Before the internet, there was the Citizens Band Radio, allowing us to call out into the abyss, hoping for a reply
Originally published July, 2023
“Breaker, breaker, one-nine,” I called into the receiver.
I sat in the dormer window of my third-floor bedroom and listened to the silence, occasionally broken up by the static of the CB radio.
“Break, breaker, one-nine,” I repeated a minute later. “This is Kid Curious, sitting in my perch, waiting for the world to drive by. Anybody got their ears on?”
“Come on in, Kid Curious,” came a voice crackling over the radio. “What’s your 20?”
“Center of Hatfield,” I replied. “Corner of Cowpath and Forty Foot Road. Sitting here stewing.”
“I hear that,” he replied. “I’m 10-8 to your 20 in 10. What’s on your mind?”
This meant he would be passing my location in about 10 minutes. As to what was on my mind, I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t have anything on my mind. I was bored, curious, and unprepared to have an adult conversation with a stranger. To be honest, I hadn’t really expected anyone to answer.
“What sort of groceries you haulin’?” I asked in my best attempt to sound mature, even using what I believed to be the correct trucker slang for cargo.
There was a brief pause, and for a second, I thought that I’d lost him. Not all truckers wanted to chat with a kid, I feared.
“Deadheading,” came the reply, clearer now. “Turn and burn. On my way home. Had a load of blueberries.”
“10-4,” I said. “How far you got?”
“No more than 60,” he said, meaning he was less than an hour from home.
“That’s not too bad,” I said.
“Negatory,” he said. “Not too bad at all.”
“What’s your handle?” I asked.
“This is Big Dan,” he said. “Straight out of Bethlehem.”
“Safe travels, Big Dan,” I said. “Hit me up next time you’re passing through. I’ll keep my ears open.”
“That’s a big 10-4, good buddy,” said Big Dan, with what I thought might be the hint of a smile.
“Well, take care. I don’t want to be accused of being the hot mic,” I said.
A hot mic was someone that hogged the channel with useless chatter.
“Thanks for that, Kid Curious,” he said. “I appreciate you checking in. You take care now, ya hear? Over and out.”
I may have been ten years old, forty-five years ago, but that’s how I remember it.
All On My Own
When I was in the first grade and still living in Edmond, Oklahoma, I would ride my bike to the five-and-dime to buy ammo. Six years old. Alone. Riding my bike to the store to buy Daisy BBs for my slingshot. They kept the ammo in a glass case that had to be unlocked by an employee—for security purposes.
Woolworths had to keep the BBs locked up, but they’d happily sell them to any six-year-old who showed up with a pocketful of loose change and a smile. Who were they keeping them away from exactly? Wayward four-year-olds?
In the 1970s and early 80s, most kids had an insane amount of freedom to more or less go about their business with little to no adult supervision or interference. We were self-sufficient, both by design and necessity and knew well the value of independence. Most of us had house rules, but we were on our honor to comport ourselves with dignity and respect while out in the world. Staying out of trouble and not getting hurt was left up to us, so we were both cautious and careful. We understood well the concept of risk.
When I was in kindergarten, I would walk to the post office by myself and get the mail. It was just a few doors away and around the corner. A small town in Pennsylvania called Blooming Glen. There was a sidewalk, and I’m sure my mother was barely out of eyesight, but in my memory, I was on my own.
There was also some sort of paint store where I would stop in and chat with the man who worked there. Then there was my neighbor, Mr. Grass, who later had a school named after him, who I would follow around the yard, “helping” with various chores.
A Coke And A Smile
For more than 30 years, my mother taught ballet and gymnastics, but when we lived in Oklahoma, she had an entire school that accommodated everyone from three-year-old girls to college cheerleaders. It was in a large industrial space that my parents had turned into a gym and ballet studio. The studio was situated in some sort of strip mall, and next door was Toddy’s Arts and Crafts.
Toddy was a Hope Indian and sold a lot of silver and turquoise, hemp rope, and beads. My middle name is Todd, so I always assumed this made us kindred spirits. I would spend entire days with her while my mother worked next door. I don’t think this was any sort of official arrangement. I don’t even know why I was with my mother at work. Where were my sister and brother? It was a different time. It was the 70s.
Directly next door to Toddy’s was an auto parts store. They had a Coke machine, and for 25¢, I could get an 8-ounce glass ice-cold bottle of Coke. Toddy would give me 50¢, and I would make it happen. We were a team.
On Two Wheels
Before you can drive a car, a bicycle is your first key to freedom and independence.
I learned how to ride a bicycle in Nashville, Tennessee, but the first bicycle I remember owning had been left behind in the garage of our new home in Hatfield, Pennsylvania. It was a Schwinn StingRay called “The Green Machine” and featured a long, motorcycle-style seat, high, ape-hanger handlebars, and a center bar shifter to change gears. It was, of course, metallic green.
