Grandparents love and adore their grandchildren. After a life
three-quarters of a century long, I understand because I have
grandchildren, too. But, I worry as I contemplate my
grandchildren
‘s future. Because I recall a different time when a young person
– as well as anyone – had to achieve. I was born and raised in
Enid, Okla.
Grandparents love and adore their grandchildren. After a life three-quarters of a century long, I understand because I have grandchildren, too. But, I worry as I contemplate my grandchildren‘s future. Because I recall a different time when a young person – as well as anyone – had to achieve.
I was born and raised in Enid, Okla.
And I had a close friend, Bill Snodgrass, whose stepmother confined him to a chicken coop in rural Oklahoma in the 1930’s – obviously, a horrible childhood. Yet, he earned a Ph.D. in history and a Chair at a major university. In other words, no matter how bad his childhood, he achieved. He earned respect by his achievement.
In 1942 in Northern Oklahoma, we had a cold winter and the snow stayed late into the spring. My Christmas toys included an “American Flyer” sled. As a 12 year old, I learned the secret of sleds that year – you could press the bar to the right or the left and the skids would advance or retreat and turn the sled. I think that my little neighbor friend, Jack Steinberg, showed me how to do that.
I lived at the corner of Oklahoma Street and Pierce in Enid. But, even in those days, we had to go sledding at least a block away to a down hill slide at the end of Fillmore Streets. (Note: Streets were named for presidents in almost all towns, back then.)
Nostalgically, I still remember those cold wintry days when Jack showed me how to turn my sled on the downhill in order to go the furthest. I had to try many times before I “got it.” Finally, I became a passable sledder. Eventually I achieved some respect, because I could sled better than most of the others!
In the early 1940’s, at the end of Buchanan Street stood the Mosher home. In back of the Mosher house were many, many acres of farm land and cows. This pasture, farm land, creeks and canyons, we called Mosher’s Pasture.
We, children, loved to explore this mysterious place.
Daringly, we darted from our sledding hill down to the creek under the Lahoma highway bridge (US 60), then, with heart pounding, entered our zone of danger and continued along the creek to the great “unknown.”
In late winter, bored with sledding down that hill, we would strike out to adventure. We would set out on a “safari” across the great Mosher pasture. One time, I will never forget, “miles out” in Mosher’s Pasture, we became very cold. I lay down upon a hay stack and realized that the easiest death of all must be from freezing – and I was so warm and dreamy. My fellow explorer jerked me awake and dragged me back home.
Spring ushered in a different lifestyle. Mosher’s Creek became alive with crawdads. (The great American plains’ name for crayfish, fresh-water shrimp.) My neighbors, the Stout boys introduced me to this fish extravaganza. In adolescence, I never realized that we had fresh fish to eat on the plains of Oklahoma. Nevertheless, my neighbor kids, several years my senior, took me to Mosher’s Pasture to seine for crawdads. They brought a net large enough to stretch across any width of Mosher’s creek. Then, seining, they dragged the creek and hauled in hundreds of crawdads.
Back at the Stouts’ kitchen, these big kids taught me to pull the succulent tails off the crawdads, flip the scales off, and toss the meat into cornmeal, then into the grease ladled frying skillet. I gained persona with my new-found expertise.
In the summer, the kids on my block, the many Roths and Stouts with an Anderson and Steinberg, played “kick the can.” The older kids mentored the younger kids in the art of winning.
We even played a made-up game of tag with a variation. The difference involved throwing a stuffed sock to hit another player rather than “tagging.” Learning how to win was the same, in any case.
Nevertheless, we knew that even more exciting adventure lay only a few blocks away. And, in Mosher’s “great pasture,” we could become a “respected” explorer.
Today, Mosher’s pasture no longer exists. On the east side of the old “manse” is an apartment complex, on the west, a business complex. Inhabiting the “great outback” of our youth are today’s many housing developments. Obviously, the ancient Mosher mystique is gone forever, but very much alive in my memory.
In my day, kids had fun and earned respect.
