I am thankful to have grown up before neighborhoods became quiet. Before they lost their heartbeat and lay like dead things on the land. It was a time when most mothers were home nurturing their families and fathers were proud of providing for them.
When school ended, kids smelled freedom; they hopped on their bikes and with a joy, known only to the young, rode like the wind all over town. From dawn to dusk you heard the sounds of the neighborhood; children laughing, a dog barking, the slam of a screen door, the clatter of a push mower, or a mother calling for her child. There was activity, there was life, there was energy in our neighborhoods and when night came our streets were as safe as mid-day.
On Monday mornings the family wash was hung outside and white sheets billowed like sails on a frigate gliding over a sea of green grass. That night you went to sleep on bed linens that held the sweet scent of summer and you knew you were loved and cared for.
On cold winter days, you ate a hot breakfast then donned your coat, cap and mittens. Your mother tied a scarf over your mouth, told you to keep it on -- which you never did -- and sent you off to school. You walked everywhere; to your friend's house, the movies, the skating rink and to Sunday school. It was there that you learned that Jesus loved little kids and you believed, most of all.
I'm thankful for those Christmases when our downtown streets were hung with lighted garlands. Every shop window was filled with magic, and every passerby was greeted with a "Merry Christmas."
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Most young boys carried pocketknives and they never stabbed anyone, but they all shared the same dream: a Swiss Army knife with all of its wonderful accoutrements.
I'm thankful to have grown up when we didn't have a need to lock our houses, when kids didn't lip off to adults, when girls were taught to be modest and boys were taught to be gentlemen.
Lost values can be recaptured, but lost souls?
Patricia Carter Harding
Willmar
