Ollie Ollie in Free

Yeah right

            In 1996, on the run-up to the Atlanta Olympics, I was researching a story for Sports Illustrated about Atlanta's, such as they are, traditions. At that time, in the Buckhead area, an old family hardware store survived.

            "The other day," the third-generation proprietor told me, "a man came up to me and asked, 'May I go stand by your nail bin?'"

            The storekeeper said sure, but wondered why.

            "I used to hide from my daddy back there," said the visitor, "when I was five years old."

   

       And Here’s Another

hide-and-seek story set in a family store, from the marvelous Lee Smith's memoir, Dimestore (her father owned the store, in Grundy, Virginia):

            "Daddy had taken me down to the dimestore with him to help make the Easter baskets . . . Many of the girls who worked in the store were there, too, and lots of chocolate rabbits and Easter candy eggs. The women formed into an informal assembly line, laughing and gossiping . . . . As a 'helper,' I didn't last long. I stuffed myself with marshmallow chickens and crawled into a big box of cellophane straw, where I promptly fell asleep while the straw shifted and settled around me, eventually covering me entirely, so nobody could find me when it was time to go.

            "Lee!" I heard my daddy calling. "Lee!" The overhead fluorescent lights in the dimestore glowed down pink through the cellophane straw. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. "Lee!" they called. I knew I'd have to answer soon, but I held that moment as long as I could, safe and secure in that bright pink world, listening to my father call my name."

    That Olympics,

by the way, was the one where the pipe bomb exploded, full of nails — which were nowhere near as deadly (killed only two people, and one of those indirectly by heart attack) as the guns sanctified by gun-huggers today.

    Over the last few days

I have surveyed family and friends and found that they invariably recall a place where, as children, they hid alone happily. My place was in the basement, behind the furnace, which may sound dark, but no. Cozy. I had a flashlight down there. I read books by Booth Tarkington (Penrod, Penrod and Sam), about boyish shenanigans that never drew serious blood. 

            I should note that the family and friends I surveyed are all grown-ups. Schoolchildren today, for instance those in Uvalde, Texas, may lack fond associations with hiding. References to hide-and-seek may, what’s the term? may trigger those children.

                                    And Damn it to Hell, Here Is Another

                                    Limerick About a Reprehensible Man

                        "I don't embrace what he did,"   

                        Reasons a gun-hugger's id,

                                    "But no one will trifle

                                    With a guy with a rifle 

                        That can blow big old holes in a kid."

    Do I have to make it clear

that the little boy in the hardware store was hiding from his father for fun? Oh my God, maybe I do.