I'll tell you where I've been – I spent my early years in the land of imagination and fun activites – in the land called 7707. My siblings would know exactly what I mean by that and probably chuckled at the title before reading a single word of this story. Those numbers were part of our address, part of our phone number and part of my Dad's license plate. They set the stage for having even the little things in life be just a bit different … just a bit more interesting.
When I was young, we zoomed out the door at the crack of dawn and somehow found our way back home at dusk. Ok, I admit occasionally one of us would hear the faint call of our name from some place far away called home and we would have to return to this place for something called dinner or bedtime, but, other than that, there were all sorts of options for staying active and, as I recall, we didn't need to be prodded.
Decisions. Decisions. What to do next. The possibilities were endless.
We could ride my big Tonka Dump Truck down the sidewalk and wipe out at the end of it, for some reason, never registering that this toy would not roll on grass like it did on cement.
Occasionally, a friendly dirt clod fight with our friends up the street would be the activity of choice. Of course, nobody could throw accurately enough to hit anyone so rarely was it a bad experience.
If one was brave enough, one could walk the deadly, dangerous pathway at the top of the hill. Well, the pathway wasn't the scary part. Mom's response to our having journeyed to the forbidden zone was the problem. Especially when she would look us right in the eye upon our return and ask "Have you been up at the pathway eating those wild mulberries again?" N-n-n-o-o-o-o we haven't. I don't know how she kept from laughing – faces and hands red as could be from gathering and eating those delectable mulberries. Duh.
When I was able to ride my bike without training wheels, boy, my horizons expanded … at least two blocks. Not sure if I ever fully explained to my Dad that the only way I could start riding my bike was to lean it against his car, the bike handle strategically placed just above the trim so I could ride along side the car, using it like a launch pad. For weeks I had to walk my bike home if I decided to stop riding it during my great adventures.
We didn't need to be entertained back then. We used our imagination to make just about anything fun.
Ghost In the Graveyard, Kick the Can, variation after variation of baseball – you had to make up new rules depending upon where you played and how many showed up – plus other games kept us energized day after day. No electricity. No batteries. No plugs of any kind were required. If you had a buddy back at "the fort" whom you needed to contact while you were out "scouting" the thick wild brush [read: vacant lot next door], you didn't pull out a cell phone, you didn't whine until your parents bought a Radio Shack walkie-talkie. No! You found a block of wood and a nail. You poked a bunch of dents into the front side with the nail for a speaker, then pounded the nail into the top of the wooden block as an antenna. As long as you could yell pretty loud, it worked just fine.
You just don't see kids unplugged any more. They have turned their minds over to an electronic gadget of some kind and always seem bored if they can't see a screen of some sort. I feel sorry for anyone who gets bored.
With all of today's instant gratification and mind-numbing constant bombardment of mental stimulus, many have either forgotten or never learned how to keep every day interesting. There is so much to do … so much to learn … so much to feel and experience.
I like blogs, Facebook, Twitter, MP3's, texting, email, and the like but I have come to the conclusion that, after all these years of enjoying electronic toys, I'd still rather be walking the path, riding my bike, playing a sport, or making up a game for my main source of entertainment.
Unplug a little bit more each day and see what's out there. Be someone who is entertaining, rather than one who has to be entertained. You just might like it.
©2009 Kurt Holdorf
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