The time machine

I was cleaning out the attic this week and found an unmarked box. Que? Opened it, and the smell told me what was in it before I could even see in the dim light; my collection of boyhood books. Hoo boy.

As a kid, I loved reading. Books entertained me, made me see things differently, fed my dreams and gave me new ones. I grew up in the boondocks, not many kids around; books and the wilds of South Florida were my friends.

One of my favorites was My Side of the Mountain, wherein young Sam Gribbly runs away from home and lives inside an enormous hemlock tree deep in the Catskills. The story itself was fascinating, but the author, Jean George, included dozens of sketches of ways to live off the land: What plants were edible, ways to make a trap, how to skin a hide.

Others I liked were Rascal by Sterling North, the story of an 11-yo boy with his pet raccoon during WWI in rural Wisconsin. The Henry Huggins series, and anything else by Beverly Cleary. Bradford Angier’s We Like it Wild; a young urban couple ditches city life for a tiny cabin in British Columbia. The Hardy Boys, The Yearling, A Wrinkle in Time, and so many more.

Then I entered the workforce and was required to read, read, read. But not like the books of my youth; rather, deadly dull reports, white papers, mission statements, and other meaningless drivel. My interest in reading for pleasure was nil.

My discovery in the attic was like finding a time machine. It’s got all my boyhood favs as well as some MAD magazines, Golden Series comics, a few Boy’s Life magazines, and..treasure of treasures..my old diary.

Now that I’m retired, I think it’s time to set the dial to the 1970s and get re-acquainted with some old friends of a better era.