Archives for category: Reflections

Travel Souvenirs from the South

September 3, 2013 //

OK – I can’t be the only person who brings home a carload of souvenirs from a road trip…can I? It’s not like I can’t remember the place or person, but I do tend to forget after a time and the things I pick up along the trails of my life make me smile as I walk by them or dust them and shake up a memory from a wonderful experience. My home is packed with such memories and I’m old enough to know I’ll never be a minimalist in any way. So, here’s what I brought home from my travels through the South this past two weeks…think what you will.

First are the general, sometimes tacky, souvenirs: hats, t-shirts, magnets, lapel/hat pins and a few books, including a Cajun Little Red Riding Hood, “Petite Rouge,” because I have other Cajun children’s stories and love to read them out loud. You can’t help but sound a little Cajun…

I’ve collected the pins since I was in Vienna way back in the 1970s and saw a man with pins on his hat in European fashion. I used to be somewhat casual about it, but ended up with quite a few and now always look for them. I have them on a little bulletin board in my laundry room that I pass by every day.

The refrigerator magnets are a new deal and I have to promise to stop…

I just bought a hat and t-shirt in the town where my father was born because that’s all they had. I bought a ball cap in Savannah to wear out on the water and a cute painted t-shirt in Charleston because I liked the artist.

Then there’s the food category, which really can get out of hand in the South…

After all, I can’t get boiled peanuts and okra chips at home and who could pass up the Peach or Cherry cider and the Sweet Potato anything? And I wanted to see what was in red rice, so I bought a package, and then we went to Avery Island where they make Tabasco sauce and had to buy some of the new flavors. This is nothing compared to the souvenirs that didn’t make it home because they were eaten along the way…another blog. I did buy a cookbook from one restaurant to get the recipe for the best sweet potato soufflé I’ve ever eaten.

And we had to have things from the nature part of the trip, so I have seashells from the Katrina-wrecked beaches of the Gulf and puppets of animals from the National Parks we visited, Mammoth Cave and the Great Smokey Mountains.

Finally, there were the antiques and art I had to have. I’ve always liked to support local artists, especially when they have pieces that represent what I’ve come to love in their home. So that is why I came home with a ceramic mug and platter from potters in Fairhope, Alabama, a painting from the streets of the French Quarter in New Orleans, and antique tobacco basket from Thomasville, Georgia (what am I going to do with this huge piece even though I love it and got quite a deal on it) and an antique framed book plate by a well known artist of the Charleston Renaissance period (I learned about that). Each piece of art came with a story to make it even more special.

Maybe because I’ve owned a gift shop and know what it’s like to have people wander in and not buy anything, maybe because I’ve worked with artists for years and want them to be appreciated, maybe it’s the things my mother taught me, but I never, NEVER come home empty handed. The end result is that my home is a warehouse for some pretty exciting travels that I love to remember. I can only hope my children will smile and laugh a bit when they have to clean this stuff out when I’m gone! I can feel their eyes rolling…

Tags Cajun, food, memories, South, Southern food, souvenirs, travel

Categories Art, Books, Family, History, Memories, Nature, Places, Reflections, Travel, Uncategorized

Meeting people of the South

September 2, 2013 //

Some of my fondest memories of my trip through the southern states will always be the people. I loved to sit still to hear their sweet southern drawls, which varied from region to region. Here are a few of my favorites…

Bonita was our first guide at The Hermitage, Andrew Jackson’s home outside of Nashville. All the guides dressed in period costume and this was her appropriate garb. I wondered how she felt about having to be the slave, but she was a gracious and wonderful guide, even posing when she saw me lift my camera. One of our other guides was asked if Jackson was a good slave owner and she answered that there was no such thing as a good slave owner. Bonita was a tribute to new attitudes in the south.

