Childhood memories - the landmark, bittersweet moments of our youth indelibly burned into our consciousness. Few things in the current timeline, that our "life" with the intensity of our early memories will burn. I grew up in the 1960s and '70s in a typical Northern Virginia suburb on the outskirts of Washington, DC In those days you had your entertainment where you could find them. For the adults there was Redskins football (if you were lucky enough to have a season ticketOwner or a pre-Ebay, know enough of the right people) get tickets. There was an abundance of bars and restaurants, and a handful of museums and cultural attractions. Born in a fiscally conservative budget, we settled for the Washington Diplomats season tickets. The diplomats were an NASL (North American Soccer League) football franchise that has played at RFK Stadium when the Redskins were not in use, that is, and if no major swap meet space needs. It was a poor substitute forSonny, Billy, and George Allen, but we enjoyed the happy by Alan Green, Sonny Askew, and Johan Cruyff all the same. If you have a child in DC these days, the options were less exotic, though almost no limits to the imaginative.
In winter, most of our days and nights were spent praying for snow. It was rare, but an inch or two was enough to paralyze cheerfully to the Fairfax County Public School System after day, and create a shortage of bread and milk epic proportions. FewThings rival the excitement of anticipation to hear local radio stations for the announcement that the school had been canceled. If there is snow, there was life threatening steep descents into the ice-covered hills in the "saucers" or "Flexible Flyer", the one to frostbite, or someone next to a tree, whichever came first. It was the era of pre-acid rain, so we'd run into the front yard at night, a shovel, a cup of the white stuff (we hope it was white, anyway) and the addition of vanilla andMilk, make 'snow-ice ", which was a 8-10 years old, the nectar of the gods.
In the summer, we caught insects. None of us really knew why. It seemed like the most interesting variant. Buy a bug was in fact catching bugs as a popular activity among children 1960-1970 era, you could actually catch-kits at Toys-R-Us. We do not mess with beetles, potato bugs and other "boring" error. Bee's were what we were after, because Let's face it - we were always on the streets ofAlexandria - the risk was our second first name. My personal favorites are bumblebees. They were black and green, looked like aliens, and got really mad when they caught (in your jar, or if you are a lucky little bastard, a Toys-R-Us bugcatcher official!). But really would do any beekeeper. I do not know remember exactly what we have bee after the catch, but it was a thrill we are not tired. The epitome of bee-catching performance was to catch more bees in the sameContainers, growing exponentially, that would be likely either you or an innocent bystander to be stung. Heady stuff. I even remember the strange smell of insects, something that I wonder whether today's children would also recognize? If the bees do not live buzz, there was less politically correct alternative - roasting insects with your magnifying glass.
The occupation of this specific layers between the actual available under the income, and not, it was my parents proud andhappy owner of an above ground pool. Constructed with aluminum siding and paper clips, this miracle of technology from 1970 always seemed on the verge of collapse. Water in our pool mysteriously defy the first law of thermodynamics, the temperature remains constant in the vicinity of -20 degrees Celsius, even Smack Dab in the middle of the infamous hot and humid DC buzzer. If our lips had reached maximum blue and we had lost the feeling in our extremities, we would be our escape arcticRefuge, and we put out, with a satisfying sizzle on the concrete and metal channel cap in front of our house. This alternating cycle of freezing and frying a lot of time in my youth, and probably most of my neuro-receptors to death. As an adult, I usually do not carry over temperature.
Once in a while, when the gods of summer and the good fortune upon us, we heard a noise that sent us into paroxysms of anticipatory delight. The jingle of the "Good Humor truck" could be heard by our youngfinely tuned ear for at least 8 miles away and sent us into a frenzy like no other (comparable perhaps only to the response of male teens on the beach to the news that a grown woman who lost her top in the surf). Depending on how much change could you please, borrow, or you could run away secretly with any number of dishes: a red, white and blue rocket enjoy pop, Creamsicle (the taste of which still does not explain, nor shall it by the modern science replicated), or if you were primarilyFortunately, the peak of the Good Humor offerings, the chocolate eclair, or Strawberry Shortcake.
The rest of the year was less exciting. We built forts in the woods available in the politically incorrect way. Sometimes we just dug huge holes in the ground. Sometimes we have built lean-to log with defects and squatted in them. Good times. But the most popular form of continuing construction involved climbing to dangerous heights, while 2x4 and nail plywood to the beautiful and previouslyundimmed trees, making the secret sanctuaries of our youth. The construction of the fort, it was not just about physical conquest, but required the creation of secret organizations, passwords, secret signs and handshakes and holy alliances. The construction of a fortress was natural and inevitable, followed by the demolition of Fort said other would-be builders fort, usually for no apparent reason. This cycle of creation and destruction has taught us, perhaps the most important lesson of lifeall of them. No matter how beautiful the things you create in life, there will always be an asshole, which will not be happy until they have a way of finding them all to mess up. The life is gone building.
