I told the kids today that the oldest object I own has been around for 64 years. It’s a small blue truck, a Dinky Toy. As a five-year-old, I loved going to grandma and grandpa’s farm near Lindsay, Ontario. So different from the speed of Toronto. Every summer, we’d spend two weeks there. I’d hang out with the cows and walk the fields with dad and Uncle Orville. In the evenings, I played with my Dinky Toys under the big shade tree in the front yard.
One time, mom called me in after sunset. “Time for bed, Bruce.” > “See you in the morning, cars and trucks.”
I rushed outside before breakfast and saw that my blue truck was … white. “Someone’s painted my truck!” I screamed, in the general vicinity of the parent types. I remember being furious. It was my truck.
A year or two later, mom explained what had happened. “A bird went to the bathroom on your truck.” Huh? No way.
I asked the kids to look back on their lives. Did something happen at age five or so that was totally weird? And you made up a story about it that turned out to be way off the mark?
We had a very cool discussion, ranging through the fears of children – snakes in the toilet, the dreaded disease TV (really TB), shadows on bedroom walls, the boogeyman lurking outside the door.
My favourite came from “Tessa”, who had been watching a TV program at a young age. Somebody was hurting someone else, and the girl knew this had to stop. She called 911. She already knew her address. The police arrived. Parents sighed. And then all was well again. Who knew that television could be so real?
We ran out of time for me to ask this question, but I wonder:
Is there some idea in an 11-year-old mind today
that the passing of years will show to be ridiculous?
Or maybe in a 69-year-old mind?
I wouldn’t be surprised