Dennis Sommers

Growing up in smoldering hot and humid Kansas summers in the 1950s wasn’t easy. Neither is growing older in the 2020s. Recent statistics indicate the average life expectancy for men in this country is 75.8 years. According to my calculations, I might be living on borrowed time in a few months if this proves true.

I prefer instead to focus on a different statistic which reports that men who live past age 65 generally make it beyond 83. No matter how you cut it, there are more memories to look back on than those lying ahead. In retirement, it’s common to think about times gone by as we continue to enjoy special memories yet to come.

“The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid,” a 2006 book by Bill Bryson, shares memories of childhood events occurring in Des Moines, Iowa, during the 1950s and ’60s. To no surprise, some of Bryson’s memories probably mimic yours and mine. His experience with air raid drills in elementary school for protection from an imminent incoming thermonuclear explosion were familiar. We learned not to look toward light from the blast – as we might go blind. There were shared recollections on other topics too.

One related to the close brush with disaster I experienced during a summer night at age 13. Mom okayed a campout in our back yard with a neighbor friend. Sleeping bags and cots were involved along with a flashlight and plenty of mosquito spray. Our mixed-breed cocker spaniel would protect us from hooligans.

Around midnight, I needed to take care of what Mother often referred to as a “Big Job” when asking me, “What happened in there?” every time I exited the bathroom at age 4. Not wanting to sneak into the house, I took care of the deed under the stars and clothes lines.

Once lights in the house had been off for more than an hour, Steve and I decided to sneak off to King’s X, an all-night diner that served great hamburgers. Never mind that the city-enforced curfew for those our age was 10:00 pm. It seemed prudent to take the back streets to and from the diner rather than the nearby well-lit thoroughfare. The burger and fries were fantastic until the waitress asked, “Why are you boys out at this hour of the night?” It was our signal to skedaddle home before she called the cops.

Retracing steps back home through darkened residential streets while dodging streetlights at every corner, a pair of glaring headlights suddenly rounded a corner pointing in our direction. Panic ensued. What if the lights were those of a patrol car? We knew we’d be hauled down to the station if they were. This wasn’t nearly as worrisome as what would happen when our dads were called to come get us. I ran across the front yard of a darkened house and dove into some shrubs. Shortly, through the screen of the open window above, a woman said in a whisper loud enough for me to hear, “Who is out there?” as if talking to a hulk of a husband with a nightstand full of Colt 45s… maybe a machine gun or two. I shot out from the shrub like Seabiscuit out of the gate after the car passed by to hot-foot it back home.

We awoke to birds chirping their lungs out shortly before the sun came up. Not long after its rays were burning down again, Steve and I folded up cots and unzipped sleeping bags, then hung them on the clothesline to air out – paying particular attention not to step in the wrong place. To my surprise, what had been deposited there in the middle of the night was gone. From then on, I never let our mixed-breed mutt come close to licking my face. THAT could have become a catastrophic memory.

Sommers is a retired Minot orthodontist, violinist with the Minot Symphony and author of the book, “Retirement? You Can’t HANDLE the Truth!”