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OPINION

When we were kids, we knew every inch of our neighbourhood.

We ran around town till ten minutes before mom got home, which on weekends was often 2 a.m. Bad news for us when she got home early.

We knew every vacant lot, who had scary dogs in their yards, which were free spaces. We could hop six-foot fences with ease, a requirement when playing Guns with your crew. Other times, tribes were dropped when all the neighbour kids got together for a wide game of Kick the Can, Ghost in the Graveyard or Hide and Seek through everyone's yard. I could, and did, visit friends in other cities or parts of town who had the exact same games going.

Marshall Jones, managing editor

Sometimes I tell my two sons the stories.

“When we were a little older, like 10 or 11, our Guns game got far more advanced. I had a broken pellet gun that looked just like a .357 Magnum. My friend Chris got a replica 9 mm Beretta for Christmas, complete with caps for the shells. We found a vacant lot and we strung barbed wire through it to keep people away from the six-foot-deep, two-room cave we dug into the dirt and where we stashed our knives and ninja stars and hockey-stick nunchucks.

“One day we were playing Guns, two teams, and we came into a clearing when we saw a cop — she was a woman — hiding behind the door of her police car with her gun out and pointed right at our friends on the other side of the field. We were behind her with our very-real-looking guns and she hadn’t seen us yet. I think we all knew we’d didn’t want to surprise her. First we hid and watched the other team walk forward with their hands up. Then they pointed at us and we had to come out under the point of her gun. I dropped my pellet gun, but Chris kept his. The cop was scared, we could see her shaking, and it only got worse as Chris got closer with his gun. He got in a lot of trouble for that, but he wouldn’t drop it in the dirt.”

Halfway through my story, I look up and both boys appear stunned.

Every bit of dad lore they endure describes a foreign world to them. Free range kids following their natural instinct for shenanigans. We’d have done it all in defiance of our parents, had they known about any of it, or were inclined to really care or worry.

Now that I’m older, I presume they thought we were doing what they did. Growing up in the ‘50s, my father-in-law tells stories of he and his brother grabbing guns and fishing rods and heading off for days in summer, eating what they caught or shot and they ate well.

They were middle-school-age.

We weren’t doing that in town, we were annoying.

We made prank phone calls. We threw eggs or soaped windows. We went into different neighbourhoods at night looking for aluminum garbage cans or ladders we could throw. They made the most noise and therefore held the best chance someone would run out of the house and chase us.

Sometimes, we’d play Nicky-nicky-nine-door. That’s what we called it: Ring the doorbell and run. The goal was to do nine houses in a row AND outrun anyone who came out. That rarely ever happened.

I always thought it was a universal experience for kids in the '80s.

I’m 50 now and just the type of person to join my neighbourhood Facebook page.

A couple weeks ago, someone complained about the kids who rang their doorbell and took off. They’ve got them on camera, of course. Dozens of others chimed in to blame not just the children but their parents who weren’t hovering close enough. I seem to remember some threat of further action if an apology wasn’t rendered and soon.

Then one weekend, they all got together to keep a close eye on “at least a dozen” kids riding their bikes in the ‘hood.

They were in the street!

Some of these posters stopped to have words with them about safety.

AND THEY WERE RUDE TO THEM!

More complaints about the parents of these kids — should we call the RCMP? A second post had tracked them to another street to warn the neighbours of the impending mayhem of Unsupervised Children.

“They weren’t inside playing video games?” I said.

I’m embarrassed for my generation.

You’ve gotten old. Stuffy.

You forgot.

Every scrape, burn, broken bone and terrifying turn borne of our freedom was worth the lesson. Risky, yes. Dangerous, perhaps. But they also taught us to go slower. Stupidity hurts and requires correction. Autonomy. Self-preservation. Defiance felt like a rite, the agitation required to slough off childhood and adolescence. We were going to be us, not who they told us we were.

It served us well.

How dare you deny it of others.

I never saw those kids on the bikes. I did have someone ring my doorbell not long ago and I didn’t see anyone there.

I was so excited, I grabbed my shoes and ran out after them, angrily hollering and waving my arms.

Just like they wanted.

— Marshall Jones is the Managing Editor of iNFOnews.ca

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