Fourth Saturday's Loneliest Liberal: He’d be expelled, we’d all be arrested

And I’d be dead

By James Knudsen

I’ll confess to not being completely up to speed on the difficulties associated with raising children in the 21st century. I imagine it has not gotten any easier. Time especially seems to be in short supply as parents try to cram 27 hours of raising, parenting, and rearing into 24 hours. And time is already limited for a child. If you live the average and only 18 of those years are considered by law to be “child” years, that’s definitely a fraction of the total. And then there are those who aren’t even children for that long. So many lessons to learn and mistakes to make as part of that learning. That last part is something that has made raising children more difficult – mistakes. They aren’t allowed anymore. It’s a good thing I grew up when I did.
    Now, going to school where I did, St. Aloysius Parochial School, guaranteed that I made more mistakes. There are more things that are considered mistakes in a Catholic school. How you cross your ‘T’ and dot your ‘I’ are judged events. But, as I look around at things that are making internet headlines, I’m aware that we were allowed certain liberties that are unheard of today. Do they even have “show & tell” anymore?
    We did. Some kids could be counted on to bring something. Some were weekly regulars. I remember one classmate who usually “told.” Often it was a story his father had related; showing was something he rarely did. So, when he brought something to class to show, it was memorable. He brought bullets. Not ammunition – live ammunition – just the projectiles, the copper-clad, lead ingots that go hurtling through the air. I remember him walking to each of our desks to show us the shiny objects.
    He’d be expelled today. At the very least he’d be in violation of California’s Proposition 65, because I know he did not carry a sign reading, “This area contains chemicals known to the State of California to cause cancer, or birth defects, or other reproductive harm” But is a ten-year-old supposed to know that? Should a ten-year-old be worrying about that? I do know that no one died that day as result of show & tell. The instructional value of seeing a .44 caliber slug up close is debatable and if there was none, then it was a mistake, a harmless mistake.
    Of course, not all childhood mistakes are harmless. I had an affinity for hot things. I found the floor furnace the perfect place to stand as a toddler until the heat branded the soles of my feet with the name of the furnace company. My grandmother’s 1964 Buick was equipped with cigarette lighters in both rear-door armrests that would work without the key in the ignition. And the exhaust of a roto-tiller that has just been shut off just begs to be touched. It was only a matter of time before I put something flaming or smoldering into my mouth. Cigarettes were much more popular once upon a time. I dare say they were easier to come by when I was a child simply because more parents smoked. And, if we can agree that any mind-altering substance is a drug, then let me state here that my gateway drug was nicotine.

It was a day when there was no school. And for some reason, I don’t think it was summer. But somebody had lifted a partial pack of cigarettes, Winstons probably, from their mother and we were gonna smoke ’em. We decided that a vacant school playground was the best place. We sped off on our bikes, which I’m told children are not allowed to ride anymore, and settled down under a tree. I did not take a cigarette. I was offered a puff and amazed everyone by taking the longest drag they’d ever seen. We weren’t caught and, to the best of my knowledge, no one has succumbed to lung cancer. But if a cop pulled up today, we’d all be arrested. And I wasn’t even a teenager yet.
    I would describe my teen years as decidedly lower-mid-level delinquent. My indiscretions included smoking, drinking, swearing, under-age driving, vandalism, and sex with another person. I also played in a rock band, wore my hair long, got my ear pierced at 16, and performed poorly in school. I was never arrested – being questioned by the police is not the same as being arrested – and all accounts of my driving given by the editor’s son are pure hyperbole. But there was that one night during Christmas vacation.
    I had a friend who had a Camaro and this Camaro had a recurring clutch issue. We spent many nights under that car. On one particular, wintery night a neighborhood kid stopped by and after talking a bit we decided to take a late-night stroll. We made our way through our quiet town and its sleepy neighborhoods with winding streets and cul-de-sacs to an adjacent neighborhood with more conventionally gridded streets. Christmas lights were twinkling. It was cold and quiet. And then that stupid neighborhood kid kicked a trashcan over. Being the disaffected youth that we were, we didn’t think anything of it and kept walking. And then the owner of the disgraced garbage receptacle appeared on the sidewalk and beckoned us to return. Well, he yelled at us and we should have just turned around and walked backed. One of our party wanted to do just that. He was out-voted by the other two in our party who took off running.
    Now a sensible homeowner would have stamped his foot and gone back inside. We were not in the presence of a sensible homeowner. Further, as we would later learn, this street had recently suffered a rash of vandalism involving Christmas decorations, and the residents were in no mood to be trifled with. The homeowner gave chase. And he had a car. Teenage boys are quick of foot and maneuverable, but they’re no match for a V-8. We had only made it to the next street over when he caught up to us. We tried to evade by changing directions, but it only succeeded in delaying the inevitable.
    Winded as I was from running, the “old” guy was able to run me down and tackle me from behind pretty quickly upon exiting his vehicle. I remember the words, “I’ll kill you.” And I remember still being able to be somewhat defiant even with an adult male on my back. My companions were unscathed. One had escaped into the darkness. The other, heeding the threats of my tormentor, had stopped and plopped down on the lawn of the anonymous home where this scene, now terrifying to recall, played out. The equally anonymous homeowner demanded our ID’s. He was irate that I didn’t have a driver’s license. I wasn’t 16. After a brief, angry lecture, we were allowed to go. We started making our way back to my friend’s house. Before we arrived, the father of our companion who had escaped found us. He had become aware of the events, retrieved our ID’s, and good-naturedly returned us to friendly turf. It was from him we learned of the recent events in the neighborhood that had turned it into such a hornets’ nest for three of the most unthuggish youths to ever roam the streets late at night.
    The middle-aged adult me, sees the stupidity in the behavior of those kids, those many years ago. The kid in me says, “Dude, it was just a trash can!” And a part of me that I can’t find a label for knows that if it happened today, I’d be dead.

Copyright © 2014 by James Knudsen