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When I was ten years old, there was the national news at 5:30 and the local news at six. We had no concept of the country or the world's geography. A confrontation between a pair of Asian nations or a murder in Nashville, even if they made the news, meant nothing to me and held little meaning for my parents.

They had survived the Depression, WWII and the Korean War. In their opinions it was an imperfect world. These incidents reported by the networks made no difference in their lives. A lynching in Mississippi didn't qualify as newsworthy. My parents thought that's the way the good ol' boys did business in the South.

With a large family, my parents worried about bills, which precipitated fights with my mother firing objects and my father meekly avoiding the projectiles, but they didn't regard the present nervously and they looked upon the future with optimism.

That didn't mean that an imminent Soviet nuclear attack that could destroy the world didn't disturb us or the priest and nuns harping that if death surprised us with a mortal sin on our souls then we would spend eternity in hell burning wasn't unraveling in the dark of night, but in our daily routine we lived a carefree existence.

No day epitomized that joie de vivre more than Saturday. My mother was raised in a middle class family and they had money, but my father came from a working class family and his father was frequently unemployed. From the time he was five selling newspapers on a busy corner until he entered the service in 1943 at 18, Dad was working. He spent more time on the streets than he did at home, so he didn't find it odd that I was seldom around as a youngster. The freedom I possessed wasn't shared by my sisters who followed me in 1952, 1953 and 1954 after my birth in 1950. We were the first half of the final eight.

My sisters never left the house alone unless they were babysitting for a neighbor. They spent most their time with the remaining babies who arrived with regularity. I, on the other hand, had no responsibilities. I didn't have to mow the yard, take out the garbage or make my bed. As the oldest and a son, I was treated like someone who would be king while my siblings didn't have a predetermined future.

On Saturday mornings I would embark on my Odyssey. After a breakfast of cold cereal and toast, I would tell my mother that I was leaving. She would answer: "If you are going to eat dinner, you need to be home by five." I'd give her a kiss, attach my mitt to my bike if it were the spring or the summer and hit the road. We lived in the small community of Broderick on the opposite side of the Sacramento River. My friends and I could walk the tracks, cross the bridge, skirt skid row and frolic on the capitol grounds in 45 minutes. But this was a trek we seldom took; there was little of interest in downtown Sacramento for us.

All my friends attended Holy Cross Catholic School, which was five blocks from my house. Holy Cross was a blue-collar school and not a prestigious institution like most private schools are today. It was a neighborhood school and all my buddies--altar boys the entire bunch--lived within walking distance of both the school and the church.

The majority of my friends had older and younger brothers and we would congregate at the school playground and play the sport in season. I have no recollection where I would eat lunch, but I was looking for coke bottles whose deposits provided me with snacks. We weren't mischievous, but there was a Huckleberry Finn/Tom Sawyer insouciance about our relationships.

For excitement, we would venture down to the river which meandered through Sacramento and into the countryside on the outskirts of Broderick. We would wander through the thick growth and high trees that lined the riverbank. The river, wide and deep, scared us and we never swam, but we would imagine that we were a patrol of American soldiers in search of those barbaric Japs.

The day would pass and I would find myself at a friend's house. He would insist that I spend the night. With his mother's permission, I would call my mother and ask for her permission. She would ask to speak to his mother. After a short chat I would receive the phone and listen once again to my mother's famous words: "If you are going to have dinner, you need to be home by five."

Sunday was an extension of Saturday. From Saturday morning at eight until Sunday evening at five, I would have one short conversation with my mother. I was ten years old. I was living life without supervision and surviving on my common sense. I have lived the rest of my life without supervision.

Am I a better person for this upbringing than my sons who never roamed the streets at a young age. In our 24/7 news cycle, a child is abducted in Peoria and the wives have panic attacks. 

"Where are the kids? Where are the kids?" 

"They're in the back yard playing. They're fine." 

"No, they aren't fine. You need to watch them instead of thinking of yourself. You're their father. Act like their father!"

With a television in every room emitting a steady stream of violence and crimes, more information has incarcerated rather than liberated us. Mick never leaves his room except for practice. He's a gamer. He told me that he would never leave his bedroom if he had a refrigerator. You will never see him shooting baskets or throwing a football with a schoolmate in the street. He subsists on cokes and Cheetos.

We were an older version of the Little Rascals. We reveled in complete independence. Our folks had no idea about our shenanigans and never voiced any worry. "Take a bath right now" were my mother's first words upon entering the house after a two-day hiatus.

We had so much fun. Today's kids seem energized by the virtual reality of their video games. My son stays up so late playing non-stop that he considers Friday part of a three-day weekend. Things change. I don't read newspapers anymore. I read the internet. But there's no way that sitting on your bed with your controls all day can compare to the life we lived in the open air.