Dr. James W. Garrett was our family doctor when my brothers and I were boys. He told my mother in the early days, “Mrs. McCall, your family has a history of diabetes. Whatever you do, don’t let your boys get fat.”
He was 50 years ahead of his time. Today we live in a world where children grow up as “couch potatoes,” with their eyes glued to a TV or computer screen, or mobile device of some sort, and live sedentary lifestyles. Consequently, obesity among children is growing at an alarming rate, perpetuating a diabetes crisis.
My mother acted on Dr. Garrett’s advice to ensure her boys stayed skinny. Of course, that was not a problem on the farm where we grew up. After we were old enough to help our father with the tobacco and hay crops, he made sure we stayed in great shape. And prior to our learning to work hard, we played hard.
We played all over that sixty-acre farm. We climbed trees. We built houses and hide-outs. We made mud pies. We rode bicycles. We played ball. It was easy to stay skinny. Then too, there were so many of us we never had an overabundance of food. We had plenty to eat, but we didn’t overeat. And, like I said, we played hard.
One of my favorite things my brother, Tom, and I did was ride a coaster wagon off the hill behind our feed barn. I don’t remember when we got our first coaster wagon. I do remember it wasn’t new. My father built a plywood flatbed the exact size of the original Radio Flyer frame. It was a thing of beauty.
Just behind our feed barn lay a hill that sloped sharply toward the river bottom. The dirt road that led off the hill was at least 100 yards in length and turned sharply to the left at the bottom of the hill.
In the curve at the bottom of the hill, tractor tires and truck tires had ground the dirt into a soft powder. It was as fine as powdered sugar and saddle brown in color.
My brother and I would spend entire mornings and sometimes most of an afternoon on different days riding that wagon off the hill. I would ride in the front of the wagon. My brother would lay the wagon tongue over my shoulder, climb in behind me, and off the hill we would go. It was absolutely breathtaking!
At the bottom of the hill, if we didn’t make the curve, the wagon would dump us into the bank of the curve and the dust would fly.
Of course, the hardest part of the ride was pulling the wagon back up the hill. We took turns. It was no small task. In the summertime, the sweat rolled off us, which means when we were dumped at the bottom of the hill, all that dust stuck to us. By the end of the day, dirt would ring the creases of our necks, and our toenails and fingernails would be black underneath.
At night, before our baths, our father took pleasure in gathering us into his lap one-at-a-time and checking to make sure the wigglies were cleaned out from between our toes. After our baths (and there was always a considerable amount of silt left in the tub), our mother would inspect our ears. Sometimes she would look in our ears and say, “Whoo, I believe a rooster slept in there last night!”
I will never forget that coaster wagon, and the thrill of flying off that hill. And how much work it took to get back to the top. Those were carefree days – the kind of days that are worth remembering.
I can’t, however, remember the last time I found wigglies between my toes.
Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall
