Unsupervised by parents, these kids found plenty of adventures on their own in the 1950s
While reminiscing with a friend about our childhoods, we agreed that our adventures could not be matched by today's children.
For example, when we weren’t in school our parents let us roam free. Our play could take us in any direction. Often, we ended up three miles away, mucking around Hickory Creek. We rode our bikes on dirt and gravel roads to get to the bridge crossing the creek on St. Francis Road. There weren’t any fish in the creek, so we hunted for frogs. Mostly we just got muddy.
That was summertime. We never told our parents where we were going. We couldn’t tell them anyway because we were never sure. Parents never seemed to worry. Eventually, we’d get hungry and show up at home again. I can’t imagine letting children roam like that today. A cell phone is a must, even when going to the park around the corner, as well as water bottles and sunscreen.
At the north end of 78th Avenue was a hill. A dirt road crossed at the end. Along the dirt/mud road was a line of trees. One had a large branch that sagged down, creating a stretched-out U. Two or three of us could hop on that branch like it was a horse. When Cousin George took hold of the end of that branch, he could make it sway and buck. It was the best ride around; we called this area The Hill or Old Smokey.
In the winter, things changed. If the gravel on 78th Avenue was coated enough with snow and ice we had a sledding hill.
One year a sleet storm coated all of northern Illinois with ice. Trees and powerlines were down, and school was closed. It was a winter paradise for us kids because we didn't have to worry about any problems, just having fun.
The sleet had coated our gravel with so much ice we had a good half-mile run from the top of The Hill to the spot where an open flow of water crossed the road ‒ no culvert back then.
Our sleds had metal runners, some with questionable steering, and no brakes. With a good push given by Cousin George, a sled and rider could reach speeds that made trees blur and eyes water.
All the good sleds were taken when Chris and I decided it was our turn. We took the only one left, the one without steering. Chris was on the bottom, and I lay on top of her when George gave one of his famous fast start pushes.
We went flying. The rushing wind took away our breath, and we held on for dear life.
Bushes and trees sped past. About one-third of the way down the hill, the sled veered to the right, and into an ice-coated snowbank.
The sled stopped abruptly, but Chris and I didn't. On top, I flew over my cousin and somersaulted until I stopped against our aunt’s split-rail fence. Chris went face-first over the crusty snow, leaving behind a layer of skin in the process.
Neither Chris nor I ever forget that sledding run. A dark red scab formed on her face just in time for school pictures the following week.
But kids weren't the only humans on that hill. When possible, my parents joined us too. One day, Mom was sitting on a sled after trudging up The Hill. Without anyone pushing, her sled started to slide down the icy hill.
I can still hear Mom's scream as she rode a speeding sled all the way down the hill. We tried to warn her about the open water that crossed the road. Many voices yelled, “Drag your feet!” but no one could be heard over her screams. Mom stopped when she reached the open water.
The 1950s offered us all kinds of adventures. And we were especially lucky because we survived them.
Susan Manzke, Sunnybook Farm, N8646 Miller Rd, Seymour, WI 54165; sunnybook@aol.com; susanmanzke@gmail.com; www.susanmanzke.net/blog.