A new story

Sunday was one of those rare occasions when I found myself with nothing to do. No unfinished projects to resume, no repairs to make around the house, no work in the yard to be done until the cool of the evening. The grass had been cut, the tailgate latch on the pickup truck repaired, a fresh batch of pesto prepared. Nothing left to do but sit and think, and to let the mind go back half a century and recall how a 9-year-old boy handled his idle time, inventively staving off boredom but often getting into mischief in the process.

Back then, we lived in a safe neighborhood that crawled with kids. In summer, particularly, we were wild from dawn to dusk, shooed from our houses by mothers too busy to plan our leisure time for us.
Did our parents think that we were always playing within a few block of home, or were they aware that our kid universe was much larger, the boundaries being as far as we could pedal our bicycles in half a day?

From age 9 to 12, I tested the boundaries of our neighborhood and of my parents’ patience. I did what all kids do, and what all kids shouldn’t do, and in the process, lost my innocence. It was a time of wonder and discovery. And then, it all ended rather suddenly, when our family moved north 20 miles to a neighborhood with no children, and I was alone. And after a year, I was sent off to boarding school, and a whole different universe of experiences.

So, this new series is about those last years of childhood, when our perception of the world around us begins to change. As always, please feel free to comment about your own experiences at this age.
We’ll call this one “Bronxville Days.” It starts tomorrow.