Get your own Free Home PageThough by some standards I was a sadistic little kid, I learned a great deal about nature and small-animal habits. I was a great hunter. My weapon of choice was the slingshot.
A good slingshot stick was not real easy to find. It involved searching shrubs for the perfect Y-shaped stick of the right diameter. The arms had to be equally thick, not too far spread, and at equal angles from the handle or the slingshot would shoot off one way or the other. The frame couldn't be simply broke off the shrub, since splits would wear out your hand or the propulsion system. Rubber bands were used for propulsion. (specifications are, at this time, classified) Pouches were made from leather. Other materials could be used in a pinch, but they tend to tear. We always carried spare rubber bands and pouches. Ammunition was found along driveways, the road or The Tracks. Rocks, in order to fly true, had to be as close to round as possible. Marbles are good, but rocks are free. Many times I came home from a day's hunting with my legs rubbed raw from carrying rocks in my pockets. Our little weapons weren't powerful, but strong enough to kill most small game from birds to rabbits and squirrels and with a lucky shot, even a ground hog. I don't remember what the inspiration was for building slingshots, but we always built our own, until the Wrist Rocket (WR) hit the market. Our slingshots were cheaper to use, and just as accurate. The only thing the WR had over our creations was range. A disadvantage to the WR was its bulk. We were, however, skinny enough at the time that the WR fit around our sides, for easy concealment. Our slingshots fit in our belts, and in the front, not the back pocket. Shirts would get hung up, exposing them, and concealment was important in suburbia. Long, hot days would be spent out in the numerous woods that dotted my stomping grounds.
We had names (mostly location-names) for our favorite spots: Happy Hunting Grounds, Pako Place, The Tunnels, Behind the Greenhouse, Behind the Quik Shop, The Lagoon Woods, and so on.
Get your own Free Home PageSome of these are antics which would inspire parents to say "My child would never do something like that." Our deeds were mainly motivated by curiosity, and not of any real ill-intent. We were, admittedly now, ignorant of the consequences, and unconcerned with the feelings of our victims.
1966 was pretty safe for kids. Things have changed quite a bit. I was about 9 years old when I was allowed to roam the streets, streams, woods, and neighborhoods of suburban Golden Valley Minnesota.
"The creek" which was Bassett's Creek, running out of the south side of Medicine Lake in Plymouth MN and within 2 blocks of my home, was a great source of memories. Most of my exploration reached out from this creek. Early in my creeking career, I pretty much stayed within a 2-block length of creek. On the east end was the golf course and on the west were the trestles.
My first trip to the creek, introduced me to a creature which would provide great entertainment for me and my friends for years to come. It was by a big concrete block sunk into the bank that I got my first crayfish. It was caught by a kid who lived just a couple houses up the road. He caught it in a rusty soup can. He handed it to me and may have given it to me, but I don't really remember. I had it, and when the kid went away, I ran home to display my finding. I was too excited to consider morals. I since got good enough at catchin' 'em by hand, that me and another friend, Mike Kreft, caught over 150 in less than a half hour a few yards upstream from my first crayfish introduction. They're good eatin', but the preparation can stink up a house. About 50 yard upstream from our dead-end, and only a few yards from the concrete block, was an arched, wooden footbridge. I still don't know why I pushed the kitten off this bridge. I was walking along the creek, came to the bridge and spied a kitten on the other side. I called it to me and it came. We were on the middle of the bridge. I guess just out of sheer boyish meanness, I pushed it into the water. It swam to the other side. I called to it again, and it came back. I petted it and felt quite guilty about my act. (The bridge was taken down sometime around 1971/2.) The creek gave me many sporting opportunities. I lost many a pair of shoes and socks, and came home with soaked, muddy pants more times than my mom probably cares to remember. That creek was clear and full of life. Catching crayfish by hand led to other game. To catch a crayfish (Crawdad and crawfish weren't local terms for crayfish. Using those words around "home" was a good way to get laughed at, as is calling 'em crayfish here in Missouri.) I would turn a rock over slowly, and with the current, so the dirt would be washed away. Using a finger on one hand to distract the crayfish, I'd snap the other hand in on it and put it in the bucket. The bucket was almost always a 5 quart ice cream bucket. (The handles back then would easily handle kid-abuse. They've gotten cheaper since then.) New creatures were discovered under these rocks. Fish would dart out, and the rock's underside would be crawling with insect nymphs and other critters. Naturally, a kid has to collect them, so my parents obliged me in getting me a big metal wash-tub. (I still have the same wash-tub, and my kids used it this year [1994] for turtles and sunfish.) At the trestles by the railroad tracks, or tunnels as I called 'em, was water of variable conditions. The water came out of the tunnels pretty fast, but there were many places where the water swirled into shallow minnow-filled pools. Three tunnels were there, of corrugated steel, which regularly flowed. There was a 4th, "little tunnel" which provided for overflow. Wading the 3 flowing tunnels was quite a task. The current was fast enough to make walking quite treacherous, and if that didn't get you, the big rocks would try to take waders down. Just below the last tunnel was a calm, deep spot which we sometimes used for swimming, but mostly for chub fishing. By these tunnels, where the water was shallow and slow enough for good visibility, the bottom was too muddy for critter-gittin', so we did most of that downstream. The other tunnels of which we had great familiarity, were about 3 blocks down stream, and gave us great fishing. In the spring of the year, the suckers ran, and us kids, gangs of about 3-5, would get our spears and have a ball. I mention this in connection with the Pennsylvania tunnels, as it was there, that we made our greatest slayings. A couple of us would go to the other side of the tunnels and drive the fish upstream to those who waited to spear the fleeing fish. Some rocks limited their route and made them easy targets. All we did with them was give them to a neighbor who put 'em in his garden.
