We were the kids of the ’60s and ’70s, raised by World War II parents who mostly left us alone—as long as we didn’t do anything too stupid.
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We were the kids of the ’60s and ’70s, raised by World War II parents who mostly left us alone—as long as we didn’t do anything too stupid or bring shame to the family. The only real rule was don't get caught.
We’d roam wherever the food was, snagging apples or pears off neighborhood trees, sometimes getting a friendly wave—or a glass of water from a garden hose—from the homeowners. Occasionally, you’d get chased off by a dog, but that was all part of the adventure.
Summer was a mood all its own. People were relaxed, the days were long, and nobody cared exactly when you got home. Forget “home before the streetlights.” For us, it was “home before sunrise”—if we came home at all. We knew how to climb fire escapes, crawl through windows, and nap down at the beach if we had to.
That freedom was hard-earned—our parents fought for it, and they told us if you want it, you fight to keep it. Maybe freedom is easy to give away, but try to take it back and you’ll have a real fight on your hands. That’s something I hope we never forget, even as the world changes and new generations grow up with screens in their pockets instead of scuffed-up knees.
So that was us: New York kids on our bikes, pockets jingling with a couple of dollars from cutting grass or odd jobs, never afraid of work, never afraid of adventure. Born in the early ’60s, racing into the ’70s, sissy bars gleaming, Schwinns ready to roll. And once you got going, you never looked back.
We were the kids of the ’60s and ’70s, raised by World War II parents who mostly left us alone—as long as we didn’t do anything too stupid or bring shame to the family. The only real rule was don't get caught.
We’d roam wherever the food was, snagging apples or pears off neighborhood trees, sometimes getting a friendly wave—or a glass of water from a garden hose—from the homeowners. Occasionally, you’d get chased off by a dog, but that was all part of the adventure.
Summer was a mood all its own. People were relaxed, the days were long, and nobody cared exactly when you got home. Forget “home before the streetlights.” For us, it was “home before sunrise”—if we came home at all. We knew how to climb fire escapes, crawl through windows, and nap down at the beach if we had to.
That freedom was hard-earned—our parents fought for it, and they told us if you want it, you fight to keep it. Maybe freedom is easy to give away, but try to take it back and you’ll have a real fight on your hands. That’s something I hope we never forget, even as the world changes and new generations grow up with screens in their pockets instead of scuffed-up knees.
So that was us: New York kids on our bikes, pockets jingling with a couple of dollars from cutting grass or odd jobs, never afraid of work, never afraid of adventure. Born in the early ’60s, racing into the ’70s, sissy bars gleaming, Schwinns ready to roll. And once you got going, you never looked back.
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