Thoughts of an Average Joe

IWAS DRIVING to work one day last winter and passed a group of middle school aged kids waiting for the school bus. What I saw there, in the group of a dozen, or so, youngsters, concerned me. I was left to wonder if our economy is even worse than I figured.

It was a chilly morning—I spent five minutes scraping a heavy layer of frost from the windshield of my F150—but the young girls at the bus stop were standing there shivering in their little skirts and T-shirts. Was it possible their parents couldn't afford jackets? And the boys; they were obviously wearing hand-me-downs from their much older brothers. Their blue jeans were two or three sizes too big and had holes in the knees. Their pants were so big around the waist that zippers and pockets were half way to their knees. Thank goodness their older brothers also left them hooded sweatshirts that were also three sizes too large. My heart ached for those poor children.

The other thing I noticed about the 12 and 13 year-olds at the bus stop was that about half of them were heavy . . . overweight . . . you know . . . fat. It caused me to reflect on my eighth grade class at Smalltown Elementary School. I honestly don't remember any fat kids. Some were, of course, bigger boned than others; but none were really fat.

Part of the reason for our relative physical fitness was that there was no school bus service in Smalltown. We all lived in the village, within a mile or so of the school, and walked. For me, it was a mile each way and I, like most of my classmates, walked home for lunch each day. Lunch was ready and on the table when we got there because, for the most part, moms stayed home back then. So, all told, I walked four miles a day; back and forth to school. Add another three miles a day lugging around and delivering thirty-two copies of the Smalltown News, and I burned off some Hostess Twinkies.

We didn't spend much time in the house in those days. Almost every little house or apartment was home to four or more of us rug rats, and the folks made certain we spent most daylight hours outside. I don't remember that being a problem. There was one channel on TV, and the shows were in black and white. Even the Lone Ranger looked like it was filmed in a desert snowstorm. There were no Nintendo, Atari, Xbox or PlayStation games to play. Our dads cleared a ball field in the lumber yard across the road from our home, and there were lots of neighborhood kids to make up teams for pick-up games of baseball or football. Our parents had to keep an ear towards the field because the Brown boys liked to swear, and the Ouellette boys and girls like to fight. When a fight would break out, those of us not involved in the melee would step back and enjoy the show, until my father or Uncle John would come over to break things up. Swearing was a different story. When one of the Brown brothers would let fly with a four letter expletive, all action would freeze, and all eyes would turn to the second window from the right on the second floor of the house across the street—the window of my mother's kitchen. The warning was always clear and always the same. "You boys clean up your language or you’re going home and I'll call your mother!" That was all it would take. They knew my mother would make good on her promise.

We played hard and worked hard in those days, and few kids were fat. Still, today's kids have it all over us when it comes to the thumbs. Their thumb dexterity is nothing short of phenomenal. The facility with which they use their opposed digit to type a text message, surf through the three hundred digital TV channels, or fire off a Game Boy missile is impressive, indeed.

I'm envisioning a singles bar in the year 2020, in which a hefty young lady waddles past two guys—each of whom is straddling two barstools. One guy turns to the other, fans himself with a beer stained paper coaster, and then says, "whoa . . . nice thumbs."

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