Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find
a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes,
weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: to enjoy every
second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with
noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the
adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere -- on top of, underneath, inside of,
climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers
love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate
them, adults ignore them, and Heaven protects them. A boy is Truth
with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with
bubble gum in its hair, and the Hope of the future with a frog in its
pocket.
When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding
jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his
brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic, jungle
creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite -- he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion
of a sword-swallower, the energy of a pocket-sized atomic bomb, the
curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul
Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the
enthusiasm of a firecracker, and when he makes something, he has five
thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy
across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large
animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not
much for Sunday School, company, schools, books without pictures,
music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else
gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can
cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, three feet of
string, an empty Bull Durham sack, two gum drops, six cents, a
slingshot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code
ring with a secret compartment.
A boy is a magical creature -- you can lock him out of your workshop,
but you can't lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your
study, but you can't get him out of your mind. Might as well give
up -- he is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master -- a
freckled-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing, bundle of noise. But when
you come home at night with only shattered pieces of your hopes and
dreams, he can mend them like new with two magic words, "Hi Dad!"