In Charleston, I saw an interesting antique shop while walking one evening and returned the next day on a whim. The sign said not to ring unless you were a serious buyer, which I always am. What a treat! The owner was Fred Le Clercq, who turned out to be a true southern gentleman. He is a retired law professor who has collected art and antiques for many, many years. The shop was actually his home, on the third floor at least, and it was filled from floor to ceiling with beautiful objects. I walked around taking it all in for awhile, tempted by so many things, and then started asking questions. He told me about many of the artists of the area and graciously took me around. He has another gallery at his lake home and I regretted not meeting his wife, who is the daughter of the famous Mrs. Whaley and has written garden books and other books. I decided on a small book plate by Alice Ravenel Huger Smith, one of the Charleston Renaissance artists of the early 20th century. I realized I had no checks with me, but Fred told me to just send a check when I got home. After he wrapped my purchase, he took me to their living quarters and showed me the original painting they own by this artist, as well as others. I glanced around their home, which was furnished in beautiful antiques and art. When I left, Fred took my hand, leaned down and blew gently across it, speaking in French. He asked me if I knew what that meant. I was so charmed that all my French lessons left me. He translated it as “until your return” or something close to that. Who wouldn’t love that? A lovely hour that reflected all you would dream of in Charleston.

In Savannah, we met Captain Dan and Penny. Dan was the old friend of an old friend of my friend, which is how we were introduced. They met us for dinner on the riverfront in Savannah soon after we arrived. It’s always such a treat when you have no idea what to expect, kind of like a blind date, and then it turns out to be something special. Dan is a musician and actor and had lived in Hollywood and Nashville before returning to his hometown near Scarboro, Georgia. Penny is a true Georgia girl with the best drawl in the world and loving, open arms for all. They live in Dan’s family home, a house built in the 1700s on 5,000 acres along the Ogeechee River. Penny works in Statesboro and they spend their weekends at their apartment on Middleton Island, close to Savannah and their boats docked at Thunderbolt Marina. On the weekends, Cap’n Dan takes charters for visitors from Tybee Island to fish or tour the islands. I told them at dinner that I was very interested in the islands and they invited us to join them the next day. They picked us up and drove us to Fort Pulanski for a great historical tour, complete with a cannon demonstration, out to Tybee Island, where I could have kicked back all day at the beach, back for a boat ride around the islands and to lunch at their favorite place on the water, a yacht club with a Jimmy Buffett atmosphere (Cap’n Dan’s description), and then for a tour of Bonaventure Cemetery. It was one of those days where you feel like you’ve been with friends you’ve known all your life and you know you will remain friends because the more you know about them, the more you like them.

In Fairhope, Alabama, across the bay from Mobile, we stayed with my traveling buddy’s friend, Graham. Fairhope is a beautiful town, full of artists and creative people of all sorts with an interesting and unique history. Graham attended the local Organic School as a child and his wife, Maggi, is now the director of the school’s museum. I knew Graham, but it was my first time to meet Maggi and she was a delight. We met for breakfast in the oldest cafe in the county, which didn’t disappoint. We walked over to her museum for a tour and she gifted us with books about the school’s founder, a book about Fairhope, and a novel, the last two written by Graham’s sister. We toured the very impressive museum of Fairhope History and met the director, another graduate of the Organic School. Maggi and I took a driving tour of the town and went to two pottery artists’ studios, since I expressed interest, especially since there is much history of pottery in the area. Again, I have a new friend, a lovely woman, I hope to see again very soon.

My last person I’ll tell you about is L’il John, our guide on a tour of the swamps in southern Louisiana, near Gibson, which is near Houma. I picked this tour because it was on private property and there would be no other boats. It turned out that the property had not been hunted or fished in 30 years, so the swamp was pretty pure. L’il John was Cajun and I loved listening to him talk about dem and dat, dropping any hard consonants at the end of words. I love listening to Cajuns talking anytime, but it was very appropriate while cruising through a swamp. L’il John has traveled a lot, but he was born in the area and told us he’s done everything legal and illegal back in those swamps. I believe him. There were only the two of us with him on the boat, so he didn’t have to fill the time with stories for the tourists. He said that most people don’t understand the lifestyle down there, haven’t had to live off the land. This was a man at home in this environment, which is so beautiful and so threatening. He tried to get us close to a 13′ and 16′ alligator, wanting them to come to the boat, but they swam off into their dens and hid under the water. I was fine with all the smaller ones that did get close. Alligators are not to be messed with, in my opinion. I held out meat for a smaller one, who jumped up to get it, making the pole I was holding snap. That’s close enough. He obviously knows every inch of the tour area and every critter living there. He told us that he usually shoots an alligator, showing us the hook that is used on the popular television shows. He said that using a hook to bring them in causes great pain to the alligators as it twists inside them, deeming it a stunt for the cameras. In a conversation a few states back, someone had told us that only the tail of the alligator was used for food. I asked L’il John about that and he said that the whole gator was good. I knew he’d tell me that. People who depend upon hunting for food don’t usually waste any of it. We had a good morning in the swamps and I’d like to think he was as sorry to see it end as we were.