Fishing: chubs, crappies, pike, carp.
Arguing with Golf Club over creek rights: I won this round, as I talked with the GV police about whether or not the creek constituted a public waterway. They said it did. Though the golf club people didn't like it, they couldn't threaten us with "We'll call the cops." THE GOLF COURSE (being Golden Valley Golf Course, Golden Valley MN) Netting birds/squirrels: night pastime, where we'd raise a fishing net (tied to a bamboo pole or something) and cover the opening of wood duck and martin houses. The net would startle the occupants, who'd make a frantic dash for safety, right into our net. We'd lower the net and kill or capture our prey. I got many live sparrows for my owl this way.
Cross-country skiing: Greg's tips plunged into a drift and he, in slow-motion, hinged forward at the toes, face first in the snow between his skis.
Ice Skating: shoveling clearings on lakes, hockey. (I include this, as not all places have this wondrous winter opportunity.) We had makeshift rinks on lakes, creeks, wet fields, in the golf course, and Krefts even flooded their back yard to make a rink. Golf balls in lagoon: silty bottom, oily slicks, bread bags full Fishing for ducks: Golf carts in creek: Duck hunting - Pete and Penelope: Duck arching: Drunk Crappie: Sliding and slush beer: GRANDPA AND GRANDMA'S (being in Luck, Wis) Bale forts: in Grandpa's haymow. I remember these as hot, sticky, dusty, stiff grass poking all over, dark, sweaty, and all those other fun things to a kid. We built 'em, and we were proud of 'em. Bat/pigeon hunting in haymow: climbing along the bale conveyor and shooting bats out from between the rafters. It was great fun, and exciting. We were high up in the air, and precariously perched, doing a task which required balance while even on the ground - shooting the slingshot. Pigeons were normally taken from floor level and with B.B gun, though slingshot was used when we got in trouble and got our guns taken away. This didn't happen often, but it did, so I mention it. Jeff Peein' on electric fence: self-explanatory - he did it ONLY ONCE!!! BOY SCOUT CAMP (being Many Point Scout Camp, Many Point Lake MN) Boy Scout camp: Slingshots, tomahawks, porcupine, chipmunks, hornet on belly, canoeing, tornados, Mike and the Off, shorts up the flagpole, turds on the beach, threat of gettin' kicked out, camp cooking, tents, "Ze fly flew out of ze box." [related by Greg "Igor" Carlson - trouble over shooting scout leader's butter with slingshots in a creek. peeing on "Oysen's" tent.] ALONG THE CREEK AND WEST (being the Bassett's Creek area between Winnetka Ave., and into Brookview Golf course) Sticker Place: dumpster full of un-sellable stickers. We'd regularly find blank white vinyl sticker material, which we'd draw our own custom stickers on. Ball bearing place: the place we oft ammo'd up before going out behind the greenhouse for hunting. Often, there would be cuttings from valves, which can be best described as crescent-shaped chunks of bolts. They were wicked bits of steel, flew quite true, but were hard on the legs when we carried a pocket full. I still remember the red rash under the pocket, sometimes chafed nearly to the point of bleeding. Rocks wore on the legs too, but not quite so bad as the bolt-bits. Happy Hunting Grounds: now a supermarket parking lot, sumac forest, chipmunks, bluejays, robins. Almost anything was fair game to us, providing that it either moved or sat still. Our weapon of choice was the slingshot, made from rubber bands, leather or other flexible material for the pouch, and a well balanced forked stick. Our most frequently used ammo were rocks of about 1/2 - 3/4 inches in diameter, the rounder the better. Ball bearings were used when they could be found, and we bought marbles at times, but the cost wasn't worth any perceived difference in accuracy. I liked the canopy of sumacs to the point that I let my back yard at 19 SE 971, Knob Noster, MO get overrun with sumacs. I mowed around them, and every time I had to smile at thinking about all the time we spent out there at the "Happy Hunting Grounds." Spear Place: large area of pre-developed industrial sites where we had great (in our minds) battles with the spears and weapons made from the vast amounts of ragweed. Dirt grenades were made from the dried dirt which clung to the roots of the weed when pulled from the ground. The stem was broken off about a foot above the ball of roots. Greg was not seen at the time of the shot. Billy lobbed the "atomic" (huge dirt grenade) over an embankment and Greg was heard, quite loudly, as having received the shot right on the top of the head. I believe he was less than well pleased. Greenhouse: Hunting and exploring place. the greenhouse dumped over a big