I Never Stole a Watermelon

 

by  M.L. VanBlaricum

© June 2011

I’m a victim of the year of my birth, 1950, the halfway point in the Twentieth Century. World War I, The Great Depression, Prohibition, and World War II all happened before I was born. I entered the world right when it was getting ready to rest. The main menace to the U.S. when I was a kid was rock and roll. My development was guided by Ding Dong School, Father Knows Best, Make Room for Daddy, and Leave it to Beaver.

I've never stolen a watermelon. I've never pushed over an outhouse, broken my nose, or ridden a horse to school. My dad has. I've never gotten caught playing poker in the back of the school bus or knocked myself out trying to fly like Superman. My older brother has. Not that I'd want to put any of those things on my resume, but everything that I have done CAN be put on my resume.

I never soaped a window or put a firecracker in a mailbox on Halloween. I was the little boy that dressed up like Casper (the Friendly Ghost) and went trick or treating at our neighbors - the ones with the porch lights on.

               

My brother was born in 1943 right in the middle of World War II, just in time to be influenced by Korea and McCarthyism. Having an older brother accounts for my plight a little. He tried things first. I watched and learned the consequences.

               

Remember the song that Howdy Doody used to sing: "Will My Dog be Proud of Me". I can still sing it. All my life I've wondered if my dog would approve of my actions ‑ and the only dog I ever had tiptoed around mud puddles. So, because of Howdy Doody, my social life was about as exciting as ditch water.

I can't tell locker room stories because I didn’t play sports. I was too small for football, too short for basketball, and too slow for track. I can tell you all the heavy action that goes on in the trombone section at band practice. Well, no, I guess I can't. I was the one who always paid attention to the director.

I never went to a canal party. A canal party is where you go to the canal, drink beer, and go skinny dipping ‑ sometimes with girls. On Monday at school you tell lots of lies about it. I did go to school on Mondays.

I never dated until I was sixteen and never drove a car until I was legal. When my dad was a kid they hadn't invented driver's licenses yet.  You could drive as soon as your feet reached the pedals on the Model A and of course you were in the field driving the tractor (or was it oxen?) as soon as you could walk.

I never smoked out behind the woodshed (or anywhere for that matter). We didn’t even have a woodshed. We didn’t need one. Hence, I didn’t have to split firewood. But, growing up in Illinois with images of Honest Abe, The Rail Splitter, everywhere, I felt like I needed to ax something.

I can't tell war stories because I never wore a uniform. No, band and Boy Scout uniforms don't count. My dad was a fighter pilot and my great grandfather helped Sherman burn Atlanta, so I know I have it in my genes. I got a college deferment for Vietnam. Not that I wanted to go to Nam, but they say R & R was great. I have a friend who admired a girl's puppy in Bangkok so she gave it to him - with rice and hot sauce.

I've never gone hunting. Well, except for that one time I went snipe hunting. My dad used to hunt rabbit and squirrel and go ‘coon hunting with his brothers. He tells great stories about their dog, Ol’ Blue ‑ the best darn coonhound in Southern Illinois. My dad had a sawed off shotgun. I had a squirt gun.

I have never broken a bone. I have a friend who tells about ending upside down in the fork of a tree on a ski slope in Aspen with two broken legs. Another friend broke both his arms in Karate class. Even my wife managed to break her leg by riding her bike behind a neighbor as he pulled out of his drive. My daughter broke her arm when she was only five. And did I tell you how my dad broke his nose?

I've never done anything cool. The people who wrote the Boy Scout Handbook point to me with pride. However, I’ve learned the fine art of living vicariously. I can tell if a person has a good story by looking at the glow in his cheeks and the bend in his nose. I've heard some of the best whiskey drinking, girl chasing, plane flying, car racing, bootlegging stories ever told. In fact, I have this friend that tells a whiskey drinking, girl chasing, plane flying, car racing, bootlegging story that would curl your hair.

Ok, ok. I did do some crazy things. I invented streaking! I escaped from my bath and ran naked down the street when I was three. In fifth grade I got sent to the principal’s office for allegedly pushing Barbara Marshall into a mud puddle. I hustled pool in college. Well, actually I helped my friend, the Big Ten pocket billiards champion, hustle by being his shill. The biggie is - I snuck into a strip joint and drank beer at the University of Wisconsin when I was only nineteen. I even talked to one of the strippers. A really nice girl ‑ Bubbles I think her name was. She showed me what to do with a dollar bill.