June 17, 2011 |
Like many members of the Spielbergian generation, I grew up in a time when children spent their summer days roaming. Carrying canteens and old canvas satchels, we were inevitably on the run, mostly from Nazis, though occasionally from aliens. We dashed through cornfields, set booby traps in the woods, hid in trembling, sweaty groups behind trees and punched twitchy younger siblings to keep them from giggling. We bent branches into bows, sharpened sticks into spears with our pen knives, ate mint and blackberries and roots we told ourselves were sassafras and tried to build campfires with no matches.