Playin’ Hard Was
Tough Back Then But …

When I wuz a kid, to hear mom tell it, she was scared of taking me to the emergency room at the local hospital. I was there so frequently, she was afraid the hospital staff would think she was abusing me. Nothing could be further from the truth. We did get to know a few of the nurses and doctors on a first name basis though.

Seemed like every other week we were headed there. Back then, kids was different. We grew up with a sense of adventure and had a penchant for performing daredevil stunts. Be it a dare, challenge or some idiotic idea, we were always busy planning our next antic. Putting ourselves at risk was fun. Heck, that’s just how it was. Evil Knievel had super-hero status in those days. Remember him?

We were taught the sky was the limit, meaning there was no limit, at least to our way of thinking. We could soar like an eagle, if we just took risks and chances. Speaking of soaring like an eagle, that was one of my first trips to the ER.

The Perfect Parachute

Being a tail-end baby boomer, our black and white TV always had WWII movies playing on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. I remember one in particular about paratroopers. It showed their training, how they did it and how they used it as an element of surprise.

I was hooked. I needed to start training right away! Searching around the house, I finally found a parachute. I was inspired when I took the trash out. The large plastic trash bag seemed about perfect for a parachute, to me. All I needed was some cord to tie the chute to me for my first jump. I found the perfect cord on mom’s living room drapes. I was resourceful.

Using her best scissors, I snipped four long strands of drapery cord form the curtains and tied them to my plastic-bag parachute. I then folded my chute for deployment. Climbing up to the back porch roof, I was ready for my first jump. Using a couple of belts, I fashioned a harness and attached the drapery cord accordingly.

After testing the wind, I yelled, “Geronimo!!!” and jumped off the 15-foot porch roof. I could hear the plastic Hefty trash bag fluttering uselessly, trying to catch wind as I crashed to the ground and felt a sickening rip and tear in my ankle. Man, it hurt. I blew my ankle out on my first training jump! Mom found me all wrapped up in a trash bag and was really upset. She wanted to know who tied me up in a trash bag with her drapery cords?

Then all hell really broke loose.

I learned a lot of lessons that day, besides the fact trash bags don’t make very good parachutes — all at the tender age of five.

You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out

The previous year, I about shot my eye out with a dart gun. Being curious, I needed to know how they worked. Let me tell ya’, looking down the barrel of a cocked, unloaded dart gun isn’t the smartest thing to do. Especially while tickling the trigger, to see how it works. Long story short, the dart gun went off, and the spring tagged me in the eye.

Then there was the “Great Big-Wheel Ramp Jump.” Headed down a steep hill bright and early one Sunday morning, we decided to do some ramp jumps. I went first. Gaining maximum speed, I hit the ramp, caught some air and the big front wheel fell off. I crash-landed and the wheel landed on my head, cutting a gash above my eye. Ten stitches later, I was good as new, with a cool scar above my eye, and another visit with Doc Taylor and Nurse Betty under our belt.

No big deal. Kids got hurt back then. All my buddies had casts, stiches, eye patches, chipped teeth and slings most of the time. We played hard outside, and took risks. We weren’t trying to get hurt, it just sorta’ happened.

I remember rappelling down a tree with mom’s plastic clothesline. About 30 feet up, I started my descent. About half way down, I experienced major equipment failure. The line snapped and I tumbled down, striking every branch on the way down, snapping my wrist. It’s been about a month since we last saw Dr. Taylor anyway. We were due.

You had to be tough back then. We lived a life of adventure and reveled in our red bandages of courage. The more beat up ya’ got, the tougher we thought we were. We had fun and all learned to take calculated risks as we got older.

My résumé back then consisted of four broken collar bones, a broken wrist, separated ribs, more stitches than a hand-sewn quilt, a bruised eye-ball and too many cuts, scrapes and bruises to count — and mom was too scared to take me to the ER.

I wouldn’t trade those days away for anything. Especially the way today’s poor kids have it. Today’s kid thinks taking a risk is firing up a game of candy-quest saga with four percent battery life left on their iPhone. We teach them to be careful, “Don’t do that, or you’ll get hurt.”

Maybe it’s reflection on our part? We want them to have it better then what we had. Who knows? Are we denying them the same “fun” we experienced, in the guise of safety? Maybe we’re the culprits here, and not the kids. Maybe we need to let kids be kids? Let them have some real fun, take some risks?

I know I enjoyed the heck out of my childhood. I have the scars to prove it! I think the way we grew up has a lot to do with who we are now. We aren’t scared to stick our necks out and take calculated risks. Shouldn’t we allow our kids the same.