Fond memories of yesteryear recalled
When I was a child, school buses transported country kids. The less well-to-do kids in town walked to school. I lived in a sleepy little Illinois farm community and my parents were far from well-to-do. Since the grade school was on the south side of town, I had at least a half-hour walk to and from school each day.
A half hour that is, assuming I did not encounter friends playing hooky, friendly puppy dogs or playground equipment and trees begging to be climbed.
Were parents to allow their child to attempt such daily trips today, they most certainly would be reported to the authorities for child neglect and perhaps rightly so.
Today, I live in a small, peaceful patch town which, by comparison to larger communities in our fair land, is possibly a safe place for children to meander about unsupervised. Though this is probably true, I noticed at the conclusion of a recent visit to a neighbor’s house that they had placed a device on their door knob to prevent their three-year-old boy from exiting the house without being accompanied by one of his parents. Since this house is situated on the end of a street, traffic is probably not the issue. Sadly, I need not explain the concerns of today’s parents.
Last Sunday, I met the driver of a community ice cream truck, like the ones we often hear playing music so children gather to buy frozen snacks. This driver introduced himself as “the good driver, not the bad one.” I had not heard about the “bad one.” Did not want to hear, either. This is not the country of my childhood.
When I was a child, the large church in the center of town used to peal out Christian hymns from its bell tower. Every hour, I would hear a different hymn followed by the appropriate number of strokes for the hour. By this, I knew when I had to leave the creek or a playmate’s house and head for home. What is a beloved memory of my childhood would be today a nuisance to some and a lawsuit in the making to others. Where have we hidden the God of my childhood?
Gone are the Friday night movies projected on a sheet hung on the wall of the Three Corners Country Store where we would spread our blankets, snuggle, and swat mosquitoes. Mrs. Smith’s tiny metal hut, where we Pearl Street kids would go to buy sweets with our allowance, is now a corner of the giant parking lot of a Super Wal-Mart. Where are those tiny chewy wax Coca Cola bottles containing colored sugar water that Mrs. Smith sold us for 2 cents each? Just a memory!
I can remember a time that because knives and guns never showed up at school, there was no need for metal detectors. A teenager’s precious Barlow knife ( I still have mine) remained folded in his jeans pocket waiting for the time when finger nails needed cleaning or fishing line needed shortened. Knives never knew blood except for a careless owner’s mishap.
A gang was a summer time bunch of youngsters headed to the gravel pits for a swim or to a vacant lot to play ball. A “bad boy” was one who sneaked a cigarette from his dad and smoked it behind the garage. Discipline was spanking not a “time out.” There were daily chores to do. And when we messed up, either at school, Sunday school, or out in the community, Mom knew it before we got home.
Some things are better now. We whipped polio and thank God for spell check on the PC. Remarkably, we can put a whole library on a tiny thumb drive. Still, what happened to the good things we remember? I blame Sunday School teachers. They packed up and left. Or perhaps it is the other way around – we left them.
Seriously, more time with Sunday School teachers may not bring back chewy wax treats, but a good Sunday School teacher can put both the fear and love of God in us. No telling what great things will return to us if we put more God in America.
DeWitt Clinton is a minister from Dunbar.