Those are some of the people I met in the southern states that I bring back as special memories and special friends. You can tour and read and take pictures, but you can’t really understand an area until you meet the people who love it as much as you love your own place on earth. One of the joys of travel…

Tags Alabama, antiques, Cajun, Charleston, Fairhope, Georgia, Louisiana, Organic School, potters, Savannah, Swamp, Tennessee, The Hermitage, travel

Categories Events, Friends, Memories, Nature, Places, Reflections, Travel

East, West, Home’s Best…eventually…

September 1, 2013 //

I’m just back from a fourteen day, 3,500 mile, 12 state driving trip…a loop from Oklahoma to Charleston and Savannah and back. More to come on all of that, but I’m mostly glad to be home. Mostly, I said. The reality is that it takes awhile to get out of that routine, harder than the planning to leave, more tedious than the trip itself.

There’s nothing like crossing the state line of your home state, especially when you’ve spent your whole life there. This trip, we entered from the southeast, up the Indian Nations Turnpike, through one of the loveliest, most lush areas of the state. In my family, we sing “Oklahoma” as we enter home territory. When the kids were little, we sang it out loud. I’ve even done that by myself, sung it out loud, but this time, I was thinking the words. I wasn’t in the plains in this part of the state, so the irony struck me. I thought about what people who have a certain image of Oklahoma think when they drive through green, rolling hills. Oklahoma has a lot of looks…

There’s nothing like seeing the first sign with the name of your home place on it. You’re almost there…

About an hour or so away, we got pulled over by the highway patrol. He looked at the packed car and we visited about where we’d been and that we were heading home and he said we went over the speed limit a bit while passing a semi on the interstate. It was the beginning of Labor Day weekend, so caution is the rule. He gave us a very gracious warning and sent us on our way. Sigh…that was even a pleasant experience.

I think the fatigue sets in as you get closer. On a road trip like we just took, you are constantly heading for the next place. We weren’t rushing, but that’s a lot of driving, touring, walking, planning, getting lost even with GPS and maps of paper and electronic kinds. Pulling into town, we stopped at the grocery store for milk and a few things and FINALLY pulled into the driveway. Now the reality hits…

Opening the door, the dogs are jumping, the cats are meowing…their people are back. I’m not one who can just leave stuff in the car, so we unpack all we took and all we brought back with us. Then I start sorting through the piles in the house, throwing dirty clothes into the washer, putting flashlights, first aid kits, food away. It’s overwhelming. It seems like there is a house full of stuff coming out of the car. All my purchases…another blog…are stacked around. There’s a bag of receipts, books, maps sitting here still. The pets need to be fed. The plants need to be watered. The mail needs to be opened. Emails need to be deleted. The over 900 photos I took need to be downloaded to the computer for sorting, cropping, fixing, deleting, deleting, deleting… A serious trip to the store is ahead. Everything I left undone before the trip is still here, staring me in the face. The next day was nothing but sorting, errands, and total fatigue. And college football started…I could barely raise my arms when OSU scored!

It will take days for the dregs of the trip to be absorbed into my house, for me to sort through my thoughts and memories, aided by the photos. And, real life starts up again immediately, as always.

Do I still love road trips? You bet! Am I glad to be home? Always. Time to make that trip part of my life experience and take what I’ve seen and learned and use it to more clearly understand the world around me. Ahhhhh…home is so sweet!

Categories Reflections, Travel

The Angel Tree

August 24, 2013 //

I am a tree-hugger. Whenever I meet one that I love, I really do want to wrap my arms around the trunk and feel that immense strength, hoping to absorb some of it.

I’ve visited the giant Cedars in remote western Montana…last year it was giant Sequoias in the west…this year it’s Live Oaks in the south. When I read about the Angel Tree, I had to visit…

The Angel Tree is in a park owned by the city of Charleston, even though it’s on John’s Island, a bit out of town. The tree has a very sacred feel, but it is named after the Angel family who used to own the property. The tree is estimated to be 400-500 years old, which means it was here when only Native Americans lived in the area, before the Europeans arrived. In 2012, developers proposed a giant condo complex nearby that would have possibly altered the environment in the area, but other lovers of this tree prevailed…Thank You!

