Striking the Balance

   My son’s favorite toys are as follows:

   1. An empty coffee can with some dry rice in it

   2. Any pot, pan or random kitchen implement he can lay his hands on

   3. Tools, forks, high voltage electrical outlets and/or wires, containers of hot or stain causing or poisonous liquid, the stove, or anything else he has been expressly told not to touch.

   4. That Fisher Price thing that has a clear dome containing what appear to be delicious gumballs. They’ve been making them forever. You know, it has a long handle and two wheels and when you push it the balls bounce around and it makes a super loud popping noise? It's apparently like catnip to a child but makes a parent want to smash the thing like Pete Townsend with a Stratocaster after about ten seconds. Even when I was a kid everyone had one of those things, but I’ve never seen a new one. They were always a hand me down from some older cousin and now I know why. I would snatch that thing right out of Goat Junior’s hands if I ever got a chance to hand it down to some other little tyke and their unsuspecting parents, but I’ve gotten off on a tangent here.

   This list has taught me two things. One is that we’ve wasted a lot of money at Toys ‘r Us. The other is that Goat Junior doesn’t watch enough TV yet to realize that it’s impossible to have fun if you haven’t collected all 136 of whatever dumb fad you’re into. He foolishly thinks it’s super fun to play in a fort made from an empty BBQ box or run around chasing pigeons.

   I grew up on a farm as an only child in what could be described as fairly modest economic circumstances. We were poor.  Yet I still managed to have lot of fun with only a dog, my imagination and the outside world. Eventually I got my hands on a pellet gun and an ancient mini bike and man, the world was my oyster!

   Now, I realize that for a lot of parents today at least half the things on that list are the stuff of nightmares. Dangerous, perhaps even politically incorrect? At the very least I was savagely gender identified! But somehow I and most of the other kids I knew survived and grew up to be reasonably well adjusted adults, at least by Haliburton County standards.

   When I think of the best times from my childhood they involve messing around outside with friends, not some amazing toy I thought I needed. Except for the GI Joe aircraft carrier that Corby Kent had. It was awesome. I really did need that.

   Compared to today’s world of vehicle mounted DVD players, smart phones issued at birth, 24/7 internet access, the cartoon network on demand and video game systems that would have literally made me pass out from sheer excitement, those times seem so far removed I might as well have been floating down the Mississippi with Huckleberry Finn. And I’m still in my thirties!

   Technology is a wonderful thing, I’m just struggling with how to help Goat Junior take advantage of the wealth of information and learning opportunities all these innovations provide (not to mention tantrum free car rides) while still fostering in him a love of physical, outdoor activities and imagination based fun.

   One time my buddy Phil and I were goofing around in the front field. We thought it would be fun to start a little grass fire because when you’re ten burning stuff is awesome. Just like when you’re a drunk adult. Everything was going great when a little breeze wafted across the field, a zephyr if you will, and our harmless little slow burning fire instantly became a raging, hay fueled inferno. It was the kind of fire I imagine mighty bands of Sioux warriors kindled on the great plains in order to drive massive herds of bison over cliffs to their deaths! The smoke rose hundreds of feet into the air and was visible for miles! At least that’s how it seemed to a frightened 10 year old who’s dad might look out the window at any second.

   Phil’s momma didn’t raise no fools so he decided his best option was to distance himself from the situation and skinned out, running like hell towards the barn. I’m not sure my dad would have believed that I was torching a field while Phil pitched in and mucked out a few stalls, but I reckon he thought it was worth a shot.
   I knew I had about 10 seconds to do something before things got completely out of control so I did the only thing a kid with an aversion to corporal punishment could do. With a savage battle cry that to the untrained ear might have sounded a lot like hysterical weeping I leaped into the conflagration and started stomping on it like a meth fueled clog dancer. In a few moments the fire was out and I stood soot covered and breathless in the middle of a patch of burned grass that could have been seen from space or at least from the top of the Dorset fire tower. I wasn’t sure about my dad’s views on aliens causing crop circles but I sure hoped he was a believer.

