In the summer of 1968, when I was 7 1/2 years old and my brother Kenny was 5, we moved from Racine, Wisconsin to Rock Island, Illinois.
I HATED Rock Island. Everything was wrong! Different brands pf milk, bread, and even ice cream! Different tv channels! A different afternoon cartoon show host!
Plus Rock Iland wasn't even an island! And Illinois -- hat kind of a dumb name was Ill-a-Noise?
Plus, back in Racine, there were kids to play with everywhere, but Ill-a-Noise was a wasteland.
Our new house was on a street that dead ended in the parking lot of Denkmann School. No kids around during the summertime.
We weren't allowed to cross 20th Avenue, on the north side, by ourselves (I finally got permission when I turned 8).
The house next door was occupied by Mike, too young for either of us to play with. Then a vacant lot (there's another house now).
There were three houses on the other side of the street, occupied by (from south to north):
1. Joyce, a middle-aged lady in Capri pants and a beehive haircut.
2. A "you kids get off my lawn!" old guy.
3.A boy!
He sat at that window on the left (no bushes then), which probably led to a living room: a cute brown-haired boy in white pajamas with the Flintstones on them, looking out, watching us curiously, but not smiling or gesturing.
A little odd, but who cared? He was someone to play with!
I started toward the front door, to ask if he could come out to play.
Then my brother grabbed my shoulder. "I get him, not you."
"Back off. He's obviously in third grade, like me." You could only play with kids your own age -- even a year difference was too much.
"You're crazy!" Kenny exclaimed. "He's not a doddering old third grade geezer like you. He's young, strong, vibrant, obviously in kindergarten." (This dialogue is all invented, so it might not be age-accurate.)
"I admit that it's hard to tell through a window. Tell you what -- we'll try out our best stuff. The one who gets a reaction first can ask to play with him."
The contest to impress the cute Boy was on.
Figuring that the Boy must prefer indoor activities, I walked past with a pile of comic books, while the Boy watched. Kenny pulled a red wagon with our new puppy riding inside.
No fair to use dogs as props!
Ok, the Boy was inside, not outside, so maybe he preferred indoor activities.
I walked past with a pile of cartoon kits (you affixed plastic cutouts of characters from a tv show onto a board representing the set, thereby acting out scenes). The Boy moved away from the window.
Kenny brought his Tarzan Bop Bag (you punch it, and it pops back up.) The Boy returned.
Action, and muscles! That was fighting dirty!
Well, if the Boy wanted muscles, he would get muscles. I took off my shirt and flexed like a bodybuilder. Play with me, and you'll get some of this!
(I actually didn't have much of a physique at age 7 1/2, but I thought I did.)
Kenny turned a cartwheel. Muscular and agile!
The Boy clapped.
Grr.
"Ok, you win," I told Kenny. "Go claim your prize."
I waited on the sidewalk while Kenny walked to the front door and knocked. A middle-aged lady answered. They talked for a few moments, and then he returned to me.
"Well, is he coming out?" I asked impatiently. At least I could see the cute boy.
"No," Kenny said.
"What?" I saw the lady still standing in the doorway. "Aren't you going in to play?"
"No. Danny has chicken pox. The house is quarantined."
All that work for nothing! I couldn't help being a little mad at the Boy, as if he had been deliberately leading us on.
"Why is his mother still waiting like that?"
"Oh, right. I promised that you would lend him your comic books and cartoon kits."
Later I discovered that Danny was in fourth grade, too old for either of us.
No nude photos to illustrate a story about young kids,but here's one of an older guy to tide you over.
Plus, back in Racine, there were kids to play with everywhere, but Ill-a-Noise was a wasteland.
We weren't allowed to cross 20th Avenue, on the north side, by ourselves (I finally got permission when I turned 8).
The house next door was occupied by Mike, too young for either of us to play with. Then a vacant lot (there's another house now).
1. Joyce, a middle-aged lady in Capri pants and a beehive haircut.
2. A "you kids get off my lawn!" old guy.
3.A boy!
He sat at that window on the left (no bushes then), which probably led to a living room: a cute brown-haired boy in white pajamas with the Flintstones on them, looking out, watching us curiously, but not smiling or gesturing.
A little odd, but who cared? He was someone to play with!
I started toward the front door, to ask if he could come out to play.
Then my brother grabbed my shoulder. "I get him, not you."
"Back off. He's obviously in third grade, like me." You could only play with kids your own age -- even a year difference was too much.
"You're crazy!" Kenny exclaimed. "He's not a doddering old third grade geezer like you. He's young, strong, vibrant, obviously in kindergarten." (This dialogue is all invented, so it might not be age-accurate.)
"I admit that it's hard to tell through a window. Tell you what -- we'll try out our best stuff. The one who gets a reaction first can ask to play with him."
The contest to impress the cute Boy was on.
Figuring that the Boy must prefer indoor activities, I walked past with a pile of comic books, while the Boy watched. Kenny pulled a red wagon with our new puppy riding inside.
No fair to use dogs as props!
Ok, the Boy was inside, not outside, so maybe he preferred indoor activities.I walked past with a pile of cartoon kits (you affixed plastic cutouts of characters from a tv show onto a board representing the set, thereby acting out scenes). The Boy moved away from the window.
Kenny brought his Tarzan Bop Bag (you punch it, and it pops back up.) The Boy returned.
Action, and muscles! That was fighting dirty!
Well, if the Boy wanted muscles, he would get muscles. I took off my shirt and flexed like a bodybuilder. Play with me, and you'll get some of this!
(I actually didn't have much of a physique at age 7 1/2, but I thought I did.)
Kenny turned a cartwheel. Muscular and agile!
The Boy clapped.
Grr.
"Ok, you win," I told Kenny. "Go claim your prize."
I waited on the sidewalk while Kenny walked to the front door and knocked. A middle-aged lady answered. They talked for a few moments, and then he returned to me.
"Well, is he coming out?" I asked impatiently. At least I could see the cute boy.
"No," Kenny said.
"What?" I saw the lady still standing in the doorway. "Aren't you going in to play?"
"No. Danny has chicken pox. The house is quarantined."
All that work for nothing! I couldn't help being a little mad at the Boy, as if he had been deliberately leading us on.
"Why is his mother still waiting like that?"
Later I discovered that Danny was in fourth grade, too old for either of us.
No nude photos to illustrate a story about young kids,but here's one of an older guy to tide you over.
Oh, this reminds me of when I was 7 and had chickenpox. Pockmarks everywhere. (Even one under my foreskin for added discomfort.) Fever was the worst. So, basically I was wearing just an oversized A-shirt, bedridden, fans on me full blast, only coming out for food and water. Lots of water.
ReplyDeleteThat was 1990, so a few years before the vaccine. Suffice it to say, antivaxxers make me go berserk.
I must have had chicken pox -- it was included with measles and mumps as the standard childhood diseases that everyone was supposed to get. But I don't remember any details.
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