Sean Dietrich
Christmas break. There were little-kid toys scattered around the house, fallen in the line of duty.
A friendship bracelet kit, decimated. A loaded whoopee cushion on a chair, awaiting its next victim. A Silly Putty wad, dangling from a light fixture.
There was a knock-off Stretch Armstrong doll, lying on the coffee table, tired and depressed. I gave the generic-brand stretch doll to my 12-year-old goddaughter for Christmas. Namely, because I had a Stretch Armstrong when I was a kid.
I’m amazed we survived however, because the other day when I opened the box a warning label said this product contains a chemical known to the state of California to cause birth defects, cancer, and other reproductive harm, etc.
Sean Dietrich
And I’m thinking about the Christmas breaks of my childhood. I’m remembering the glory of Christmases yore, back before warning labels which caused cancer in California. Back before technology lit the world with its perpetually phosphorus glow.
Things in America have changed since I was a boy. We were feral children during Christmas breaks. We were dangerous. We lived without helmets. We had BB guns. We ate saturated fat. And we were never, ever inside.
After all, there was no reason to be inside. Not if you owned a bike. I spent the first 14 years of my life with a bicycle saddle digging into my main crevice.
If we weren’t riding bikes, however, we were likely in the woods, building campfires, making rope swings, or inventing new ways to break Joseph Tyler’s leg.
We built tree houses, too. I don’t know where we managed to find scrap lumber for such structures, but somehow we always did. Usually, the lumber was warped, waterlogged, and came pre-treated with tetanus.
We would haul lumber into the woods, climb trees, and use our dads’ hammers, shouting things like, “Keep it plumb!” even though, technically, we had no idea what “plumb” meant.
Inevitably, the girls wanted to join our all-boy treehouse clubs. We boys prohibited all female contact. But, without fail, one weak-minded soldier would succumb to the wiles of Angie Philhour and the next day your treehouse had curtains.
But everything has changed. And sometimes I wonder if we haven’t failed our kids somehow.
Today, I see young people listlessly wandering through department-store aisles, looking downward at a bluish glow. Statistically, Americans send two texts every minute.
Even school breaks have changed. When I was a kid, we got three months off each summer. Today, many US schools don’t get more than a few weeks off. In Massachusetts, they’re lucky if they get 10 days.
And bikes. There aren’t many bikes around. Forty years ago 78 percent of American schoolchildren rode bikes. Today, it’s barely 20 percent.
And sadly, kids do not build treehouses anymore, either. Instead their parents select an architect who then purchases a city permit before hiring a contractor. Construction codes are enforced, job sites are monitored by OSHA standards, and once per year a fire captain performs an inspection for safety hazards and maximum capacity.
Except in California, of course, where treehouses are known to cause cancer.