A friend describes his son as an “indoor cat.” He’s not far off as there is a tendency for our children, especially boys, to stay inside. As parents we shake our heads and wax on about how we, as apple-cheeked youths roamed the village until the “street lights came on,” playing tag or building go-karts from juice cans. We remember ourselves as the Our Gang of the ’seventies, Alfalfa riding his cool new 10-speed and Darla, the rich gal from Russell Woods with a pool in her back yard. Tanned and unshod, fishing for pumpkinseeds in the lagoons behind Webbwood.
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