Country Kids Before Video Games

As children who lived in the country in Franklin Parish, Louisiana, my brother and I had limited resources for fun.  That is, if you judged fun by the standards kids hold today in general.

There were no video games, no satellite television, no computers, and no cell phones.  My brother and I suffered through the ghastly drudgery of board games, and we actually enjoyed it!  (Go ahead and gasp.)  It was even more fun when we could gather the neighborhood kids, our cousins, or our school friends to join us.

Of course, we also used our imaginations, much to our parents’ delight, and made the most out of what nature had to offer.  Video games just can’t compare to the real thing.  I’m talking vines upon which to swing (if one breaks, find another), ditches in which to wade, digging for crawfish, making clubhouses out of sticks and old sheets, and making our own popsicles out of koolaide.

The danger lay in what happened when we used our imaginations.  Our parents, unlike most parents today, thought nothing of a few scrapes and bumps on the head.  The mentality was that if something didn’t kill us, it would only makes us stronger.  The bonus would be if we also learned a valuable lesson along with our many accidents.  It was called tough love.

Realistic Dangers

No virtual reality came close to the realistic dangers we faced.  When our vines would break, there was a chance of breaking a limb.  Some of those vines we actually had to use a chair to reach!  Then we faced the chance of swinging into the chair, breaking the chair, and risking a spanking that would leave bruises on our pride.  (There’s total humility in a yelling mother or father when your friends are standing around enjoying your discomfort and claiming they had nothing to do with it.)

When we would wade through the ditches, we faced the dangers of stepping on glass from drivers who would pass by on the road and toss their trash out the window.  One year this did happen to me, and I’ll never forget the agony it caused.  My father discovered my painful foot, which I desperately tried to hide.  He had my Mom hold me down while he cared for the wound.  The pain was excruciating.  I cried like I was being killed.  I wasn’t, of course.  If it hadn’t been for my Dad’s hateful interference in my health, the infection would have caused even more harm than just a few tears.