By: Sharon K. Shubert


(Previously published by Hearst Publishing in Country Living magazine in 1994. Also published by Big Barn Books, by Pottsboro Press and by The Denison Herald)



We never played Nintendo when I was growing up. Super Mario was unheard of. In fact, television itself was a fairly new commodity. My family's first was a black-and-white RCA, and I can still remember sitting in the car, filled with anticipation, as I watched my dad carry it across the street from the store.

Our bikes weren't the awesome, neon 10 or 12-speed vehicles we all scramble to buy for our kids today. We rode plain-Jane girl's or boy's bikes without all the fancy equipment that now seems so necessary. Banana seats or a basket on the front was about as extravagant as things got, unless you were lucky enough to have red or blue tassels streaming from the hand-grips or maybe a horn on the handlebars.

My brother, sister, and I relied on our imaginations and simple, traditional games for childhood entertainment. Almost nightly we played "chase" or "freeze-tag" at dusk while the sun displayed its brilliant sunset, then we'd dart around the yard under the stars. Sometimes we'd take empty jelly jars outside and fill them up with glowing fireflies. Such evenings usually ended reluctantly as we were called in for baths and bed.

Winter evenings found us congregated in one of our bedrooms to play Monopoly, Pick-up-Sticks, checkers, or maybe a card game such as Snap, Crazy Eights, or Old Maid. Bored with these choices, we'd get out our drawing pads or Etch-a-Sketches and depict whatever came to mind.

Sidewalks then were canvases for colorful chalk-drawn hopscotch games where little girls in pigtails hopped and jumped and laughed. Most of us were jump-rope experts and knew all of the little songs that someone had made up to break the monotony of it. If we tired of the usual version, there was always, "Chinese jump-rope", played with long rubber bands knotted around two friends' ankles and intricately jumped through. A series of tricky moves were the object of this variation of the game, which we considered exotic and exciting, probably because of the country it supposedly was derived from.

Hand-clapping games accompanied by lighthearted, silly childish songs provided hours of fun. In one, I recall summoning a playmate to come out and play with me; we'd be jolly friends forever more. Whatever the exact lyrics were, we'd sing it over and over again as we tried to complete the whole song without missing a beat in the claps. Once we got it down pat, we'd go faster and faster until we were laughing so hard our sides ached.

I remember Red Rover and Mother May I. Then there was Red Light Green Light, London Bridge, and Simon Says. Hide-and-Seek was always a thrill, especially if a lot of kids were playing. While the seeker hid his or her face, we'd run and hide in some inventive hiding place we thought no one else had thought of. As you crouched there with your heart thudding in your ears, you were certain the seeker could hear it too. As the seeker's footsteps came closer and closer, I'd hold my breath and close my eyes tightly waiting for the inevitable "find".

Of course, there were fads that would send everyone running to the local five-and-dime. We all had to have yo-yos, Silly Putty, and huge glass balls on string called, "clackers". We'd have contests to see who could set the record for the most walk-the-dogs or clacks, or who could find the goofiest picture in the comic strips to capture on the putty. To tell the truth, I never could "clack" very long before hitting myself in the head with the clackers and yo-yos were not my forte, either. I spent most of my time rewinding the string to try the elusive tricks once again.

One year, Santa brought my sister and me shiny new red pogo sticks. Try as I might, though, I fell off that thing over and over again and had outgrown it before I had mastered its objective. As you might suspect, po-going was not my most loved pastime!

I believe my favorite fad turned out to be my bright-orange hula hoop. I spent hours on the front lawn determined to master this odd challenge before my sister could. I taught myself to hula-hoop not only the traditional way, spinning the hoop around my waist, but also with my neck, my wrists, and my ankles. I dreamed of being the best 10-year-old hula-hooper in the entire world and I imagined cheering crowds awestruck by my amazing hula-hooping abilities.

Occasionally, we'd play school in our room and make up tests similar to the ones we'd taken in our real classrooms. We'd mimic our teachers, grading the exams with a red pen, and once in awhile my brother got licks with a paddle because he just couldn't seem to behave himself. Other times we'd get our Bibles and Mom's hymnals and play church, preaching sermons and singing at the top of our lungs while playing a table organ my grandmother had given us.

An old standby in our play was Barbie. Whenever we were bored, she was always waiting there with her painted-on smile, bouffant hairdo, and red one-piece swimsuit with matching nail polish. Our Barbie had an entire wardrobe of the latest fashions sewn by my grandmother and mother, and we dressed and redressed her depending on where we had her going. We didn't have a Ken, Barbie's boyfriend, so we drove Barbie around the bedroom in an old green army jeep with my brother's G.I. Joe as her mate. When Locket Kiddles (little dolls in a locket worn around the neck) became popular these characters became Barbie and G.I. Joe's children.

We made the little family comfortable beds out of kitchen matchboxes with empty thread spools glued to the bottom. We sewed tiny "quilts" and pillows and stuffed them with cotton saved from aspirin bottles. Velveeta cheese boxes carefully draped with luxurious purple fabric became a living-room sofa, where Barbie, G.I. Joe, and their family could relax after a long day. We spent many rainy afternoons creating additional pieces of furniture for the little family, including a "refrigerator" that we filled with pictures of food that we'd clipped from magazines and then glued inside.

Countless hours were spent playing in our drafty old barn, which was piled to the rafters with huge stacks of musty-smelling hay bales. Long ropes and rusty tools hung on the gray walls and checkered feed sacks were strewn all over the dusty, wooden floors. We'd drag the heavy bales and arrange them to form a makeshift stairway, then heft ourselves to the very top. Whoever was the last of us below piled up a fluffy mattress of loose hay at the bottom of our fortress. Then, one by one, we'd lie down near the edge and roll off, dropping down, down to plop into the pile. What a thrill! Over and over we'd play this game until Mom rang the supper bell. Then we'd jump down, running as fast as we could, following the mouthwatering aroma of the meal that awaited us, hay still clinging to our clothes and hair.

Once we built a tree house using old lumber we had hoisted up the tree on an old rope one plank at a time. The tree house was just wood planks nailed across several strong branches, but it served its purpose well. It became our hideout in make-believe cops and robbers games. It was also a clubhouse and we'd sometimes keep out unwelcome would-be-members by spitting on their heads if they tried to come up the ladder or the rope. An afternoon snack of peanut butter and crackers somehow tasted better when eaten in the tree house. And evenings there were spent listening to the latest pop tunes on our AM/FM transistor radio, as we'd lie on our backs, sing along to the radio, and search the star-filled sky for the Milky Way or the Big and Little Dippers.

During most of my childhood we had horses. My dad brought the first one home when I was about six years old. It was a gray Shetland pony. We went outside to watch Dad put a bridle, saddle blanket, and saddle on it, while it just stood there staring at us, its long mane hanging in its eyes. Over the years, my brother, sister and I all became accomplished riders and loved horses. We even use to sit in the back of my dad's truck and serenade them when we weren't riding. They would stand there and listen for as long as we'd sing, usually expecting a reward of oats or some other such goody for being our audience and they'd nudge us and sniff our pockets until we revealed their treats.

As I think about it now, I realize we didn't miss a thing by never playing Nintendo or mastering the art of the Sega system. Our adventures were our own--not the ideas mapped out by some computer whiz.

Now, whatever happened to those paper dolls I spent hours cutting out?

I wonder if Mom kept my roller skates with the key?

I haven't seen my Cheerful Tearful in years!

And where did I put those jacks?