Looking for the Angel Tree takes you on the highway out of Charleston, on the way to Kiawah Island. There is only a small sign to mark the tree and you turn onto a very rough dirt road that might discourage you from going further if this weren’t your destination. You drive through what could be a spooky forest of oaks draped in Spanish Moss until you see a clearing on your left. There is a small sign on the right and before you reach the drive, you see the tree and you are in shock at the size. The park is fenced in with a small log building, a couple of portable toilets and a few picnic tables. The cabin has souvenirs and a couple of women selling sweetgrass baskets on the back screened in porch. But, you’re here to see the tree.

You can’t get it all in one photo. It’s 65 feet tall and spreads over 17,000 square feet. The limbs are so heavy they’ve drooped to the ground. Ferns grow along limbs. You need to see people beside it to comprehend its size. After that intro, the tree speaks for itself, different from any side. There are abundant signs reminding visitors not to climb the tree, which is tempting, and not to carve it. Horrors!!!

On one side, the limbs on the ground look like individual trees until you see what they are…

I gave the tree several pats and hugs and left with a wonderful feeling of having shared a treasure of the earth back in the South Carolina forest. See if you can find me in the picture. I’m the tiny human, realizing her place in the universe is all relative…

Tags Angel Oak, Charleston, Live Oak, South Carolina, travel, tree-hugger, trees

Categories History, Nature, Photography, Places, Reflections, Travel

My River Kinfolk

August 20, 2013 //

Knowing where your relatives came from is intriguing, at the very least. Maybe it will explain something, anything about us. All those questions…

The family member I know the most about is my father. I have pictures of him from baby to the end of his life. He was born in 1912, so way back there. I have a book someone did of Hamilton genealogy that goes back to Thomas Hamilton leaving Scotland for Maryland and then joining a group that moved to Kentucky.

The greatest source I have is a book, “The Sun Shines Bright,” written by my great-aunt, Sue Hamilton Jewell, a book of stories about the family in Uniontown, Kentucky in the late 19th century into the early 20th, including a few about my Daddy as a child.

My great-grandfather, grandfather, and father were all born in Uniontown. Here’s a photo I found that must be the Main Street that she wrote about, where even a 3-year old could be sent on errands.

Last week, I journeyed to Uniontown on the Ohio River, near Illinois and Indiana. I had no idea what I would find. Getting closer made me very emotional as I drove past fields of corn in rich agricultural west Kentucky, called the Upper South.

My great-grandfather was a grain dealer with an office in the warehouse on the river. My great-grandmother was from a plantation near New Orleans…another story to find. How did they meet? They had a great love story. Nine of their 12 children survived to adulthood, living a Tom Sawyer childhood along the river, “Our River,” as they called it.

…and later…

They had a staff of servants to help with the large home they finally moved into. Their land covered about half a block, with a diversity of neighbors on each side. There were 14 rooms with a 40 foot hallway the younger kids raced up and down on velocipedes pulling wagons. My great-grandfather was never bothered and must have been the kindest of gentlemen.

So, I drove to Uniontown with this info, along with the knowledge that the town had suffered greatly from the Ohio River floods of 1884, which brought Clara Barton to town for the first Red Cross relief effort as the river raged for weeks through the Ohio River Valley and all the river towns in its path. The 1937 flood left my widowed great-grandmother to be rescued from the second floor balcony by rowboat. The damage to the house and the remnants of the flood led to her death by pneumonia. This must be just a regular flood in this faint photo…

I knew the latest population was 1,000 and I found it on the map, but it was missing from my iPad map. How do you lose a town in an aerial shot? Scary. What would I find?

There was a town still. A levee keeps the flooding away, but the river has changed. I first looked across, imaging a shore where kids could swim across, barges and riverboats coming ’round the bend with my relatives waiting.

There was more than I expected actually. No old buildings, but a post office, VFW, cafe, two grocery markets and a marine store for the boaters who launched their boats on the river. I drove around enough to get a feel for where the house might have stood, picturing what I could from stories…the family eating fried chicken, Kentucky ham, homemade peach ice cream, and asparagus they grew in the yard. They gathered with their friends for burgoo, a community stew of whatever was brought. Such an isolated little town, a river town.

