I grew up in the 70’s. If Saturday Night Fever, Charlie’s Angels, vinyl records, Evel Knievel,The Brady Bunch, etc. rings a bell with you then you did too.

I don’t remember being anxious about much, other than when I was sitting on the top of a hill staring at the ramp below and considering how much it was going to hurt when I crashed my Schwinn Lemon Peeler with a banana seat and sissy bar while jumping it over the neighbor’s wood pile without a helmet, knee pads, or elbow pads. The funny thing was I knew I was going to crash. I knew it was going to hurt and I did it anyway, over and over and over again. I came home with skinned knees, bumps, bruises, lacerations that should have gotten stitches, and a multitude of other injuries that Mom took care of with a wonder drug and some placebo’s. 

For those of you who lived in these times of danger and excitement then the word Bactine will strike fear into your heart. Bactine wasn’t the same in those days as it is now. No! Bactine was the wonder drug that killed every infection known to mankind, according to Mom, but it was painful. It stung like a cattle prod on a sweaty back or like peeing on an electric fence. Only seventies kids will even understand those references. The placebo’s we were given were designed mostly to keep our blood off of Mom’s furniture rather than actually heal and ease our suffering but they were given in such a way that we believed we were being healed. Mom always took the time to soothe our distressed minds by making a big ritual out of the placebo. Yes, I’m speaking of the magical… Band Aid.

This is how the ritual went. Child comes running into the house with a scrape on their knee, or in extreme instances both knees, elbows, and chin, oozing bodily fluid the color of red Kool-Aid. Mom makes a big deal of telling us how poor and pitiful we look and how overly concerned she is with our health and wellness. She wipes our tears with her shirt sleeve; coos and hugs us as if we have just survived an alien invasion; pats the bodily fluid dry with a dish towel; convinces us that the evil Bactine spray must be used in order for us to live through the dreaded infection that would surely kill anyone who did not succumb to the… (shiver)… Bactine; sits us on the bathroom sink and makes sure we’re ready for the, what in a child’s eyes was the equivalent of a red hot branding iron; and when the child vigorously nodded his head like a bull rider ready to exit the chute, the spray was applied to each and every scratch followed by Mother’s reassurance that we were surely the bravest and strongest children in the world, followed immediately by her softly blowing air on the wound to facilitate drying the horrid stinging fluid as quickly as possible as we screamed and carried on about how intolerable the pain was. Only then, would the placebos, the Band-Aids, be applied with much precision, pomp, and circumstance.

We loved it. It was a ritual that encouraged us to go out and get beat up, scraped, and injured all over again just to earn more of Mom’s magical placebos. Of course, we all learned quickly that there was a limit to the injuries that could be sustained and healed by the placebo. Broken bones were a little outside the realm of the Band Aid’s power. So we adjusted our activities, modified our behavior, avoided the things that were really dangerous, and learned to roll with the punches.

Mom made us feel amazing, empowered, and capable of conquering anything… until… Dad got home. 

When Dad got home from work, in those days Moms stayed home and Dads worked, the stories were told of the bravery and resilience of his children. Mom allowed us to embellish and relay the so-called facts to the best of our ability over a hot meal of mashed potatoes, meatloaf (I love meatloaf, not just the food but the performer as well), and green beans. Dad relished the details and laughed at the appropriate parts while we bathed in the obvious pride that our father displayed at the courageous person that the fruits of his loins had created, which means… he made us feel worthy of his love.

And then… this is the good part… When he was sure that we knew we had done well we were regaled with stories and anecdotes of his childhood like, “When I was a kid we didn’t have magical placebos and miracle drugs. We had to rub dirt in our wounds and carry each other for miles to the nearest blacksmith who would literally slap hot iron to our wounds to staunch the bleeding.”

Again… We loved it. 

Mom made us feel important and loved. Dad made us feel strong and brave and worthy. And we were implanted with a vision of something to aspire to… “Someday I’m gonna be as brave and strong and important as Dad,” in the case of the boys or, “Someday I’m gonna be as kind and wonderful as Mom,” in the case of the girls.

Growing up in the 70’s was perfect. I wish you could have been there. 

But what do I know. I’m just a dummygod.