Brenda's
Musings - Childhood
by Brenda Beust Smith
June 12, 2006
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On one of
the news
talk shows
the other
day, they
interviewed
a
psychologist
about what
she
considered a
disturbing
trend:
parents who
— with the
aid of
cellphones,
text
messaging
and emails —
continue to
overly-influence
their
children’s
behavior
long after
they should
have “left
the nest.”
These modern
conveniences
allow
parents to
maintain
daily (or
more often)
contact with
children who
are away at
college, or
even
married. Too
many
parents, she
said, are
continuing
to solve
problems,
offer
advice,
shoulder
problems
instead of
insisting
their
children
move into a
more
independent
status.
What her
profession
and
educators
are seeing,
she says,
are too many
20+-year-olds
who have not
learned to
problem-solve
on their
own, to
explore new
avenues of
life, to
develop
thinking
commiserate
with modern
times. They
are still
turning to
Mommy and
Daddy
instead of
developing
into mature
functioning
adults
capable of
viewing
various
options,
selecting
one and then
learning
from the
outcome.
She probably
has a good
point. But
the
technology
is there for
parents to
keep the
umbilical
cord tight;
can you
blame them
for
utilizing
this new
technology?
This isn’t
the only
front on
which
children
aren’t being
allowed
anymore to
“learn to
live with
freedom.”
We were just
talking the
other day
about how
sad it is
that
children
today don’t
ever get to
roam free.
They have to
be (because
of our
society
today)
constantly
under the
supervision
of some
adult.
Parents
can’t even
allow their
children to
walk down
the street
alone. I
don’t blame
them. You
have to be
this way.
But how sad.
We had such
freedom when
I was a
child (back
in the late
40s and
50s). No, I
didn’t grow
up in a
small town
where
everyone
knew
everyone
else and you
could depend
on neighbors
to report
any
dangerous
behavior.
I grew up in
the heart of
Houston, in
Riverside.
But it was a
different
city then.
Still big,
still
multi-cultured.
Just not so
scary — for
parents or
children.
When summer
came, my
friends and
I (Shelly
Sweeney,
Donna Skebo,
Joan
Shanahan, to
name a few)
would jump
on our bikes
and meet at
“Hilly
Park,” a
delightful
small green
space in the
middle of
Riverside,
just off
North
MacGregor.
We’d ride
around all
day, going
as far as
the
University
of Houston
to the
south,
Hermann Park
to the
north, OST
to the west
and, on
particularly
brave days,
almost to
downtown on
the north.
Mostly we
were looking
for the
boys. Boys
we knew
well, of
course.
Neighborhood
boys.
Usually they
were to be
found
somewhere on
Braes Bayou
which, in
those days,
was a
wonderful
wooded
treasure
trove of
flowers and
nasty
animals.
Richard Hall
used to
delight in
scaring all
of us girls
away with
gars and
snakes. We
always went
back, of
course.
At a grocery
store on
Scott we
could buy
barbecue
beef
sandwiches
for 15
cents. We’d
take these
and Cokes
down to the
bayou for
lunch.
There was a
trestle
across Braes
Bayou where
a bridge
stands now.
On very
brave days,
I’d walk my
bike across
the trestle
(Mother
would have
DIED) as a
shortcut on
my way to
see Michelle
or Donna.
Mostly tho,
I didn’t,
because I
knew I’d be
in serious
trouble with
my parents
if anything
happened.
We were all
too
frightened
of parental
retribution
to do much
of anything
of which our
parents
would not
have
approved. It
wasn’t that
there were
neighbors to
report on
us, as there
would have
been in
small towns.
We didn’t
because,
well, I
don’t know
why we
didn’t.
Perhaps it
was because
we not only
carried with
us the
specter of
our parents,
but also of
the nuns who
taught us at
St. Mary’s
School. Nuns
were
powerful
figures in
those days
in their
long black
and white
habits with
the imposing
stiff-starch
headdresses
and massive
rosaries
hanging from
their
waists.
Hermann Park
was a main
draw. (Can
you imagine
turning
youngsters
loose all
day long in
any city
park today?)
We knew
every nook
and cranny
of that
park.
At 3 p.m.,
all the
children
gathered at
the zoo.
That was
when they
put out
little
saucers of
blood for
the bats. At
least, we
thought it
was blood. I
wonder if it
really was?
Today’s
beautiful
reflection
pond was
just
dirt-sided
in those
days. Tris
Englehardt
had a movie
camera and
someone
(perhaps
Tris?) wrote
scripts
about a
monster
named
Muckaluck
which we
acted out.
Usually they
involved the
monster
chasing
girls around
the
perimeter
and finally
driving
Ronnie and
Donnie Megow
and the
other boys
into the
lake on
their bikes.
Tris owned
some shares
(maybe one)
of Canada
Dry (I
think), and
he even made
commercials,
stopping the
camera and
moving the
bottle to
simulate
motion. They
actually
showed the
movies at
St. Thomas
High School
until
someone, I
think it was
Suzy Goetter,
wore short
shorts and
the priests
banned them
from that
point on.
But I
digress. We
were talking
about the
freedom we
had as
children.
Bill had
even more
than I
because he
grew up,
almost
literally,
in the
swamps and
woods around
Rose City
and Vidor,
just east of
Beaumont.
But then,
that was
small town
America,
where our
memories say
all children
roamed at
will.
Perhaps it’s
a little
out-of-place
for me to
talk about
such things.
I not only
have no
children
away at
college to
whom I could
offer daily,
if not
hourly,
counsel via
text
messaging,
my only
child is
autistic and
will always
be here with
us.
But it does
make one
wonder what
kind of
future
adults will
come from a
generation
that is so
confined, so
supervised,
limited in
their
ability to
roam and
experience,
to “play in
the dirt.”
Thanks to my
sister Judy
Harrington,
who is
“into” books
about Arab
women, I
have now
read a
number of
autobiographies
which detail
how the
young Arab
men of my
youth period
were so
pampered, so
treated as
gods by
their
parents. All
of the women
about whom I
have read
were forced
by their
parents,
especially
their
mothers, to
be
subservient
to their
brothers.
Sons were
never wrong.
Sons
received
first choice
of
everything.
Sons were
never
punished or
made to
apologize.
What kind of
influence
did such a
background
have on the
men who are
running the
Middle East
today?
I don’t
know. I just
wonder.
Not that I
am in any
way
comparing
our two
societies.
I just
wonder how
much any
society’s
treatment of
children
influences
the way the
world
functions in
future
generations?
What
influence
will this
apparent
current
constant
parental
contact and
influence
long past
childhood
have on the
adults who
are running
this country
decades
hence?
Am I just
engaging in
typical
“older
generation”
bemoaning of
what the
younger
generation
is doing?
Surely
throughout
the ages,
every group
of
60+-year-olds
— in every
society
across the
Earth — has
shaken its
collective
head while
making dire
predictions
based on
changes
being
witnessed.
Who knows.
It does make
for
interesting
conversation
over
margaritas
on a hot
Houston
summer
evening as
the dogs run
around the
yard and the
water
fountain in
the pond
accompanies
a cricket
symphony.
Brenda
Beust Smith
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