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
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
