Stand at attention
I came from a time and place where children played with toys. Not a large variety, because the economy didn’t allow excess, but the toy was the driving force behind hundreds of hours of play. In retrospect, my toys wouldn’t pass the “politically correct” checklists in use today, and my choice was influenced by the media and marketing. Still, I had fun.
Today, my attention fell on a snapshot from when I was still young enough to play. We lived in the sterile world of one-channel TV, and the post-war pressures meant that the western was the only thing we had to watch. Dozens of westerns (maybe not that many, but the young mind draws conclusions). The gun was socially acceptable, as long as horses and cacti were in the scene. A tacit avoidance of the other guns, those of a foreign war that had ended only years before. I’m shown, with my “Mare’s Leg” proudly at shoulder, standing with my parents and uncle in their military uniforms. I was in mufti, as is fitting for a boy who could barely write his name. They were dressed for duty, and I was dressed for a cool spring afternoon.
I remember that afternoon, where hours of brass polishing and web dressing meant a parade, if only in our living room. For someone of my age, the preparation was long, but I stood proudly at attention, feet (stocking feet) aligned with the heavy boots worn by my uncle, and a silly grin that matched my silly haircut.
I’d forgotten how impossibly skinny I was at that age.
