My brother and I were really a “couple of wild indians,” as my grandma used to say, with tough-as-leather feet from running barefoot on gravel roads and a constant ring of dirt around our necks that Mom always insisted on scrubbing ’til raw and bloody before going to town.
He and I spent long hours playing cave men–the essential equipment being cow bones and bits of dog hair–chasing “dinosaurs” through head-high weeds, barefoot of course since Nikes weren’t a part of prehistoric man’s wardrobe.Thinking back on our childhood entertainments, so many relied heavily on throwing things–throwing rotten eggs at the junk pile, throwing algae from the stock tank at each other, and throwing cow pies at anything that moved. It makes me wonder why, when I wanted the Presidential Patch for Physical Fitness more than life itself, it was the throwing part I flunked. Maybe if they had let me use a cow pie…