburgers under a hay truck and washing it down with an RC Cola. Leon Chapman, owner, cook and waiter at the Sandwich Shop in Leighton was the originator of the “smash burger.” He could take a pound of ground beef and magically turn it into 8 burgers like those served at the Last Supper. Somebody recently said that you could hold the meat up and read a newspaper through it. Yes, they were thin.
Been to a donkey basketball game in the old gym. As a fundraiser, a promoter brought 10 donkeys, fitted with rubber soled shoes. Five players on donkeys per side. The “players” were local boosters, teachers, coaches and idiots who tried to ride a donkey while passing and shooting a basketball. To “encourage “the 4-legged asses (not the 2-legged one’s riding) to move along, the promoter/referee used a “hotstick.” This was more than 50 years ago, before animal rights groups pitched a fit.
Been in a circle of designated “blowers” to cool off the iodine that mommas put on scrapes and cuts. The equivalent was Merthiolate which could also be called “liquid h*ll. When the red stuff hit the raw meat, everybody was supposed to blow really hard to cool it off. Naturally, one clown in the group would get everybody tickled and the victim’s tears would flow.
Every medicine cabinet had these two cure-alls. Aerosol cans hadn’t been invented yet, so the small glass dauber was dragged across the bloody area. Knees, elbows and shins were primary spots for the scrapes.
No bike restrictions and streetlight curfew. The 2 means of transportation were walking and bicycles. If someone’s mom drove him to a play area, he would be doomed for a lifetime of ridicule and NEVER chosen in. I can’t ever remember restrictions on where we could ride. LaGrange Mountain. Side yards for touch football. The football field. The old gym. The Dixie Dip. R and T Service Station. Leon’s. Baptist Street.
If our parents ever needed to locate us, they would call around using the landline or ride around town looking for a dozen bikes in a pile. The only restriction? When the streetlights came on, you had less that 10 minutes to be home. It didn’t matter if you were one point away from finishing the game, supper was ready.
Other things they will never know?
Sitting on the top of a hand cranked ice cream churn. Playing kick the-can. Powderpuff football game. Sadie Hawkins dance. Soaping windows on Halloween. Stomping cotton. Sitting at the kitchen table licking S&H Green Stamps. Getting “clothes lined” by an actual clothesline. Turning the aluminum TV antennae to get a better signal.
Calling the radio station to say either “Keep it” or “Can it.” Feeling the tingling for minutes after the broken Louisville Slugger baseball bat which was “fixed” with tacks and electric tape, fouls one off the end of the bat.
Far too many people claim that Baby Boomers exaggerate their growing up days.
Wrong I-pad breath.
We “made-do” by creating lifetime memories.
Gotta go.
The streetlight just came on.