It was both weird and cool, which is the best way to describe just about everything in the 1970s. It had a bit of a chopper appeal to it. It barely looked like something you would buy but more like something you would have built yourself from spare parts.
It was stolen at the pool one summer. I’d never bothered to lock it because I didn’t think anyone would have bothered to steal it. But later that year, we were visiting Oklahoma, and my cousin pulled an old yellow Huffy out of the ditch behind their house and fixed it up for me. It was my first ten-speed, and you would have thought he’d given me a Corvette.
When I was 13, I saved up my money from various chores and side jobs to buy a brand-new 12-speed. I can’t remember for the life of me what brand it was, but I special ordered it from a local bike shop. I only had it a few years before I upgraded to an orange Peugeot that I had until my 20s. But that first new bike that I paid for with my own hard-earned money was pretty glorious.
I rode everywhere.
In the years since, I had gotten it into my head that I was traveling miles and miles from home on a regular basis. That I would ride my bike several towns over to visit friends or girls I liked. I imagined these rides to be 20-30 miles one way, and took me most of the day. But recently, I was home visiting my mother, and I did a quick Google search for a few landmarks and realized I only lived about 3 miles from school, and the furthest I would typically ride was about ten miles, probably less.
Tiny, Tiny, Tiny
There is a scene in the 1993 film Indian Summer with Kevin Pollack (Brad) and Elizabeth Perkins (Jennifer). They’re with a group of adults who all attended summer camp together as kids, and they’ve come back for a reunion of sorts. Brad and Jennifer take a canoe ride across the lake to visit a waterfall they used to visit when they were kids.
“Look how tiny this is,” says Brad, standing with Jennifer overlooking a small dam which is little more than a spillway. “I don’t remember it being this small. I remember it being huge.”
“Brad, do you think Matt and Kelly are happy?” asks Jennifer.
“Yeah,” says Brad. “They’re happy. They’re fine.”
They watch the water pass below them.
“This was always like a mountain to me,” says Brad. “Like a big dam. Like the one in Vegas. Huge!”
“Yeah, but do you think he still loves her?” says Jennifer.
“You don’t still have a thing for him, do ya?” asks Brad.
“For Matt? Like twenty years later? What’s the matter, you get bit by something?”
“Well, good, because he’s definitely married. Happy, I don’t know, but he’s good and married.”
Brad continues to be amazed at the minute scale of the dam while Jennifer has other things on her mind.
“I just can’t get over how small this is,” says Brad. “It is completely tiny. Tiny, tiny, tiny.”
“Alright. Enough already with the tiny talk, Brad, okay?” Says Jennifer. “The dam did not get smaller. It did not.”
“Yeah, but I’m just saying, to me, it definitely got smaller.”
“It’s the same size it always was, okay? Nothing has gotten smaller. The dam, the camp, the lake. They have not shrunk. We have gotten bigger. Everything else has stayed the same size. Deal with it.”
An Island Never Cries
I am constantly shocked by how young children are in grade school. Let me unpack that. I have seven grandchildren ranging in age from 3-12. As far as I can tell, the oldest was born about a month ago, and now he’s entering the 7th grade. The three-year-old is going into preschool.
The thing is, I remember preschool. Several of them. In three different states. I have vivid memories of every grade, including specific events, teachers, and friends. I find this shocking since I can barely remember what I did yesterday. But more importantly, I’m shocked at the level of self-awareness I had even as a young child.
I think it was during my time in a Mennonite school that I first realized that adults were not to be trusted and that just because someone was in charge did not mean they knew what they were doing. It took many more years to realize that my own father did not have all the answers and might be wrong about a great many things. And then a few more years still before I realized that governments and world leaders were largely out of the fucking minds. Combined, this has the power to unmoor you.
Growing up, I was never a loner, nor do I remember being lonely. I always had plenty of friends, but that didn’t mean I needed other people to occupy my time. I sort of came and went as it pleased me. Coming from a big family with a slew of kids, as I did, I occasionally spent time with my little brother and some of the neighborhood kids, but mostly I moved from place to place, group to group, friend to friend, all on my own. I learned to rely on myself and few others.
Paul Simon wrote, “I have my books, and my poetry to protect me. I am shielded in my armor, hiding in my room, safe within my womb. I touch no one, and no one touches me. I am a rock, I am an island, and a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.”
A bit hyperbolic, perhaps, but also not entirely out of the question. A rock feels no pain. An Island never cries. I think it’s why I write. It’s a way to connect with people without getting too close. In many ways, I’m still that ten-year-old boy, sitting in the dormer window, calling out into the abyss, anxious that someone might talk back, worried that no one will.
“Breaker, breaker. Anybody got their ears on? Come back.”