A common question asked of children is “What do you want to be when you grow up?” It’s almost like a game, and most children enthusiastically play along. It’s an imaginative game, and since there’s no pressure attached, they feel free to let their thoughts run and let their answers fly. We often hear the expected answers like “fireman” or “ballerina” or “singer”. But occasionally a child will think for a while and then respond with an “mmmm … I don’t know”. Maybe they truly don’t know, but I suspect that if they’re like I was, they just don’t want to say. I think some people realize at an early age that the lives they dream about don’t quite fit the expected pattern. I think they may somehow understand that the things they dream about would probably sound impractical or even irresponsible to most other people.
When I was about 10 or so, one of my aunts signed me up for a subscription to Boy’s Life magazine. Every issue of that magazine described boys doing things I could only dream of – adventures, new skills, learning outdoor things like tying knots, sailing a boat, making things out of sticks like whistles and slingshots, building a fire, raising a tent, hiking, swimming. Those boys were not like me, stuck at home all summer with nothing to do. They went to summer camps and had exciting fun-filled days doing neat things.
Then there was the series of boy’s adventure books, the name of which I can’t recall, that I found on our hallway bookshelf. The boys in these books were not like any of the boys I knew, not even like the boys in the magazine. These boys lived lives of constant high adventure. They were always hiking or canoeing hundreds of miles through the untouched forests of Maine or Canada or somewhere, finding excitement and danger around every turn. Man, that’s what I wanted to do. Nothing sounded finer.
The most enduring boyhood fantasy of mine was that of the eighteenth century American frontiersman. For some reason it was the perfect fantasy. I loved the whole idea of leaving home with a long rifle in my hand and a dog by my side, wearing buckskin leggins and a coon-skin cap, and heading off toward the western frontier territory of Kantukee. Leaving home and friends and walking into the “howling wilderness”. My daydreams never included much about fighting the Indians whose home I was invading … I just assumed I would live so much like them that we would become friends and learn from each other. I wanted to walk along animal paths under a canopy of hardwood trees, discovering waterfalls and hidden pastures dotted with grazing elk and buffalo that had never seen a man. I wanted to climb high into the Appalachian Mountains and peer far into the smoky distance. I wanted to follow creeks to their source, gather food from nature’s bounty, and hunt animals when necessary. I wanted to live like the natives, but never stay long in one place. I wanted to see everything unspoiled. I wanted to be away from factories and cars and planes and trains and schools and stores and houses. I wanted to lie awake at night and hear the whippoorwill and the panther. I wanted to discover where the animals live freely and without fear, to swim in undiscovered pools and drink from secret mountain springs. I simply wanted to be part of the world as it was meant to be.
When I was about 10 or so, one of my aunts signed me up for a subscription to Boy’s Life magazine. Every issue of that magazine described boys doing things I could only dream of – adventures, new skills, learning outdoor things like tying knots, sailing a boat, making things out of sticks like whistles and slingshots, building a fire, raising a tent, hiking, swimming. Those boys were not like me, stuck at home all summer with nothing to do. They went to summer camps and had exciting fun-filled days doing neat things.
Then there was the series of boy’s adventure books, the name of which I can’t recall, that I found on our hallway bookshelf. The boys in these books were not like any of the boys I knew, not even like the boys in the magazine. These boys lived lives of constant high adventure. They were always hiking or canoeing hundreds of miles through the untouched forests of Maine or Canada or somewhere, finding excitement and danger around every turn. Man, that’s what I wanted to do. Nothing sounded finer.
The most enduring boyhood fantasy of mine was that of the eighteenth century American frontiersman. For some reason it was the perfect fantasy. I loved the whole idea of leaving home with a long rifle in my hand and a dog by my side, wearing buckskin leggins and a coon-skin cap, and heading off toward the western frontier territory of Kantukee. Leaving home and friends and walking into the “howling wilderness”. My daydreams never included much about fighting the Indians whose home I was invading … I just assumed I would live so much like them that we would become friends and learn from each other. I wanted to walk along animal paths under a canopy of hardwood trees, discovering waterfalls and hidden pastures dotted with grazing elk and buffalo that had never seen a man. I wanted to climb high into the Appalachian Mountains and peer far into the smoky distance. I wanted to follow creeks to their source, gather food from nature’s bounty, and hunt animals when necessary. I wanted to live like the natives, but never stay long in one place. I wanted to see everything unspoiled. I wanted to be away from factories and cars and planes and trains and schools and stores and houses. I wanted to lie awake at night and hear the whippoorwill and the panther. I wanted to discover where the animals live freely and without fear, to swim in undiscovered pools and drink from secret mountain springs. I simply wanted to be part of the world as it was meant to be.
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