In a neighborhood of 50 plus kids, ranging in ages from babies to those in junior high grades, a variety of behaviors and activities are sure to blossom in creative or otherwise mischievous minds. Our neighborhood did not lack these departments. Let me share some episodes with you.

It seemed that every few days or so, especially during hot summer days, a fight would break out with at least two kids, maybe more. And the fighting wasn’t limited to rambunctious boys; we girls took a good many turns as well. The difference was that the boys would punch, kick, and wrestle one another until someone cried “uncle”…those participating in the quarrel got up, brushed off  dirt from jeans or shorts and resumed playing whatever had pre-empted the scuffle. We girls didn’t fight like the boys. Instead, our feelings got hurt or we became angry at not “getting our own way” playing house or Barbies, and one or several went home in “pout mode”. It usually took hours or minutes for the pout to subside before we returned outside to join the very girls who had angered us. My “girls” were Karen and Kathy. The three of us were pretty much inseparable as playmates but when emotions got in the way, we were good at getting mad and marching home to mom or tattling to their mother. Fortunately, our respective moms were cautious at taking sides; my own mom would advise me to stay inside and play by myself for awhile until some time had passed by to build a bridge back to my “threesome” friendship. It always worked.

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Our small neighborhood of Zauel Street was the second to last one before the city boundary which made up the southwest corner. Superior Street ran behind Zauel and was bordered with a cow pasture from the time of my birth until the 60s when a grocery store was built on the northern part of the pasture. Arthur Street, where our house sat, ran east and west, was dirt until the mid 60s. Mr. Rader’s farm field was across from our house and his western border had a ditch that ran north and south which served as runoff for the Saginaw River located to the south of our neighborhood. Though I don’t have any clear recollection of its history, a very small air strip had been in existence on the western side of the ditch, on higher ground. When I began adventuring further away from our streets, I and my friends discovered concrete amidst the overgrowth of grass and weeds. This area, along with the trees, shrubs and tall grasses in the drainage ditch made for perfect fort building and the pretend games that came with our crude structures being whoever we wanted, consuming our summer days with physical creativity and stretching our imaginations. Our forts weren’t fancy. They were semi sturdy, allowed a break from the sun and even rain drops. We didn’t care how they looked or the quality of their function. Our only care was that we had a secret place to retreat to, away from pesky kids, and any cares of the world that a kid might take on as part of growing up.

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Remember that ditch that ran along Mr. Rader’s farm acreage? It not only helped house our forts but since the water was never beyond ankle or low calf depth, it teemed with frogs, tadpoles and other little critters. All were fun to catch in a Mason jar and take home to be kept as “pets” or “treasures” from the wild. But for the older boys in the neighborhood, the frogs had a different purpose. This scenario from an exchange between my oldest brother Dave and our mom is a favorite memory.

On a hot summer afternoon David came running into the house and he went directly to the kitchen cupboard where the skillets were stored. He grabbed the heavy cast iron skillet (the largest one) and headed back out the door, all while trying to avoid any contact with mom, who (to his dismay)  was nearby in the living room and witnessed his antics. “David”, she said. “Where are you going with my skillet?” 

“I need it to fry up frog legs, mom. Us guys are catching frogs down by the river and we’re gonna eat them.”

She gasped. She almost shrieked. Later, we discovered she was disgusted as she envisioned those frogs being cut up and becoming a delicacy to a bunch of junior high age boys. She tried to stop him but it was too late. As fast as David had entered the house to get that skillet, he was back out the door and half running down Arthur Street to his waiting cohorts in crime and batches of unsuspecting frogs.

David returned home by dinnertime, with a full belly, skillet in hand that was in need of a good scrubbing. At least according to mom anway. She was still aghast at the thought of frogs in her favorite skillet she used for pork chops, fried chicken, German potato salad, green beans with bacon….”normal” foods….Yup, she scrubbed that thing like it was caked with layers of dirt, grease, and grime that had gone unwashed for years. It went back in the cupboard. Both she and David had their version of freshly cooked frog legs to tell and these 60 years later? The skillet is in my possession now, still cooking up tasty recipes for my own family but I can honestly say no frog legs have sizzled on its surface since David’s “fish fry” with a bunch of guys cooking them over an open fire on a hot summer day.