A young girl with a Kentucky drawl at Floyd’s Food Market gave me directions to the cemetery and I hurried before dark to a small cemetery surrounded by cornfields ready for harvest. Where to look? It was all very clean and well kept, divided into about four areas. In frustration, I parked and walked up the little hill. I remember Aunt Sue writing about the babies buried on the hill.

Suddenly, there it was…

…my great-grandparents. And the babies were beside them, touching little headstones for Annie, Nell G. and Merritt.

Behind them were my great-great grandmother and their oldest son, who I actually remember. Then I found two of their daughters. One died after the birth of her second child and her sister married her widower. All three of them, Verg and the two sisters he loved, all buried together. There were some others near, too. I looked and looked for any of my grandmother’s people because she grew up here, too. I didn’t find anyone…another story.

In the end, I stood by the gravestone and put my hand on it and my eyes were overflowing with tears. I thanked them for all the love they passed down. I thought of all the generations that have followed them…

One last look at the wide Ohio River, which is now kind of My River, too.

Then back to Floyd’s for a souvenir…

What did I find out? Lots more than I ever dreamed, but I’ll leave it with this…some of the best things about my family were born in a little town on the Ohio River. No flood will ever take that away. And now that river runs through me…

Tags family, Kentucky, Ohio River, Ohio River floods, Uniontown Kentucky

Categories Family, History, Memories, Places, Reflections, Travel, Uncategorized

Goin’ to Graceland

August 19, 2013 //

You gotta go to Graceland…right? Twice before I’ve been at the famous gates after it closed. This time, I had to go inside. By pure chance, I promise, it was the end of Elvis week in Memphis, the 36th anniversary of Elvis’ death. I still remember where I was when I heard the news…my husband, four kids and I were visiting a high school friend in Austin that day. The shocking news came over the radio. Another icon gone…

This time we started early, arriving just as the 5K Elvis run/walk ended. There were the gates…

and various Elvis fans and Elvis look-alikes…

You can’t walk up, so we bought our tickets, got our audio guides, and took the shuttle up the drive. This is how they control the never-ending stream of visitors. The house isn’t really huge, but the grounds are lovely. The neighborhood isn’t the best, but it fits. Elvis’s family reigned as the ones who came from so little to reach the top.

My audio guide didn’t work, which was ok with me. The effect of the crowd all listening to the guides creates a reverent quiet as you tour. Or, maybe they really were in that much awe.

The decor is perfect for a 22 year old, newly rich phenom who purchased a dream home for his Momma and Daddy. It speaks for itself…

Elvis was part of my growing up years, even if I wasn’t a rabid fan then or now. I love a lot of his songs, I love his story, but I didn’t swoon. But, I can’t help but love anyone who left such a legacy. Walking down the rows of gold and platinum records and albums…

…then a room with records to the high ceiling, I had to wonder how many more came after he died.

My favorite place is the wall outside where so many fans sign that they must have to clean it yearly to make room. It’s a lot of “Love ya, Elvis,” like yearbook signatures of your past.

How many generations are in this picture? I think at least four. Elvis lives on…

On the 36th anniversary of his death, I joined the mourners at his grave, reading the notes on arrangements from fan clubs around the world and tributes from individuals.

I saw one more Elvis wannabe…

…and completed the tour. I’ve been to Graceland…

Tags Elvis, Elvis Week, Graceland, Memphis

Categories Entertainment, Events, History, Memories, Music, Places, Reflections, Travel, Uncategorized

Catfish Story

August 16, 2013 //

Driving through Arkansas, we were looking for some catfish. The restaurant we wanted was a few miles from the interstate, but not open for lunch. Nick’s BarBQ & Catfish was ahead in Carlisle, but it seemed too good to be true to have something so good just feet from the interstate. But, the parking lot was full with semis and local cars and you could smell the good smells from outside, all good signs.

No frills, just terrific catfish, fried like it should be. They also served tater babies, wedges of seasoned potatoes. Yummy! I had steamed veggies to cut all the fried food. The whole menu looked great.

The greatest moment was two old men, wrinkled, bent over, who shuffled in together. Old friends out to lunch. We could hear them discussing the situation in Israel. I heard one say, “it’s not in scripture, although I had no idea what that was related to. On they talked, while the tv in the corner covered the news. And then their lunch arrived. I turned around to catch them as they took each other’s hand, bowed their already bent over heads, and said grace amidst the noise of the restaurant.

