Cracked Eggs & Bubble-Wrapped Kids

At the ripe old age of 5, I finished kindergarten. We never got diplomas or graduation parties for attending back then. Those things were unheard of. But I did get something better, much better to my way of thinking. It became an established tradition following me through grade school, one I enjoyed and appreciate to this day.

Following a fresh buzz cut, Mom sent me to my grandparent’s farm for a week with three new pairs of Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots and fresh packs of T-shirts and underwear. The farm provided me room to roam. It also gave me time to spend with my uncles, who were masters of tastefully teasing me, as they taught me about farm life. These simple things toughened me for life, in a gentle way.

The yearly visits made me learn and appreciate farm life, too. My Pap operated the dairy farm my uncles eventually took over, followed by my cousin.

No Free Ride

Right off the bat, Grandma had me pulling my weight. Taking the trash to the burn barrel and gathering eggs every morning were a few of my assigned chores. I was also designated “gopher” for my uncles, as I followed them around the farm “helping” with their chores. My contribution consisted of getting food and water for them from the main house.

Grandma taught me about chickens, while also teaching me a great lesson as a bonus. She kept separate coops for breeding chickens, to keep the number of laying chickens and eatin’ chickens in check. She told me I was lucky, because some of the eggs were due to hatch in the next few days. I was excited to see the chicks hatch out, checking on them every morning.

The Good Ol’ Days

We watched violent cartoons, rode bikes without helmets, and shot BB guns, not only surviving, but thriving. We rode our bikes for miles, out of sight from any adult, and were home by dark. I was five when I got my BB gun, a Daisy 1894 reproduction.

On my eighth birthday I got an H&R Plainsman bolt-action .22 rifle. Roaming the fields, or walking the roads at my grandparent’s farm, rifle forever slung over my shoulder, was a regular occurrence. As cars passed, we’d wave to each other. Some stopped, asking how the hunt was going. In my mind, I was a professional groundhog hunter/raccoon trapper.

Yes sir, life was great back then. Isn’t it always? There was more freedom than now. Parents didn’t hover, and the kids didn’t want them too. Today, I’d probably be arrested, and my parents would be indicted for contributing to the delinquency of a minor for the things we did back then, which wasn’t wrong at all. It was life.

We were kids familiar with brand names like Daisy, Crossman, Copperhead, Winchester and Remington, while knowing what ratchets, crescent wrenches and sockets were. We watched cartoons where explosives and anvils were used as booby traps. We didn’t need warning labels telling us not to mimic the antics we watched. We had common sense.

We built things, jumped over friends with bike ramps, Evel Knievel style, and drank from the hose, living to tell about it! We carried pocketknives and shot wrist-rocket slingshots, and no one ever got hurt — well, usually. Doing these things made us better adults, too! We’re far more independent, willing to take risks, while having a sense of adventure in our soul, something lacking in today’s world.

Epilogue

I guess all I’m trying to say is it’s time to pop the bubble wrap, get rid of the leashes, and put the “woke” crowd and their unrealistic demands back to sleep. Life is too short not to be enjoying it while we can.