I remember the ice cream man would come by, bell ringing, and we’d come running out of our houses or the yards where we were playing, but first we’d run to our moms or our dads or our little butter dish with the slot cut in it where we’d keep our allowance money. Then we’d take our dime or our quarter and we’d buy ice cream or candy – bomb pops, push pops, candy necklaces, drumsticks, what have you.

Sometimes the ice cream man, who was old and who didn’t want to get up and down every few minutes, would say “You wanna work today?” and I’d run back inside and ask Mom, and then I’d get on the ice cream truck and work the window as he drove around. I learned about customer service and how to make change. And all the kids would look at me in the ice cream truck thinking “You lucky son of a gun,” like I won the lottery. All-you-could-eat candy and ice cream, Necco Wafers and Tootsie Rolls no end, and when he dropped me back home an hour later, I got $2 cash for the help.

File that under “The World Has Changed.”

The skies were clearer then or seemed to be, and we trusted the neighbors even though we didn’t even know their politics. I don’t remember there ever being an election sign in anyone’s yard. I had a neighbor who watched soccer but I didn’t tell my dad.

Sometimes we’d have foot races or play Red Rover or tag or hide-and-seek or King of the Hill, and there was always a safety base and for some reason we’d yell “All-y all-y in come free!” which meant you could come to base without being tagged or being made “it.” There was always a “base” and someone would look at a tree or a rock or a manhole cover and say “this is base!” and we’d all just nod our heads because if someone said this is the safe place, then we all agreed.

And we’d run screaming for no reason except for exhilaration, or hike into the woods and set up a camp like Robinson Crusoe or catch minnows down at the creek or ride our bikes, build jumps out of wood (until I got a concussion probably. There were no concussion protocols back then,) or practice “skidding out” or riding wheelies. No helmets, of course.

We didn’t spend much free time inside, because if we were inside our parents would say “Go outside and play.” And if we were going to be outside, we might as well play with the other ones whose parents said to them, “Go outside and play.” And we didn’t even know their politics. We didn’t know if their parents were “trying to ruin the country,” even though they probably were.

If we could get hold of an old two-by-four, we would saw it up and make rungs for a tree ladder. We used hand tools back then. Cop some nails and pound them in and up the tree we’d go. If we could get even more wood we’d fix up a rope and haul the wood up the tree and make a fort. Then those other kids who lived way over on some other street better not come mess with our fort. They probably had bad politics, so they best not come messing with our fort. That’s what forts are for. It’s in the name. They are for not messing with. And forts were the Fight Club of the 1970s. You didn’t talk about them, except to tell your friends that those other kids better not mess with ours.

And sometimes our parents would get invited to someone else’s house. That’s right. Sounds weird, but we didn’t have computer devices or handheld phones and there were only three channels (four if you count public access or PBS), and the adults would “entertain,” have cocktails, or drink a beer around the grill. And if this all happened, we’d meet some other kids from some other neighborhood and it would be awkward at first, but within an hour we’d be running crazy in the backyard or telling these strangers about our cool tree fort (We’d swear them to secrecy first.) And we didn’t even know their politics.

And we had block parties. A day in the summer when the weather was just right, frisbees and baseball mitts. Lemonade and fruit punch. The older ones sitting around or standing and talking about stuff – probably not politics – and telling us to be careful and don’t roughhouse near the dessert table. Kickball would break out, and screams of laughter, and someone skinned a knee but one of the older ones had a band-aid. Sparklers too, and firefly catching later, when it got dark.

Life is funny that all of these things happened, and it seems like another world.

And we read books too. Made out of paper. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s a story for another day.

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Michael Bunker is a local columnist for BrownwoodNews.com whose columns appear on Wednesdays and Sundays on the website.