A Young Boy’s Treasures

I recall going to my friend Eddie’s house around nine in the morning one summer day when I was about ten years old. There were a few of us and we were trying to get a football game started. Their back door was open, the screen door providing hints of cool air before the thick humidity set in. We rang the doorbell and his younger sister answered.

In usual fashion, one of us asked if Eddie was home.

“No,” she replied. “Eddie is bear hunting.”

We were momentarily silent, as bear hunting was not popular in Chicago in 1973. Plus, Eddie was only nine and did not own a shotgun. He was a tough kid, but this was a stretch.

“Bear hunting?” someone asked.

“Yeah, he left a while ago,” she said. “He’s out in the prairie.”

We did have an actual prairie on the far southeast side of Chicago. Or at least that is what we called it. Sometimes it was referred to as the swamp, which was also accurate as the undeveloped area between Illinois and Indiana contained wetlands. There were lots of birds, frogs, salamanders, and some pheasants, but I don’t recall reports of bear sightings.

We left Eddie’s house concluding that his sister misheard bear hunting for beer can hunting, which was popular at that time, especially in the prairie, where there were lots of interesting things to see and do for a young boy. Many of us wandered out for the hunt, coming back home with big game such as old steel cans, made when openers were required. If you looked long and hard enough, a rare “cone top” could be found, though often very rusty. It did not matter – it was added to the beer can collection. Brands such as Iron City, Edelweiss, Weidman’s, Country Club Malt Liquor, the picturesque scenes of Schmidt, and the unforgettable lady donning a sash as Miss Olde Frothingslosh, found their way onto a shelf or cabinet.

Back then, these cans were not worth anything, and that’s what made them cool. They were junk to adults. But to a young boy, they were a source of pride.

Baseball cards were bought cheap, reviewed, and often traded. I always seemed to wind up with extra Merv Rettenmund and Scipio Spinks cards, when me and every other kid wanted Ron Santo and Fergie Jenkins. Eventually, parents threw out bags and boxes full of cards when junior moved out, who would predictably complain that he had “a bunch of Hall of Fame players in there.”

Comic books, matchbooks and model airplanes were other items that got read, burned, built, and painted, then eventually pitched. Sometimes they were handed down, then pitched.

But the really important things wound up in the armored truck of a young boy – his front pocket. It provided enough security so that no one could steal his small treasures, and though said pockets were small, for generations parents have marveled at how much stuff could get shoved in there.

Smooth, sharp, and porous rocks, or pebbles. Shells from a shore; colorful marbles; a leaf-back penny. If within walking distance of railroad tracks, a coin run over by a train, with plenty of room left for the daring story of how it was done. A super ball that could bounce at least three times higher than a house.

An unwrapped piece of candy was mandatory for all young boys. It was stuck to the lining of the pocket, that when pulled out had dirt, sand, leaf, and lint remnants permanently engrained into it. It would be given a once-over look, slight deliberation would take place, then eaten. A Matchbox or Hot Wheels car would often accompany the candy, it’s make and model formed into the metal underside.

Two small, green, plastic army men were deployed into the jean pouch. One in a crawling position and the other on one knee, holding what used to be a full bazooka until the dog chewed off half of it. They were separated from the rest of the unit who were dutifully surrounding an enemy shoebox in the closet.

A single bird feather; a pen cap; a wide, tan rubber band; a half-pack of Thunder Bomb firecrackers, found where older kids were hanging out on the fourth of July – one year earlier.

Sometimes, a dead bug. Or worse, part of one.

Aside from some baseball cards and rare beer cans, all the above-mentioned objects had zero monetary value. To parents, they were useless clutter, needing to be thrown away. But to a young boy, they held something far more critical than money – they held interest. Not only for what they were, but for what they could be. For a developing mind, this is rocket fuel to ignite the imagination, motivating kids to go out and search for more treasures.

Looking back, those days felt adventurous. I’ve come to realize that regardless of age, there is always an empty pocket waiting!