6-18-2003

Limits

When I was a kid, nobody gave a second thought to letting an unsupervised kid wander the neighborhood all day long. Six-year-old kids were searching for crawdads by themselves in the creek, 8-year-olds were biking with their buddies to play on the school’s unpadded playground equipment, and 10-year-olds were gathering among the trees to shoot hedge apples with BB guns.

There were no bicycle helmets, no sunglasses or sunscreen, and most of the time, no shoes. And while rusty nails abounded, we all knew that a simple trip to the doc for a tetanus shot would fix you right up, so why bother with an overabundance of caution?

Skinned knees, scraped knuckles, and punctured toes were all just parts of daily life. After a minor injury, we’d check in with the closest mom, get some Bactine® and a Band-Aid®, and be back on the streets in minutes.

We dug in mud, shinnied up tall trees, and handled various fish, crustaceans, insects, and amphibians. We sometimes threw rocks and dirt clods at each other, and once in a while there’d be a fist fight. But we always came home for dinner, because that’s what our moms expected us to do.

We didn’t think about it at the time, but I suspect there was some sort of roving vigilante mother program. When the kids moved from one yard to the next, the closest mom would assume the responsibility for keeping one eye on us. They didn’t need any sophisticated communication equipment, because back then, moms all had built-in suburban radar. At least I’m pretty sure that’s how it worked.

Each mother also had her own unique dinner signal. For one, it was a cowbell; for another, a referee’s whistle. My mom had no need for a signal device – she could purse her lips and generate a pure-toned whistle that could be heard for blocks away. She’d hit an “E”, hold it for precisely 9/10 of a second, then drop the tone to a “C”. She had been a musician in school, and it showed in her neighborhood kid call.

At one point, there was a minor conflict surrounding the whistle. One of the neighbors (Mrs. Dotzour, I think) started whistling in tones that were very similar to the ones my mom used. A couple of times, my siblings and I ran home only to find that Mom had not issued the summons, but had been skillfully imitated by her counterpart a few doors down. This was not good.

I have no idea how the situation was resolved; probably over a nice plate of biscuits and homemade jam… but the problem was quickly eliminated. I don’t remember what signal the Dotzours settled upon (maybe a duck call, or possibly a yodel??), but peace had been restored.

As kids, we thought nothing of spending the entire day roaming throughout our territory. Sure, there were certain “big kids” that you’d avoid, and we knew enough not to mess with anything labeled “High Voltage”, but everything else was fair game. We’d think nothing of riding for hours in our quest to find something useful to do.

When I was in the fifth grade, Herbert the Pervert and I got into the habit of riding down to the KLEO 1480AM radio studio (home of the KLEO “Good Guys”). It was probably 5 miles from our homes, and required riding the shoulders of some pretty well-traveled streets. The studio was in a tiny little cube of stucco that from the road appeared to be nothing but a tool shed, or maybe some kind of pump house. But for those few of us curious enough to ride down the long curved driveway, wonders abounded.

Visitors were only allowed inside a small vestibule, probably about 8 feet long and four feet wide. At the far end of the room was the door that led into the bowels of radio-land, and only the anointed were allowed within. But the right-hand wall was made entirely of glass, and offered a splendid view of the disk jockey’s lair.

I’ve got to believe that the building housed offices of other employees…station management, salespeople, engineers, and the like. But the DJ was the only human you’d ever see. He had two turntables, a microphone as big as my head, and an enormous wall full of cubby holes. Within each cubby was a dozen 45 RPM records, including music from the Beatles, the Stones, the Monkees, and even the occasional Johnny Cash or Ray Stevens. It was fascinating to watch this guy juggle records, sheets of yellow teletype paper, and the ubiquitous coffee cup, all the while knowing exactly when to flip the mike switch and say something clever.

Herbie and I befriended several of the DJs. We dutifully wore our “KLEO Good Guys” sweatshirts, and derided any of our friends who listened to any other station. Billy O’Day was my favorite, but he moved to KOMA in Oklahoma City to become “Charley Tuna” shortly after we made our first trek to the studio. Don B. Williams had the voice of a god, but the eyes of Mr. Magoo – he wore the thickest glasses I’d ever seen. If I recall correctly, he also walked with a rather elegant black cane, even though his typical attire of plaid shirts and Bermuda shorts didn’t exactly match that particular accessory.

It was a magical time, and one I’m sure that influenced my later foray into the radio business. But I’m saddened to think about how times have changed.

Would a couple of 11-year-old kids be allowed to ride 5 miles on a major roadway in order to walk unescorted into a radio studio and chat with the on-air personality? I doubt it. How many of today’s youth are routinely allowed to hunt for frogs, or dig foxholes for their plastic army men in the vacant lot next to a construction site? How many kids can walk into their kitchen and even find their mom there, much less be able to borrow a bucket so they can bring home a gallon of tadpoles?

Of course, my dad’s generation probably felt the same way about us. After all, as ten-year-olds, we weren’t allowed to grab a rifle, jump on a horse, and go out to hunt rabbits. My generation never had the opportunity to eat watermelon right off the vine, or to bring home a big ol’ snake for a pet. We had to wait all the way until we were 16 before we were even allowed to drive a vehicle.

Times change.

I’m glad I grew up in the times I did. But you know what? I’ll bet my son will say the exact same thing when he gets to be my age.

I sure hope so.