When we tired of building forts, and when all other seasonally appropriate forms of recreation were exhausted, we threw **** at each other. Apples, homemade spears and rocks. It has nothing to say. Throwing each other **** was fun. The most popular and successful form of "throwing stuff 'was undoubtedlythe "dirt plaice battle. Like an old and wise philosopher once scribbled with his last dying word "dirt clumps are God's way to tell us he wants us to each other with ****'. Fell Okay - I confess, I have to (although I think Ben Franklin may have said something about) - but there was no denying that, a lump of dirt battle was good old-fashioned epic battle fun.
Northern Virginia experienced a housing explosion during this time, the earth was Plaice Battlemecca of the Universe. The rules were clear and universal. Find a construction site. Find an enemy (i.e...anyone else you either didn't know or didn't like who happened to be a kid and there at the time). Commence throwing dirt clods. The objective was clear - create drama at any cost. Sometimes this could be achieved by making a particularly spectacular throw, sometimes by managing to gain control of the precious high ground, from which to dominate your opponent and pummel him into submission. The struggles will not end until it was dark, or someone ran out screaming and bleeding. When the supply of dirt clumps was exhausted, was fun to continue as plaice battles as exciting sessions of the 'King of the Mountain "smear" and "queer" could morph (it was the 60's and 70's - there was no such thing as "politically correct" - sorry!). The chances for a good old American fun was endless. No doubt, our best military leaders of the time refining their skills in the field of dirtPlaice battle.
I'm not quite sure what did our parents while they were healthy childhood activities in progress. Mostly they seemed to smoke, drink, argue, not barbecue, garden and work on. Despite the apparent lack of responsible parental supervision, we somehow grew up in a relatively normal (* cough *) functioning adults, despite our more adventurous activities. Today I'm wondering if maybe the sometimes harsh and exercises of our youth were not the perfect training groundfor the challenges of adults in the workplace. I still have good soil to avoid dirt and provide a well-aimed blow, if urgently needed.
But in the 1960s and '70s, America's youth longed for the food, not only of the flesh, but of the spirit, and I was no exception. Luckily, Washington, DC to meet had 5 channels of television to our growing intellectual curiosity. I was a big fan of channel 20 (you had that in particular the use of a separate channel in the UHF dial, again a clearIndication that there is "special"). My parents dug out channels 4, 5 p.m. to 9 p.m.. No one I knew watched Channel 45th Channel 20, it offers a veritable treasure trove of tenders. Where else can you see Robinson and robot traverse the dangers of the galaxy and the diabolical Dr. Smith? What can other sources of knowledge and wisdom have encapsulated the lessons in the adventures of the Ultraman and Speed Racer? Channel 20 was a gateway to unlimited information and experience, where Iand fell in love Herman Munster, Marine Boy, Kimba the White Lion, and countless other important influences world. And Channel 20 was the only station that had its own spiritual leader, Dick Dyszel, the children everything they needed to know as Bozo the Clown learned Count Gore De Vol, and "Captain 20 '.
It was at night but during the witching hour hours that split the TV of my childhood, and his darkest secrets meaningful. 11:30 Clock was a magical moment. EitherParents' knowledge or without them, be expanded to the 15 "black and white TV with its directional telescopic antenna and then the received power for maximum clarity, we were ready to enthusiastically. And we were thrilled. I have a good part I was young at the weekend nights banned presented by the horror classics such as the aforementioned count, or by another of my childhood favorites, all the way from Detroit, Sir Graves Ghastly.
Both wonderful and terrible, the classicalFilms from my childhood still dominated by memories of my childhood: Dracula, Frankenstein, The Mummy, The Invisible Man, The Creature From The Black Lagoon, The Thing, The Night of the Living Dead, The Incredible Shrinking Man, The Leech Woman, The Little Shop Of Horrors, The Wasp Woman, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane, The Haunting, then Black Sabbath, The Gorgon, Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, and countless others ... smitten with late-night fare, I was that my parents began to affectionately call me "old weirdJohn '. What they do not see were the valuable life lessons I learned while they slept. Bad things happen to good people. Sometimes it is wise to run. If you hear voices in your house, get out! Never hitchhike. When it is dark, and you will be during a thunderstorm, something bad would happen. Nothings more scared than everyday life. Monsters are real - just that the adults are too stupid to see it. And old people are scary.
Some might look at my childhood in the suburbs of DC as a stranger,distorted or dysfunctional. But for me it was magical, unforgettable, a most amazing chapter of my life. Whether jeopardize my own or another person's life in an epic struggle dirt soil in the defense of a newly built fort in the woods, as our code of honor or required stared in horror this week I banned live broadcasts from the Channel 20 studios, was Remember my childhood too. Some say they learned what they needed to know in kindergarten. But not me. I learned everything I neededto learn if my parents were not observed. And I have every second of it.
