Thank God for the good old days

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" If you were of the Wally and Beaver era, that phrase probably connotes memories of nightly, neighborhood free-for-alls, bruised knees, and sweaty bodies. I wonder how many of the video generation have witnessed, first-hand, the challenges of avoiding capture by landing on base before being plastered by Mean Jimmy... unless, of course, he's one of the freaky video aliens they're shooting to another galaxy to save their planet.

In my childhood, neighborhood groups ruled by an unwritten schedule that the official tag game would start promptly after supper, and not until our parents called us in at night--typically two or three times--would we stop. There was little obesity and even less need for organized physical education classes; that's what the playground and sidewalks and streets were for.

Youngsters created variations of Kick the Can, Red Rover, King on a Mountain, and Simon Says. Sometimes there were arguments, but most of the time, squeals of delight. No one had to tell us to run laps. We ran until we dropped. Jumping jacks? Who needed them when a wicked dodge ball game would offer the same challenge! Jingles were rhythmically recited as young girls jumped rope, singing "Johnny and Susie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," and every participant felt just a little more special when her name was substituted for Susie's. We drank from the same garden hose, broke teeth falling out of trees, and turned wheelbarrows into Formula I race cars.

Oh, the good ole days. We could ride our bikes -- typically with our best friend on the handlebars -- with no fear of abduction. Popsicles had 2 sticks, one for sharing, and milk -- not pizza -- was delivered to our houses. Chores weren't an option; in fact, there was no play time until the knick-knacks were dusted, the linoleum floors scrubbed, and the grass trimmed with push mowers. Other's parents had the right to swat our behinds when we misbehaved or failed to say "thank you," and we always knew that if we got in trouble in school we were in double-trouble at home. Teachers were Hitlers in disguise, and pastors and priests were bigger than life itself. "Ask not what your country can do for you" inspired us to start community action groups, and we actually took soup to an ailing neighbor.

No one worried about icebergs melting or guns being used for anything but killing for food. Phonograph records forced us to work patiently for one song at a time; we girls swooned over Bonanza's Little Joe; and what girl didn't dream of being a Lennon sister! Oh, yes, the good old days. When a handshake was all that was needed, grandma's dementia was no excuse to place her in a nursing home, parades were occasion for a run on chicken wire and kleenex, and there were only three options for ice cream.

I don't know about you, but when I think of my childhood, I have to thank God that I was born when I was, that I lived experiences that caused me to slow down and enjoy the moments, and that I was able to go to bed at night knowing my day had been fruitful but that "tomorrow" would be even better. And it makes me hope -- in a Heaven that will be even more innocent, even more inviting, even more endearing, even more promising. But the best part is it, unlike my childhood, it will never end.