D  e  s  e  r  t     E  x  p  o  s  u  r  e    March 2006

The Good Ol' Days

Growing up in the 1950s taught a boy more than just "you could put an eye out with that thing!"

The radio is usually on constantly when I go anywhere, as was the case as I drove back from Lordsburg. A lady was on, and she was lamenting over the fact that as a kid she scrimped and saved to buy some trinket that she coveted.

That statement touched an old memory, as I immediately brought to mind my own youth and what it was like to grow up in the 1950s. I went on to rationalize that I pretty much typified the youth of my generation.

By the way, I grew up under the illusion that I was a "Baby Boomer," but recently the TV news informed me that actually I'm a "war baby"—since the Boomers didn't come along until 1946 and I was born in early 1945.

Nonetheless, I still believe that my childhood experiences can be applied to those in the generation after me, even up until 1960, if I stretch things a mite.

First of all, we did indeed have to save our nickels and dimes if we wanted something really great; for me, that was a genuine .22 rifle.

My dad started me hunting at the tender age of seven by taking me along on his local excursions for rabbit, squirrel and groundhog. I couldn't carry a gun, but every now and then, he'd hand me the JC Higgens .22 bolt-rifle that he was carrying and let me shoot at a critter.

Safety was ingrained in me with every session of shooting, and by the time I was nine I knew all about safe conduct with a firearm. I also knew that I was never to take the rifle out of the closet where dad kept it unless he was there and I had permission.

To be truthful, though, I did sneak it into my bedroom every once in a while when no one was home and lift it and gaze upon it; I loved that rifle. And no, I never thought of loading it at those times—that was the unforgivable sin!

Anyway, by that ripe old age of nine I had saved up 25 bucks from an allowance that required me to do chores, and the day came when Pop approached me and said that it was time for me to buy one of two guns: the Higgens or an ancient Sears pump shotgun in .16 gauge.

It was a no-brainer for me, as I readily took the .22 complete with a 4X Weaver scope; it was a decision that I have never regretted. I still have the gun, and together we have hunted small critters from coast to coast and in between.

Owning that first gun taught me the rewards of saving for and buying my own things and responsibility for my own acts. I never forgot those safety sessions as well as making the first shot count and regard for the life I was taking; it was a basis for the person I am today.

When my own lad turned 11, he too had to buy his first gun along with that first scope for a deer rifle. A shotgun needed refurbishing and he agreed to do the work in order to for him to call it his own.

After more miles on that road from Lordsburg, my thoughts evolved to the fact that all of us youth played with toy guns—pistol sets by Roy and Hoppy and the Lone Ranger, cap guns all. We had but one rifle—a Red Ryder BB gun or "pop" gun that made noise but didn't shoot anything but air. Of course, they were "lever rifles."

We had bows and arrows, too. They were "Little Beavers" with suction-cup-tipped arrows that we immediately removed the tips of and sharpened with pocketknives.

The movie Christmas Story is an uproarious story of my generation's youth and even generations before me. The mom in the movie is always telling her son that he will shoot his eye out.

Of course, in real life, that hardly ever happened among the thousands of youth who owned BB guns and shot arrows. We just had fun! And if we didn't have a gun or bow in our hand, we'd gather up rocks and pitch them at glass Coke or milk bottles or even birds or toads.

I loved to make my own bow and arrows and even tomahawks, spears and slingshots. I spent hours by myself shooting and throwing, seldom hitting anything, but I had a ton of enjoyment!

My generation busted our arms, fingers, legs and noses, bloodied our lips and other sundry body parts, but kept right on truckin' without so much as a blink.

We stayed outdoors from dawn to dark, using our imagination to create adventure as we climbed trees, dug holes and swam in really cruddy water ponds. We made dams and bridges of fallen logs.

If I wasn't doing all of the above, I was out in the dirt playing "cars" with my best friend, "Buddy." Or we built forts out of discarded Christmas trees or we played "curb-ball" or "stick ball."

Sadly, the youth that came after us don't do those things and probably never will. They have grown up indoors watching TV, then using computers and Gameboys, cell phones and video games that do everything for them, and most is just given to them without them ever having to earn one cent.

No wonder so many of the "now generation" have distorted views of the outdoors—or, worse, they have no view at all.

As always, keep the sun forever at your back, the wind forever in your face, and may the Forever God bless you out there.

Larry Lightner writes Ramblin' Outdoors
exclusively for Desert Exposure.

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