For the First Time, We Were Explorers

Childhood was different back in the 1950s and ’60s. Boomer reader Roger Pierangelo recalls a coming-of-age adventure with friends during summer break, before the monumental step to junior high school. Stepping outside of their young comfort zones, “we were explorers,” he says.

The year was 1959, and it was Saturday, June 28. School had just ended, and the joy of summer freedom spread across 251st Street like sunlight breaking through a classroom window. We were all moving on to Junior High School 172, a mile away, and although that felt far to our 12-year-old minds, the bigger deal was the emotional shift. We had mixed feelings – excitement, uncertainty, even a little dread. Leaving PS 133 was like giving up a security blanket. It had been the bastion of our childhood safety, and we were heading onto PS 172, where sadistic older kids gleefully told us we’d be pulled into bathrooms and forced to smoke.

Still, we were 12 now. That magical, in-between age where we felt powerful, invincible even, eager to expand our neighborhood boundaries. We’d already made bold moves. We’d conquered riding our bikes to Suicide Hill, about a mile away. Tom’s Deli was six blocks off and practically our snack station. Choo Choo Burger, up on Union Turnpike, was a solid 15-minute ride, and PS 133 – the school we were leaving – took us 15 minutes to reach by bike too. And then there was the Sterling Bowling Alley in Lake Success. That was the stuff of legend. A full 20-minute ride each way, but crossing those busy roads? Not everyone was ready to be that courageous.

So, one afternoon, while a few of us sat in the shade under my backyard awning, the Monopoly board spread between us like a treasure map, the usual grumbles came up. We were outgrowing street baseball. Our hits were getting too long; windows were at risk. Then Tommy – always the dreamer, the kid who thought beach sandals were appropriate biking shoes – blurted it out.

“Why don’t we travel all the way to Alley Pond Park and play ball there?”

Eyes widened instantly. Everyone froze. You could almost hear the record scratch. It was a moment of collective disbelief. Larry’s voice broke the silence first. He said, “What are you, crazy? I’ll never see my family again.”

Billy followed that up with a shriek so high-pitched it could’ve triggered a neighborhood dog chorus.

“That’s, like… SEVEN miles! Are you insane? We could end up in Ohio!”

Sure, my dad had driven us there before. But 40 miles an hour in the backseat of a car was a breeze. Pedaling there on our own, on bikes, at maybe 5 miles an hour? That was epic. Having a parent drive you was one thing; doing it without one was something else entirely. It felt like signing up for a wagon train heading west – with no Ward Bond in sight.

But the idea had real merit. When my dad took us to Alley Pond, it was paradise. A full-size baseball field, where we could live out our Yankee dreams: Yogi Berra behind the plate, Phil Rizzuto at shortstop, Whitey Ford on the mound. Real bases. Real dirt. No cranky adults yelling about broken windows or cars getting dented.

So, I did something smart. I asked my dad for help – but not the “Can you take us?” kind. I asked him to drive me along the route slowly so I could memorize every turn and landmark. He agreed with just one condition:

“Be home by 5 for dinner.”

That was parenting in the ’50s – minimal, efficient, and steeped in either blind faith or an unspoken belief that kids, like stray pets, could always find their way back eventually.

We went slow. I wrote down 15 pages of directions, wore down three pencil tips, and committed every landmark to memory. Then, I called a war council meeting under the awning. The Band of Brothers assembled, nervous but intrigued. Some sat, some paced. Others scanned my notes like we were invading Normandy.

Then came the flood of concerns:

“What if we get a flat?”

“Do we have to pass Creedmoor Hospital?”

“What if we never make it back?”

“Will they force us to smoke there?”

“Can we eat at Choo Choo on the way back or will that ruin dinner?”

We set departure for 9 a.m. Equipment: bikes, baseball gloves, caps, extra baseballs, and enough food to last until sundown. My cousin Michael, a walking pantry, asked if he could bring Italian heroes, cannoli, and minestrone. We joked he’d need a trailer just for his lunch.

Now vs. then

Let’s be honest – this story couldn’t happen today. If a 12-year-old went missing for eight hours, amber alerts would ping, and five local Facebook groups would spin into full-on SWAT mode. Parents today have trackers, smartwatch pings, and GPS logs. Back in 1959, our GPS was something like:

“Turn left at the hydrant, and if you hit Lloyd Landry’s busted fence, you’ve gone too far.”

We had no phones. No helmets. No sunscreen. No clue. Just bikes, guts, and a peanut butter sandwich-fueled plan.

Today’s version would come with spreadsheets, emergency contacts, first aid kits, and hourly text updates:

“Connor just crossed Union Turnpike. ETA: 10:47 AM. Temp: 76°F. Mood: cautious optimism.”

Back then? Our parents maybe waved. If they weren’t clipping coupons or watching “Queen for a Day.”

We returned – sunburned, exhausted, and grinning –by 4:58. On time for dinner, just like Dad said. No one got lost. No one smoked. And cousin John’s lunch survived, minus one cannoli.

We were gone all day. But for the first time, it felt like something more.

We were explorers.

Dr. Roger Pierangelo is a licensed clinical and forensic psychologist for over 45 years who has published numerous books on parenting, education, special education, and psychology. He and his wife Jackie are writing The Baby Boomer Diaries, from which these stories originate, and their stories have been published online and in newspapers.

Jackie Pierangelo is a former newspaper editor of a local newspaper chain and has published several books on parenting, self-help, and humor. She has also had humorous articles published in national newspapers.

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