Half a century ago, a 9-year-old boy ventures into
familiar surroundings suddenly made new, and while there discovers exciting
worlds and lives and adventures.
In June 1965, with third grade�s tiring trudge behind me
and the long landscape of summer ahead, lots of things beckoned. Exciting
things.
Things like swimming in the neighborhood pool.
Or exploring the woods and creek behind our modest
tri-level home on a hilly road in the suburbs of Charlotte, North Carolina.
Or best of all, playing pick-up baseball games with the
dozens of boys who lived up and down our block, every yard a ball field,
every kid a player, few rules well understood but all vigorously enforced,
and adults � well, adults were usually nowhere to be seen.
Heard, yes, when it was time to come in to eat, or go to
bed. But seen? In the outdoors world of a young boy in the 1960s, grown-ups
were only occasionally viewed, usually from a distance, mowing lawns,
pruning shrubs, driving off to work or to �the store.�
During those long days of summer long ago, the outdoors
was a moveable feast of discovery and adventure, of lessons in both Mother
Nature and human nature, whether searching for salamanders in a creek bed or
settling close calls at home plate, in a time when catcher and batter would
serve as co-umpires, hashing out differences over ball and strike counts,
and close plays at the plate.
Because free time meant playing outdoors, my younger
brother and I were somewhat less than effusive when our mother suggested
that we visit our elementary school library, and check out some of the books
on the school�s summer reading list. Groan. Not more homework, only days
after being done with it!
Just give it a try, she encouraged. Our ears perked up
when she said we could walk there, over the mile-long route we occasionally
trod during the school year. The backyards, woods and open fields along the
way offered tantalizing possibilities, even if the school library didn�t.
So we headed out, armed with snack money and the reading
list, having provided final confirmation to our mother that we knew our
address and phone number. I can�t remember a thing about the journey, but
half a century�s worth of years have only burnished my memories of the
destination.
Full of sound and bustle all year, the school now seemed
subdued, listless in the blinding midday sun. My brother and I crossed the
hot, blanched concrete sidewalk, pushing through the imposing glass doors
into the lobby, still adorned with colorful posters and placards praising
academic high achievers and PTA parent leaders.
A few steps away was our destination. During the school
year, the library seemed a dizzying maze of intimidating tomes whose titles
may as well have been �Forced Reading� and �Dull Assignment� and �Tedious
Tales.� Confirming its status as serious and fusty were its overseers, stern
women whose icy glance could freeze a fire, and whose �shushing� instantly
stifled conversation, even whispered asides.
We entered this hallowed hall cautiously. So imagine our
surprise when we were greeted, not scolded, by the librarian! And was that
laughter in the corner? Controlled, yes, guarded, sure, but still undeniable
in its lightheartedness.
And over at the summer reading list table?
As we approached, its bright, casual clutter was a
pleasant surprise. But the biggest surprise came as we looked down. Fanning
out before us like a peacock tail was an orgy of colorful volumes, our eyes
drawn first to Treasure Island and The Jungle Book, but then quickly pulled
to words that practically leapt off other covers, each with an exhilarating
whiff of adventure and excitement: outlaws � tree houses � robots � space
travel. Wow.
My brother and I re-emerged into the sticky sunlight,
arms overflowing with books, many late nights to follow filled with tales of
terror and derring-do.
Later that summer, my family went with my grandparents on
a trip to Shawnee, Oklahoma, to visit my uncle and his family. There I was
thrilled to see for the first time a rodeo, Native Americans, and a Western
landscape of brown stretching to infinity, under a sky whose blue arched and
curled beyond it.
That trip, and many since, have greatly broadened my
horizons. But none has broadened them as much as the short walk my brother
and I took during that magical summer long ago, to a place where we
discovered that simple rectangles of paper, glue and ink could propel us on
adventures around this world, and to a universe of worlds beyond.
