Memories Of Boyhood

Before cell phones and social networks this is how we figured out where our friends were.

That post was on the Facebook wall of both of my sons.
Another boy tagged every boy that grew up in our neighborhood.
Then the back and forth conversation began.

The post came up on my news feed and made me smile.
The picture was a sidewalk and a walkway in front of a house.
Bikes were strewn over the lawn.

A familiar scene if you are a mother of boys.
A familiar scene in front of our house in those growing up years.
The picture brought me back to a simpler time.

There are twenty-four houses in our neighborhood.
Tree lined streets with abundant lawns in front; woods in the back.
It was the perfect place to play.

In those growing up years, many houses had boys.
Not just boys but brothers.
On any given day, seven houses had boys close in age, brothers playing with brothers.

You always knew where the boys were because their bikes were out front.

One boy reminisced…riding anything and everything off of ramps and launching… dangerously long distances…Also, paintball in the woods. Manhunt around the whole neighborhood… so many good traditions!

Another boy remembered, we played every board game known to mankind at your house with our brothers.

Still another…or football on our front lawn! Those were the days man, I would go back in a second.

I enjoyed reading all of the things they remembered.
I rejoiced that there was not a hint of electronic games, or computers, or television.
There were memories of being outside all day, going back and forth to each other’s houses.

Every mother knew where her sons were because you saw their bikes.
Every mother knew where her sons were because you heard outside voices having fun.
I had a special way of calling them home.

Mothers would call me if it were dinnertime.
I was the one with the bell.
The big cast iron bell on a post outside.

No need to yell.
No need to scream anyone’s name to come home.
Just ring the bell; it could be heard around the neighborhood and all the boys came home.

Often, the boys were at our house.
We have a side porch with a swing, rocking chairs, and a table and chairs.
I was the one with the brownies or the Popsicles, the popcorn, and the lemonade.

The porch was the perfect place to play board games.
The boys were still outside, but in the shade.
Games would go on for hours since no one wanted to lose.

To hear their voices inside my house was music to my ears.
It was a special time that apparently they all remember fondly.
Seeing that post made me wistful, too.

There is a whole generation of children who will not know these simple pleasures.
They will be lost to them unless we are intentional to bring them back.
Not one memory of any of the neighborhood boys had to do with inside things.

They were being boys, running off their energy in a constructive way.
They picked teams, kept score, won a few, lost a few, and learned character.
They got along and had their moments, which could easily be settled with a bike race.

They grew up together and went through those awkward years together.
They took the bus to and from school.
They played with a large stick and a mud puddle at the corner bus stop.

They sledded and built massive ice forts in the piles of snow that the snowplow left.
They made ridiculous movies of spy capers and intrigue with no plots.
They got braces and glasses and driver’s licenses around the same time.

They got jobs; they grew up.
They left their boyhood next to their bike.
The little boy is still there, remembering.

Those were the days man, I would go back in a second.
So would I.

Those days helped the little boy become a man.
Those bikes on the lawn kept them all accountable; no one could hide.
Being outside showed them they were part of a bigger world.

They were part of a bigger world that expanded beyond their doorstep.
Beyond their doorstep to across the street and around the block.
Finally, to other states and college degrees, and masters degrees, and a law degree.

Men whose character was formed by those childhood experiences.
What a privilege to have been a part of that special time.

Listen, my sons, to a father’s instruction; pay attention and gain understanding. I give you sound learning, so do not forsake my teaching. When I was a boy in my father’s house, still tender and an only child of my mother, he taught me and said, “Lay hold of my words with all your heart; keep my commands and you will live. Get wisdom, get understanding; do not forget my words or swerve from them. Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and she will watch over you. Wisdom is supreme; therefore get wisdom. Though it costs you all you have, get understanding…Hold on to instruction, do not let it go; guard it well, for it is your life. (Proverbs 4:1-7, 13)