Southern Windows, 627 words

Downtown Watering Trough ~ Doesn’t it seem that every armchair philosopher has their own diagnosis of what’s wrong with today’s youth, and their plan for saving them? We might do well to spend an equal time looking at what’s right with them, but let’s accept for a moment that the current crop may have some unique problems, such as school and gang violence.

All of us have nasty old memories of crabby geezers who put us down when we were growing up in the hormonal hurricane of puberty. Yes, it made us do some irregular things to establish our identity. The dominant impulse of puberty is to break off into an independent self, don’t you know.

Every generation selects ways to cut or comb the hair that irritates everyone from 21 to 91. They select their own music with a beat or message capturing their unique outlook on the culture of their day. It’s always a music with shock value. Add the scandal of some brand new slang, the consternation of new dress and adornment, the outrage of a new drug of choice and you have most of the earmarks of each new generation. Not just today’s, but all generations since historians first put pen to pad.

We know all that but let’s not be the "old geezers" later remembered disdainfully by today’s teens. But who can resist looking back at the things that did us some good and wishing to high heaven today’s kids had a chance to profit by them.

Paul Harvey speaks eloquently of the value of dirt roads in his day. A planner advocates a return to sidewalks and front porch swings to foster neighborly visitation. Others call for a return to town hall meetings where whole families came in to discuss common concerns.

My biggie is to bring back the old swimming hole. It was a place for boys to be boys and to learn things on their own and from each other. It was a pleasant relief from learnings scratched on dusty blackboards, driven home with pointed fingers and preachy voices. As different as a tablespoon of castor oil and a cone of strawberry ice cream.

In my generation, we swam buck naked. We didn’t own swimsuits until we were grown, swimming in public places with women and girls. Our place was private, a secluded nook we selected so the world would know it was "ours."

We "borrowed" (uh oh, dare we admit we had our sins, too?) a big piece of cable from a utility company and strung it across the creek from one big tree to another, placing a well-greased piece of pipe on it so we could shoot across like a bullet, sometimes turning loose in the middle and diving down into the water. So we learned creativity, resourcefulness and some degree of freedom from self-consciousness about our bodies.

We strung trotlines across the creek when we had a boat and minus one, we uses a "throw out trotline. "At night we built a fire and fried up the fish, feasting to the fine dinner music of the frogs, crickets and katydids. We told tales til sleepy, then roll up in quilts and blankets for a peaceful rest under a canopy of stars.

We learned to swim by swimming. We learned to watch out for each other. If any boy got in trouble in the water, everyone went to his aid. If two guys got into a scrap, everyone stood around to make sure it was fair and square. We learned to take care of ourselves and each other.

If there are more important life lessons for a boy to learn, I would sure like to know.

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