How I survived childhood in a town of 1,500

One of the intangible historical artifacts that defines me is that I grew up in a small town. My memories of being a child in that enchanted place are priceless.
Small-town kids have unique opportunities to develop creativity and common sense, which are unavailable in big cities.
A favorite memory is when my friends and I converted the local coin-op laundry into an amusement park. It only had one ride, but it cost 10 cents and lasted 15 minutes, long enough for us all to get a thrill.
We passed the laundromat while riding our bikes around town one summer night. The place was empty, so we went in. Our mothers did laundry at home, so the wonderful world of coin-operated machines was unfamiliar. There wasn’t much for kids to do there. We didn’t have any clothes to wash.
We were sitting on the benches next to the windows facing the machines when a friend, looking at the row of dryers, said, “Hey, we could ride in one of those things for a dime.”
No way, we all said. He replied, “Watch me,” then walked over, opened a door, and climbed in. It was large enough to hold him, but only if he crouched.
With his feet planted on the bottom of the tumbler, he placed his hands against the top. One of us pulled out a dime, dropped it in the slot, and pressed the kill switch in the opening normally held down by the closed door. The drum rotated while the door was open without suffocating the kid.
We let it go until we were just about to puke. Then the kid took his finger off the kill switch, and the drum stopped, and someone else got in. Who needed Lagoon when there was a laundromat nearby?
The “Little Theater” movie theatre on Main Street was known to us simply as “Harry’s,” after the owner. Seeing the show was a weekly delight in the winter. It cost a whole quarter.
My main memory aside from the movies was the floor. Those were the days before diet drinks, so any pop sold was full of sugar.
Over the years, sugar from spilled drinks congealed on the floor to make it so sticky that if you didn’t constantly move your shoes, they could get stuck... permanently.
One of our parents would drive us to the show, but we relished the challenge of getting home. Not wanting to bother our parents late at night, “hooky-bobbin,” was our version of free public transport.
The proper attire for going to the movies in the winter was a warm coat, thick winter gloves, and slick-soled shoes.
Our free public transport wasn’t available every time we went to the movies, only when there was an inch of hard-packed snow or pure ice on the road surface, which was often back then.
We’d wait at the side of the road next to a stop sign in the dark. When a car stopped, we’d stealthily run to the rear bumper and grab it with our gloved hands, crouching out of sight of the driver from the rearview mirror; the car would pull away from the intersection and drag us down the road, our slick-soled shoes gliding over the winter street.
Cars drove slowly due to the slick conditions, which kept the practice OSHA-approved. If the soles of our shoes were slick enough, the road condition uniform and the driver went where we prayed he would; we could ride all the way home.
One night, a small box bed truck stopped at an intersection near the theater. We ran out and latched onto the truck’s rear bumper. The driver couldn’t see us in his rearview due to the box bed. When we passed a friend’s house, that person let go, said goodbye, and “poof” he was home.
I was the last to let go. The truck stopped smack dab in front of our house. I calmly walked from behind the truck just in time to see the driver get out. He saw me, unaware that he’d just been my cab driver, and asked for a neighbor’s address. I pointed to the house, and he drove off, and I went into my home to greet my mom and dad.
Ah, we had a blessed childhood!