Precious moment captured in my memory forever. Special lunch on the interstate…

Tags Arkansas, Carlisle, catfish, interstate, Nick's, restaurant

Categories Places, Reflections, Restaurants, Travel

When you’re smiling…

August 15, 2013 //

I was standing in a grocery line today and noticed a man about my age in the next lane. My goodness, he looked grumpy. I realized it was merely something that seems to happen as you get older. I think our smiles start to sag along with everything else. And nothing ages you faster than to have that turned down mouth look. Then I could hear Louis Armstrong singing…

When you’re smilin’, keep on smilin’,
The whole world smiles with you.
And when you’re laughin’, oh when you’re laughin’
The sun comes shinin’ through.

But when you’re cryin’, you bring on the rain.
So stop your sighin’, be happy again.
Keep on smilin. Cause when you’re smilin’,
The whole world smiles with you.

In customer service, we are taught that a smile can be felt through the phone. Try it – it’s true. When we smile while we talk, it comes through in our voice. It’s a good thing to remember.

We’ve all heard all the smile benefits, so I’ll just stop here. And remind you to keep on smilin’. You can’t help but feel better when we think of something that makes us smile and we all have something to smile about.

Categories Reflections, Uncategorized

Travel Lite

August 12, 2013 //

I’m trying to plan a vacation, a meandering trip through several states. A leisurely look at our beautiful country. I’ve decided which way I’m headed…now to get ready. What the heck? Getting ready to leave is a trip of a different kind.

So, I need to clean the house. That’s for the house sitter or whoever takes care of the pets, picks up the mail, etc. Heaven help me if they have to experience the level of mess I overlook in my day-to-day living. I need to make sure I have my long list of what to stick in the car updated. When I drive, I pack for most every emergency, so there are first aid kits, flashlights, snacks and water, radios…not to mention clothes, maps (well, iPad), etc. I’ve learned to take a power strip to plug in all my electronics.

I’m taking another trip this fall by plane, so the packing will be very different, especially with the weight rules. To see the difference in travel packing, I always think of the time my in-laws traveled by car to see us. They were going to stop along the way, so they had fishing poles and tackle boxes, lots of bags, and coolers. On the way, they had a wreck that totaled their car and put them in the hospital. When they recovered, they flew home and my husband went with them. This was way back in the 90s, before all the travel restrictions we have today. He had to wrestle them (in wheelchairs) along with all of their car gear through the airports…a nightmare at the least. In spite of it, we treasured the mental picture of him getting them home along with his version of the trip. I still smile as I remember him telling me.

As you can see, I’m not cleaning the house or packing…I’m writing. That’s another thing…as organized as I am, as much reading and researching as I’ve done to make sure to not miss anything of interest on the trip, I’m still procrastinating on getting life at home ship-shape. Oh well, I know I’ll get everything on my list checked off…even if it’s midnight the night before I leave. It all gets done somehow…or not. And, it’s all ok.

Tags car trips, maps, planes, travel

Categories Memories, Places, Reflections, Travel

The Perils of Childhood

August 9, 2013 //

It’s been a long time since Aunt Polly said to Tom Sawyer, “Well, go ‘long and play; but mind you get back some time in a week, or I’ll tan you.” I was thinking of the changes in the freedom children used to have and how cautious parents must be today. What I realized is that there always have been perils for children and there always will be.

A friend of mine says his grandfather remembered running away from an orphanage in Texas with his older brother at the fence telling him to keep running. He was 6 years old and was on his own from then on. That was in the late 19th century and there were many dangers for a young child, from natural dangers to human ones, but he survived to a ripe old age.

My grandparents were raised in small towns or on farms where they had the run of the place. My grandfather wondered around town because everyone knew who he was and watched out for him. I know parents have always worried about what would happen to their children, but they used to be able to let them stretch their wings and explore.

My father spent many years in the same small town his parents grew up in and played with his brother and sister and cousins. The Ohio River ran right by the town, but none of them ever drowned in it. There were few cars, but I guess you had to watch out for buggies and horses, too. They probably knew who the creepy people in town were and stayed away from them. There have been sick minds since man was created, so we didn’t invent perverted behavior in this century. I can picture these kids running around that small town with all the freedom in the world, as long as they didn’t get into trouble, which meant damaging property or bothering someone.

