Freedom: Being A Kid In America In The 1950's

Beware the Jaberwock....my beamish boy, The jaws that bite, the claws that catch...L. Carroll, The Jaberwocky

In 1955, at the age of three…I ran away from home. I stamped my foot and told my mother that I was leaving and she’d be sorry. It escapes me, all these years later what had caused this fit of Tom Sawyer-ish pique, but I’d had it, and planned to go somewhere I’d be appreciated. (It just dawned on me- 68 year old memories can come in bits and pieces-mom had told me to take a nap, something I usually fought like the dickens, and felt was very unfair.) I wasn’t quite prepared for what she did next.

Packed me a lunch, she did, and suggested I leave soon as it was close to be noon, and if I was going to get far away, I didn’t want to be tied up in traffic. At three, I wasn’t totally sure what traffic was, but mom’s tone suggested avoiding it was the right thing to do. A ripple of doubt about the advisability of leaving at all crossed my mind as we walked to the door. This was too easy. There had to be a catch. Surely she would say that she was sorry and ask me to stay. But she didn’t. Rather, she kissed me on the top of the head, and told me to call her periodically and let her know how I was doing. I remember tears starting to flow as I climbed aboard my trike and pedaled down the walk. I made it about three blocks before I turned around, and pedaled home collapsing into her arms in sobs of three year old relief. I was then, of course, ready for a nap. Mom had won and taught me a lesson about not going off half cocked, that’s stayed with me all my life.

I started this note with that snippet to establish that I had a crazy-in modern terms, amount of freedom as a kid. I can’t imagine parents of today’s impish tykes, allowing their child out the front door without supervision. It is a different world than the one in which I began my journey. Terrors real-mostly real, and imagined lurk around every corner for parents, and constant vigilance is required to ensure a kid’s safety. The daily news tells them this. But, it’s a zero-sum game, when something is gained, something else must be lost. Freedom to explore the world on your own with a young mind, in this case.

When I was six, my dad, tired of me “nickel and diming” him for odds and ends, bought me a thousand balloons and showed me how to make animals of them. He then told me to go door to door selling them if I wanted money for candy or toy soldiers. And, I did. Knocking on doors after school, I managed to make a nuisance of myself throughout the nearby streets, and occasionally made a sale. Sometimes I didn’t get home until dinner time. No one was worried or upset that I’d been out roaming the streets as a peddler. The police had not been called. No search parties were combing the woods and fields for my body. It was just 1959, and people didn’t worry about absent kids-if they weren’t out too long after dark. A year earlier I’d stayed out with friends until about 9 P.M. and we were all in trouble. Big trouble. So there were some limits.

Another memory in the same era is of my mom occasionally dropping me off at an afternoon theatre matinee, alone. 50 cents, bought my admission and sugary treats, and I sat contentedly in the dark and watched the movie. Mom picked me up after the show, and took me home.

At age eight, I had a lawn cutting business. Fifty cents for just the front, a buck if you wanted the back done. I would haul my mower-technically my dad’s mower, down the street banging on doors, and like with the balloons, I occasionally made a sale.

One more and I’ll stop. At eleven I had a paper route. Living in Maryland in a neighborhood of low-rise apartments, I threw the now-defunct Washington Star, in the afternoons and got up early on Sunday to rubberband, and deliver the morning paper. Evenings were for collection, and I would go out after dinner and try and get people to pay their tab. You would be shocked to know how often people stiffed an eleven year old kid. I also did door-to-door sales work in the evenings with my manager’s crew trying to get people to subscribe to the Star. Afterward, he would take us to a Dairy Queen for a treat before bringing us back to the muster point. I would then walk home, alone in the dark. It was usually 8:30 or 9:00 by this time of night, and my parents were watching TV and acknowledged my safe arrival with a perfunctory nod, and a command to get out of the way of the TV and to, “get to bed.”

I could go on with these youthful experiences, but my purpose here is not to bore you with the trivial days of my childhood, but to illustrate how different the world is now. None of the experiences I’ve mentioned would be remotely possible in today’s world. The Jaberwocky is around every corner, and parents shield their kids for their safety and their own peace of mind. When I see the regimented lives kids lead these days, being chauffeured here and there with a parent, a teacher or a coach constantly in attendance, I do think something has been lost along the way.

Independence might say it as well as it can be said. I’ve lived a very independent life and I think my early years contributed to that.

Thanks for reading. Cheers, Dave