Peering at the Past Battling with rubber bands, biking without pedaling

Part two of a series

During the Great Depression of the 1930s, resourceful children – often with parental assistance – used what they had for entertainment. Automobile tires had inner tubes to retain the air. Discarded inner tubes could be cut into narrow but strong rubber bands, which became ammunition. “Through judicious use of wood and bands, we were able to fashion rubber band guns, capable of firing up to five bands like a semi-automatic weapon,” recalled Warren Lange, who grew up on rural South Ridge in Houston County. “Our favorite playground for these inevitable rubber band fights was the barn with its myriad hiding places and various levels.”

Warren’s father Herman made a whistle out of small tree branches, probably poplars. Father also made a large kite from hickory branches and sack paper with binder twine for the string. “It took a pretty stiff wind to operate… It never seemed to get much altitude, but it flew well and stably as it soared over our back valley and the woods… It was such fun…”

Lange remembered four playground games at the one-room school – Auntie, Auntie Over along with Snowball Barrage, tag and Mumel-dee Peg. The latter was played with a stick and a broom handle for a bat. “It was a test of bat handling, timing and reflexes. The small six-inch stick was laid over a small depression in the ground. The broom handle was placed beneath the stick. Both were swept into the air in such a way that it was possible to hit the stick with the bat. The trick was to hit the stick on first one side and then the other to keep it rocking back and forth and in the air.” The stick would be batted to waiting fielders. The person catching the stick would be the next batsman.

When conditions were good for making snowballs, the students did. “Wet clothes and mittens were the rule of the day. Steam could be seen rising from the mittens, which were draped over the metal protector around the stove. My feeling is that these forays never really led to assaults, but just a lot of snow-in-the-face fun.”

Home on the farm, there were many hours of sledding. When folks walked out of the front door of the hilltop farmhouse, “they were in position to sled.” The best sledding year was created by his father cutting wood in the front valley, which made it possible for the boys’ sleds to follow the horse and sleigh tracks for about a half mile at amazing speed. Of course, at the end of the ride, it was all uphill.

Sledding was best on crusted snow. However, there were times when the snow was so deep that the sled buried itself. “Sledding takes very favorable conditions, and we did expend energy opening sledding trails, only to have them covered over again with new drifting snow.”

Sunday was special with no farm work allowed on Lange land, a day of rest for the horses. But with a dairy herd, there were always mandatory chores for the humans. In warm weather, the children were up at 4:30 or 5 a.m. to go get the cows. In winter, they could sleep until 6 a.m.  Milking occurred twice a day every day, morning and evening. But Sunday afternoons were for visiting with friends or relatives.

In the countryside, there were no sports seasons, such as fall football, winter basketball or summer baseball. The Great Depression did not leave much time or money for luxuries. “A football, basketball or baseball all cost money, which we did not have.” When the family lost the farm to the bank and moved to town, Warren was then introduced to team sports.

In that house in town, they found an old abandoned bicycle, which Warren’s dad repaired for Warren and his brother to ride. “No training wheels here; just jump on and crash. After many self-inflicted injuries and much frustration, I got the hang of riding… it was some time before I learned to pedal… My feet did not want to go around but fought each other.” Partly to blame was his cousin, who in previous years, had not let Warren ride his tricycle.

Source: “My Boyhood Years on the Farm,” by Warren Lange (1922-2018), not to be confused with last week’s author, W. J. Langen (1869-1960)