Those of you who read my column regularly will remember that I wrote last time about all the reasons I probably should have died long ago — and yet here I am.
Those of you who missed that column probably have some good excuse for not reading it. I’ll forgive you this time. Here’s a brief recap of some of the things I listed that probably should have pinched my spark out:
Sticking my 3-year-old finger into an electric light socket — repeatedly.
Getting my tongue stuck on a frozen iron railing—also repeatedly.
Riding my bike down stairs and railroad tracks without a helmet — while playing a kazoo.
Having unsupervised fun with a variety of playthings, including lead soldiers with flaking lead paint, balls of mercury, pocketknives, toy bow and arrows made lethal with aforementioned pocketknife, playing Lawn Dart and street “tag,” and just generally growing up in a world without seat belts, child-proof latches, warning labels, or safety lids on food, medicine and rat poison.
You get the idea. All of that, and more. Any one of them could have taken me out.
And yet — here I am.
As you might imagine, I always worry when I get email about a column like that. Who could be writing to me?
My insurance company, canceling my policy as too great a risk?
The Department of Children and Family Services, asking if my parents are still alive and available to be tried for child neglect?
My old pal Blinky Nolan, glad that he finally found me and wanting to discuss that old disputed Lawn Dart episode? (I swear I yelled “Look out!” Not “Look up!”)
Happily, my emails this time were enjoyable to read, including some that took my “How did we ever survive” question to new heights.
One, written by Peter Meskin, was too good not to share with you. As he detailed memories from his own childhood, I realized that he and I could have been brothers from another mother who artfully dodged more bullets than we had any right to dodge.
And so I’m turning most of this week’s column over to him. Here’s what Peter wrote to me:
Hi TR,
Loved your article! You certainly described my childhood!
My wife left your column by the bathroom sink for me to find this morning when I was going through the morning routine. I stopped brushing my teeth to read it.
Even though you grew up in Chicago and I in Flatbush, Brooklyn, certainly we’ve experienced very similar childhoods in our younger years.
To add to your list of “dangerous things that we’ve survived”:
There were two different games that we played with our pocket knives that we would probably get arrested for if a policeman found them on us today. One was you placed your hand down on some grass or dirt with your fingers spread as wide as you could get them. A friend of yours, hopefully one that really liked you, at first slowly and then faster and faster stabbed the knife in-between your fingers. You could pull your hand away at any time you wanted, but then of course you “lost.” At least you didn’t lose a finger. I do remember one or two kids getting nicked, but nothing deadly. Can’t exactly remember how you “won,” unless maybe your friend trying not to stab you decided that there was no way that he could avoid that and so he stopped.
The other was similar in that we stood facing each other with our legs spread apart. Then we would throw the knife into the ground between our opponent’s legs. If it stuck in the ground, then he had to slide his foot up to it, shortening the distance between his feet. You can see how that goes. Luckily, the knives usually bounced off your sneaker. Again, I don’t actually remember anyone getting stabbed.
…and yet, somehow, here we are!
And not to be forgotten were our Daisy Air Rifles that we discovered we could ram into the local Sycamore trees and punch out a wooden disk that would stay in the end of the rifle and very nicely shoot out under the air pressure. You can imagine how the adults in the area reacted when they saw all those holes in the trees.
Stoop ball was great. Did you have stoops in your neighborhood in Chicago? That’s when you would throw your “Spaldene” (it was only many years later that we discovered it was really a Spalding) at the edge of the concrete stairs, and if you hit the edge perfectly, it would really shoot far and wide. It was only dangerous when the ball shot across the street and you were so focused on it that you never looked left or right for oncoming traffic… and yet, somehow, here we are. If anyone did get run over, I’ve blocked that out.
There’s a lot more, but thanks so much if you’ve at least read some of this. Kind regards and please keep writing!
Peter Meskin
As I said, Peter and I could have been brothers from another mother, because I also survived all of those games (well, except for the BB gun “tree plugs.” Never learned that trick. All I had was a “Spud Gun” that shot potato plugs — and then I had to survive Mom’s displeasure at finding starchy pock-marks all over the walls and ceiling.)
I’ll be meeting with Peter for breakfast soon to see how many other ways our childhood mirrored each other, and maybe to compare scars. I’m really looking forward to seeing him face-to-face.
Unless “Peter” is really Blinky Nolan, tricking me into a meeting.
If so, I hope I’ll have at least one more survival story to tell you.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com