   To make matters worse this was only a couple of weeks after we had gone back to school shopping and I knew as I looked down at the smoking husks of my brand new shoes that we couldn’t afford new ones. I threw them in the bush and wore my old ones for six uncomfortable months until I could claim I’d grown enough to need another pair.

   My parents never mentioned the fire or the shoes and I was sure we’d gotten away with the crime of the century, but looking back they must have noticed. They probably thought having my feet bound like a geisha was punishment enough.

   Another time Phil and I were playing Robin Hood or Lord of the Rings or something. I had a child’s miniature compound bow and an arrow with the tip broken off so it was just a blunt stick with fletches on it. Phil was armed with an aluminum ski pole, the point of which we had stuck into a piece of rigid Styrofoam insulation so he could hit me with it without causing injury. It seemed like a fool proof plan but as the imaginary and painfully nerdish battle was joined the downward force of Sir Phillip the Fleet‘s mighty blow whipped the improvised padding off the end of the metal ski pole and I took the full force of his attack on the top of my unprotected head. It actually bent around my skull. I dropped like I’d been tasered and emitted a howl of pain and rage that sounded like Sebastian Bach slamming his testicles in a car door.

   Once again Phil weighed his options and settled on heading for de hills. Sadly for him, lonely hicknerds (my own term) living in the middle of nowhere have a lot of time to practice their archery skills. I rolled into a crouch and hit him right in the kidneys at a full gallop, a shot I’m unapologetically proud of to this day. He went down in a writhing, squealing heap and I resumed my high pitched wailing.
   Seconds later my father burst from the house, certain we were being set upon by a band of ravenous wolverines or possibly caught our hair in a drill press. Instead he found two idiots who had turned on each other due to a combination of poorly engineered fake weaponry and severe anger control issues. A proud moment to be sure.

   I told you these stories because they are two great examples of the type of wholesome outdoor fun we used to have. Think of the character building and the life lessons. The grass fire taught me that sometimes in life, as in arson, you make mistakes. When that happens you have to be ready to jump right in and make things right…and then hide the evidence.

   The nerd skirmish taught me that when life bashes in your skull with a metal shaft you have to get back up and fight. Even if that means shooting your friend in the back as he runs away begging for mercy. A harsh lesson but life’s rough. Phil learned that you never run away from a psycho with a projectile weapon in a straight line. You gotta zig. You can’t learn this stuff from video games or TV

   When my dad wasn’t watching one of his hay fields burn down or treating arrow wounds he and I were always outside fixing something or doing chores. He loved to take me on long walks through our property and teach me about nature and the history of the land. At the time, especially as I got older, I often wanted to be somewhere else. In hindsight however those were the best times of all. I would give anything if my son and I could go for one walk in the woods with his Grandpa.

   We can’t, but we can go together and I can try to pass on some of the practical skills, stories and love of nature that he taught me.

   Were he here however, my dad might also tell you that some things you just can’t teach. For instance, how to hold a flashlight for someone fixing the carburetor on a ’74 Dodge pick-up. I would usually get distracted by a squirrel or something and end up shining the light into the wheel well as dad blindly scraped all the skin off his knuckles. This is actually how I learned about zigging when fleeing from an enraged lunatic so luckily it still turned out to be a teaching opportunity.

   I bought that ancient mini-bike I mentioned earlier with money I earned trapping minnows in the creeks and beaver ponds on our property to sell to the local bait shops. It involved miles of walking to empty the traps and my dad walked every foot of it with me, often after work and chores. We spent countless hours together in the woods and fields collecting those minnows and now as an adult (kind of) with a son of my own I realize that those times together were a much bigger reward than even a sweet ass 50cc Honda Z and those memories are something I will always cherish.

   At least I know I had a great role model as I try to find a way to strike a balance for my son between today’s technology driven activities and the robust, knuckle headed outdoor fun of my youth.

   Now, if you’ll excuse me, Goat Junior just finished watching a show which taught him how to solve problems using reading and words. He is now chasing a cat around the deck with a tower he built using Mega blocks . Looks like maybe he’ll just strike his own balance.