Saturday, August 11, 2018
We Protect Our Children. That's Only Natural.
By: Donovan Baldwin
We protect our children. That's only natural.
When I look back on MY childhood, in a much different era, place, and with different dangers, I am sometimes surprised that I survived.
I spent days alone in the woods climbing trees, encountering snakes and strangers, finding all sorts of things which I inspected without fear of contamination, including discarded magazines which enhanced my knowledge of anatomy... somewhat, swam in Pensacola Bay, shot guns, used knives, threw rocks and shot whittled arrows from a homemade bow, at people doing the same to me.
I rode my bicycle in traffic every day, in my early teens getting up at 3 A.M. to ride my bike to an isolated place to get my newspapers and deliver them in the dark by myself.
Had the usual boyhood fights and arguments, and no-holds-barred football games and wrestling matches. Climbed everything... trees, walls, and even a couple of buildings.
Still, somehow, I made it here.
As a grown up, in dangerous occupations, I survived, at least in part, because I knew what I was doing.
As a kid?
Not sure HOW I made it.
Just a spin of Lady Luck's wheel, I guess.
Anyway, that, and Sister Mary Fides, and that dear little storytelling Irish priest, Father Cunningham, set my imagination in gear, and on fire, so that the boy's body, and mind, took it from there, and always did something with the memories.
Just meandering thoughts arriving here this morning.
We protect our children. That's only natural.
When I look back on MY childhood, in a much different era, place, and with different dangers, I am sometimes surprised that I survived.
I spent days alone in the woods climbing trees, encountering snakes and strangers, finding all sorts of things which I inspected without fear of contamination, including discarded magazines which enhanced my knowledge of anatomy... somewhat, swam in Pensacola Bay, shot guns, used knives, threw rocks and shot whittled arrows from a homemade bow, at people doing the same to me.
I rode my bicycle in traffic every day, in my early teens getting up at 3 A.M. to ride my bike to an isolated place to get my newspapers and deliver them in the dark by myself.
Had the usual boyhood fights and arguments, and no-holds-barred football games and wrestling matches. Climbed everything... trees, walls, and even a couple of buildings.
Still, somehow, I made it here.
As a grown up, in dangerous occupations, I survived, at least in part, because I knew what I was doing.
As a kid?
Not sure HOW I made it.
Just a spin of Lady Luck's wheel, I guess.
Anyway, that, and Sister Mary Fides, and that dear little storytelling Irish priest, Father Cunningham, set my imagination in gear, and on fire, so that the boy's body, and mind, took it from there, and always did something with the memories.
Just meandering thoughts arriving here this morning.
Labels: boyhood, childhood, children, donovan baldwin, Irish priest, Pensacola Bay, survival
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
Boys Riding The Storm
By: Donovan Baldwin
Kids do stupid things.
Okay, maybe not so much stupid, as out of ignorance of consequences.
The recent hurricanes reminded me of some of the dumb things I did in Florida as a boy. Not just hurricanes, but, when other storms blew in, my friend and I would go swimming in Pensacola Bay.
I don't know what the attraction was, unless it was that moment in a storm, or just before, when the water is flat, unmoving, dull gray like lead, not quite shining like mercury, surreal, framed above by storm clouds.
I sensed something when I saw that. An odd feeling of something strangely different from the day to day experiences of water and life. The bay was usually blue or blue-green and moving, constantly moving. Before the storm it got flat and still.
Somehow that spoke to me of some awesome power that could make water, that water, be still, especially from some unknown distance.
My friend and I would climb slender trees, and hang on, riding them in the wind, swinging our weight in rhythm with the wind, at least having sense enough to head for home before that wind got too strong for mortal boys.
We didn't experience the powerful hurricanes you read about recently, but, still, wind and storm enough to strike fear and create havoc.
We were too young and, well, ignorant, to realize the forces we were toying with. Yet, wouldn't trade a moment of it.
Strong forces, plus a hint of danger, a dash of adventure, plus lots of ignorance equals some grand memories. Had a pretty good boyhood.
Don't know how I, or my parents, survived it.
Okay, maybe not so much stupid, as out of ignorance of consequences.
The recent hurricanes reminded me of some of the dumb things I did in Florida as a boy. Not just hurricanes, but, when other storms blew in, my friend and I would go swimming in Pensacola Bay.
I don't know what the attraction was, unless it was that moment in a storm, or just before, when the water is flat, unmoving, dull gray like lead, not quite shining like mercury, surreal, framed above by storm clouds.
I sensed something when I saw that. An odd feeling of something strangely different from the day to day experiences of water and life. The bay was usually blue or blue-green and moving, constantly moving. Before the storm it got flat and still.
Somehow that spoke to me of some awesome power that could make water, that water, be still, especially from some unknown distance.
My friend and I would climb slender trees, and hang on, riding them in the wind, swinging our weight in rhythm with the wind, at least having sense enough to head for home before that wind got too strong for mortal boys.
We didn't experience the powerful hurricanes you read about recently, but, still, wind and storm enough to strike fear and create havoc.
We were too young and, well, ignorant, to realize the forces we were toying with. Yet, wouldn't trade a moment of it.
Strong forces, plus a hint of danger, a dash of adventure, plus lots of ignorance equals some grand memories. Had a pretty good boyhood.
Don't know how I, or my parents, survived it.
Labels: boyhood, climbing trees, donovan baldwin, hurricane, Pensacola Bay, storm, wind
Monday, October 16, 2017
Poem: If Children Could Understand
By: Donovan Baldwin
I long again to see,
The white sands I walked,
When but a boy.
>
Then, but a child, I knew not,
How deeply embedded in my soul
Was every grain of sand,
Each whisper of the wind,
Every roll of wave, and
The bending of each tree.
>
Now, half a century, and
Many hundred miles
Downwind from boyhood,
I see each sight,
Smell each smell,
Joyfully recalling,
The place I felt so happy,
To leave so far behind.
>
If children could understand
What the world they so little love,
Will mean to them in later years.
>
Perhaps then, they would live
In happier circumstances,
Enjoying at home
The passage of each day,
Rather than one far day
Longing to return,
To a time and place,
They truly loved.
NOTE: Photo was taken by me in 1971 of the Pensacola Yacht Club, from across the mouth of the Bayou Chico
The white sands I walked,
When but a boy.
>
Then, but a child, I knew not,
How deeply embedded in my soul
Was every grain of sand,
Each whisper of the wind,
Every roll of wave, and
The bending of each tree.
>
Now, half a century, and
Many hundred miles
Downwind from boyhood,
I see each sight,
Smell each smell,
Joyfully recalling,
The place I felt so happy,
To leave so far behind.
>
If children could understand
What the world they so little love,
Will mean to them in later years.
>
Perhaps then, they would live
In happier circumstances,
Enjoying at home
The passage of each day,
Rather than one far day
Longing to return,
To a time and place,
They truly loved.
NOTE: Photo was taken by me in 1971 of the Pensacola Yacht Club, from across the mouth of the Bayou Chico
Labels: Bayou Chico, boyhood, children, memories, Pensacola, poem, poetry, white sands