hill, and we could find many exotic (to us) plants. We'd bring our moms out-of-season Easter lilies and quite a few other plants. We thought we had quite a find with all the plastic pots and things. The game consisted of the normal victim-birds, and many rabbits. We got squirrel and if we were real good, we could even get pheasant. Sometimes we even got a duck from the creek, which formed the boundary of "behind the greenhouse" opposite the dump. It was probably a little over a quarter mile long, and about 100 yards wide. To us, it was a vast wilderness. MISCELLANEOUS HUNTING AND FISHING Gophering: Carping in pond on Glenwood: Woods by Pako: Douglas and GV road. Mainly rabbit, squirrel and if we were sneaky enough, ducks. Turtle hunting: swimmer's itch. post toasties. Grackle hunting and nests: MISCELLANEOUS Our language: kawschks, robaines, kwerlies, post-toasties, snipnicking, etc. Randy and Billy knew I had some rolling papers and tobacco with me, so they asked for a cigarette. I said that I didn't have any rolled. They thought they should have one anyway, so threatened to shoot me with their slingshots if I didn't roll 'em one. It was all in fun, so I pretended to be under pressure to perform the task. They were a little ways off, and on the concrete trestles on which I sat, I spied some bird droppings. I decided that they deserved a taste treat. They smoked it, as if they had won a big victory, and never knew the difference. Sparrows between doors: I know not who our victim was, but we placed a trash bag of live sparrows between the front doors of a house, opened the bag and gently closed the screen door. We gave enough time that we could see the little silhouettes fluttering in the window, then we rang the doorbell and RAN. Our victim opened the door to see who was there, and much to his surprise, he was met by birds. Our last sight of this was his swinging arms and attempts to catch the panicked birds. We thought about doing this with gophers, and even with a hornet nest. We decided that our next victim might be allergic to wasp venom, so we scrapped the idea altogether. Snowballing cars: boulder off the bridge onto the station wagon - stupid and potentially deadly. The chase may have even been deadly afterward, had the guy caught us. I don't think you can catch kids who are familiar with their "turf." Sitting and talking with the neighbor kids at night by the street light or on someone's steps: "Hide and seek tag", or "around the block tag": Match bombs: Various hunting weapons: cubit-stick, ball and chain, blowguns, arrow guns, slingshots and wrist rockets. Friend and drugs - Frankenstein: "Scott...Scott.....Scott....Scott...Scott..." in the lunchroom, to drive him nuts while on acid. Home made wine: Boone's Farm - Mike and the puddle: Stink soup: a brew made from heat-aged (about a month), liquified minnows. One (deserving) victim found some on his car, and thinking it may have been beer, stuck his finger in it and tasted it. This same guy got a soup-cake under the back seat of his car. Lawn jobs: Tempest wouldn't spin tire, so we had to use the breaks. Fake race - Scott jumping the yellow: Scott's car: 428 cid Cobra-Jet, Holley 4-barrel carb', dual exhaust with truck mufflers, "slap-stick" transmission, etc. in a '67 Cougar. By the time the rear end quit hopping around and we were going straight, we'd be doing 70 and would have gone over a quarter mile and have a fire somewhere under the hood. Scott had a lot of fun with his toy, but never got it quite road-worthy. Scott's hawk and owl: Pigeoning - farm to farm: Egging and the closed window: Fishing from Dad's rubber raft: Frogs and Tom Thumb: Sparrows and Firecrackers: Owls as pets: Cedar Lake: canoe, carp/suckers, bow-fishing, slingshots, swimming Strip pits: Clotheslining ducks: Superfrog and Rehab Center visit: SPECIAL PLACES Eloise Butler gardens Grandpa Askov's the barn outbuildings pond on hill behind house swamp below barn the yard corncrib kid forts woods walk to Jeff's Arboretum Bassett's Creek Railroad tracks Golf course lagoon woods and fort Baby Mountain creek mine (green rocks) wood duck boxes hunting Behind the greenhouse "Jubert's" lake Cedar Lake Medicine Lake Scout Camp (Many Point) Washtub in back yard The fort - wallpaper OTHER INCIDENTS MENTIONED BY FRIENDS BF getting hogtied by MK. Snowballing from ice cream buckets from trees. Getting Heidi (my dog) drunk to play with a football. My passing out while standing in line in marching band. Chasing girls at Church camp swimming (nipsubs) Filling canoe with frogs at Church camp MK getting drunk on Boone's Farm wine - we pushed him home and into his house and could see him get hollered at from a distance. MK shooting out windows with his new pellet gun from the railroad tracks.