In 1909, Bud and Temple Abernathy, the Abernathy Boys, rode horses alone from Frederick, Oklahoma (barely a state then) to Santa Fe, New Mexico. They were nine and five years old. Alone! Of course, their father was “Catch-’em-alive Jack” Abernathy, a US Marshall whose reputation as a marshall, a hunter and a cowboy helped save them from Indians and crooks they met along the way. Still, they had to cross a lot of land with the dangers of wild animals and the terrain. After that trip, they rode from Frederick to New York City and drove a car back (when there was only 150 miles of highway in the entire country). They did it alone and they were only ten and six! Even then, that was quite a big deal and they became national celebrities. Can you imagine any kids that age being able to do something like that today? Kids should read “Bud & Me” to at least be able to know that those kind of experiences once existed.

I grew up in the city, in the suburbs. We walked everywhere and I don’t remember too many restrictions. We had to watch for cars, but we were allowed to explore and walk to our friends’ houses blocks away. The biggest dangers were falling off your bike (we had no helmets) or jumping out of a tree. I’m sure there were cautions from our mothers, but we just went out and did what we did. If there was an accident, we went home and our mothers put a bandaid or iodine on it. Most, maybe all, of my friends’ mothers were at home and the neighbors all knew who we were, so there was a safety in that. As we got older, we moved where there was a creek behind the neighbors’ houses and we played in that, especially when the water was rising. We played on construction sites, we played with matches, we played after dark and we snuck out to play in the moonlight. We got scratched and banged up from time to time, but that was just part of it.

When I was a teenager, we drove everywhere. There were no cell phones or GPS, so our parents just had to trust us to get home safely. We explored all parts of the city and did crazy stupid things. We weren’t always smart, but we learned how to use our freedom the best we could. I’m sure my parents worried some, but they let us experience what was out there and find our own limits. We were lucky in that drugs weren’t common until I was in college and the worst that happened was that kids got into their parents liquor or drank too many beers.

By the time my children were growing up, it was a little scarier. There were so many more cars and we had television to tell us of kidnappings and other evil things. Some mothers were working and there wasn’t always the safety of knowing that there were other moms to let you know what was going on. We had creeks by both of the houses my kids grew up in and they played around them. I didn’t know until they were much older that they used to follow the creek all the way to the busy street and under the street to the other side. There were snakes and critters and all kinds of exciting things in the creek, but it didn’t bother me. That was part of childhood. I did caution them when we had a big rain and the creek rose and could have carried them away, but I’m sure they watched that rushing water with the same fascination I did. They also were free to walk around the neighborhood as long as I knew where they were headed. There were a lot of other kids around.

When my children were teens, insurance rates were rising for their age group for drivers, drugs were more common and alcohol was a bigger factor. City-wide curfews were coming into being and kids had to move from place to place to gather when they were out. The fun was getting harder to find.

Now, I’ve watched my grandkids grow up playing mostly inside with television and video games. They ride their bikes, but not with the same freedoms we enjoyed when we could ride for miles alone. There is the fear of having the bikes stolen, the heavier traffic, the crazies we all know are out there. It’s just not as safe as it used to be. They don’t ride to the park for a quick game of ball or to climb rocks or explore creeks or make new friends in random places. They have helmets and padding and cell phones to check in and every protection there can be. It’s dangerous out there.

Today, it’s all organized for kids with parents swarming over everything they do. I’m not saying they’re over-protected, because I’m well aware of the dangers. I just don’t know how far we have come. We’ve conquered many of the childhood diseases that killed so many in the past, but we’ve taken away the ability to explore and learn what you can do by yourself. There’s a certain pride in knowing that you’re able to walk to the store by yourself or ride your bike to a far away place and return without anyone helping you. You gain confidence in your own abilities and skills.

This weekend, I watched a news story on the new plague of heroin users among our teens across the country. Heroin in the suburbs. What can you say?

Sigh…I guess we can’t go backwards. I wish I had answers other than turning back the clock. How can we find ways to let our kids be kids and explore this world safely? Something to think about…

Tags Ben & Me, children's freedom, growing up, kids, riding bikes, the Abernathy Boys, Tom Sawyer

Categories Family, Memories, Reflections, Uncategorized

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