Life Size Playhouse

When I was probably around six years old, my dad built a playhouse in our backyard in Placentia, California. It was made of plywood and painted light blue. It rested upon cinder blocks, and had a linoleum floor, and a front step. It held a table, chairs, and mini play furniture. What a fun place we had to play. It must have taken many hours to make, and gave us even many more hours of fun! Thanks Dad!
Love,
Kathleen

The Best Thing a Father Can Do

I remember hearing that "the best thing a father can do for their children is to love their mother". I never doubted that dad loved mom for several reasons.
#1 He often told us that he did, and would tell us why.
#2 When dad came home from work in the evenings, he would frequently enter the kitchen and scoop mom up in his arms and whisk her around the room and lay a big kiss on her. Mom would pretend to protest saying, "Oh, Barry!!!!"
#3 When mom and I would have disagreements about what I could do, I would complain to my dad. He always showed understanding for my point of view, but never belittled my mother's position. He had total respect for her. I remembered one time dad saying something like, "Now I know your mother is a little straight laced, but she has only your best interest in mind..." He then arbitrated a solution that was acceptable to both of us.
These examples of Dad's love for mom provided a great sense of security for me as I grew up.
KATHLEEN

A Tight Squeeze

As a girl, being part of a large family was all I knew. I'm sure others had a more difficult time accepting it. Every couple of years we had our family picture taken at Olan Mills. When our family entered the door, and kept coming and coming, the photograper and assistant would inevitably need to change the set up to accomodate us.
As number seven of eight, and one of ten, my place in the car was on a lap or in the gunner seat of the station wagon. On long drives Martha and I were always facing backwards. We would make up games to play with the cars we were facing. Sometimes we would write notes to the drivers behind us, telling them to honk or smile. We were thrilled when they would comply.
A few times we would have an extra guest who came along with us on a drive. I recall one evening piled in the red Toyota along with Sister Ashley. Not one of us, except perhaps Dad, who was driving, had any wiggle room. I was so hot and cramped that by the time we got home I had a nosebleed that took what seemed like hours to stop.

Fashion--Barry Thompson Style

So much of my life, Dad was not only working all week at the bank, but then serving in church callings and teaching at BYU, all of which required him to wear a suit. It may have been the addition of new hiking boots with bright red laces that made the jeans and plaid shirts he wore when he was home on Saturdays stand out. Perhaps he hoped to make a quick trip up one of his favorite mountain peaks or repel off one of the poplars in the back yard or even the roof.

FHE, Family Prayer, and Scripture Study

Mom and Dad were determined to teach us the gospel and “raise us up in the way we should go”, including by holding regular Family Home Evening (FHE), family scripture study, and family prayer. It was obvious growing up how challenging this was with eight kids. We trickled in when called, sometimes “kicking and screaming”, and when some took longer than others to arrive, those who arrived first became frustrated and sometimes tried to leave. We all seemed to take turns grumbling as if we’d made up a schedule and divvied up the duties. We each took a turn praying, reading the scriptures, and handling the various FHE duties including prayer, song, lesson, game, and treat. Having been a parent for a few years now, I realize how admirable Mom’s & Dad’s valiance was in holding these activities regularly. I feel the way others do who have said I may not remember any particular FHE lesson or prayer offered, or any scripture read, but I do remember the pattern Mom and Dad set for us of spiritual learning, and of their valiance in doing that, and it is something to which I think we all aspire.

Related to this, I recall when I was eight years old we were challenged to read the Book of Mormon. I don’t recall for sure, but I believe it was a challenge issued to our ward, or at least amongst a few families. I know our family took the challenge to heart and we all to some degree or other began reading it. I got particularly excited and spent much of my free time reading the Book of Mormon. Most days I’d read many pages, it became a competition for me to try to be the first one to finish reading it. I recall the pride I felt as I finished reading the book and did so for me in what seemed like record time. I’m sure Mom & Dad stoked my fire by encouraging me in this effort.

The Johnson Farm

I (Jonathan) remember fondly the many visits we made to the Johnson Farm to help weed, harvest, or process some fruit or other. It seems like we must have made the hour or so one-way trip at least one or more times a year. We always went as a family, and Mom and Dad expected even the smallest of us children to work while there. Of course us kids had a different plan. There was so much to explore on the farm, the barn, the chicken coop, and other buildings on the property, the expansive farm fields and the forest, the occasional farm animal, the black top loop drive, and in later years the pond. It was always a challenge trying to weasel out of work either weeding strawberries; picking them, apples, peaches, and probably other produce; or processing the produce. I remember not being alone in seeking creative ways to sneak off, while Mom and Dad tried equally hard to keep us focused on the work. Service at the Johnson Farm was one of the ways Mom and Dad tried to instill in us the importance of service and hard work. Once the work was done - and those of us who had snuck off to play had been tracked down – we’d pile in the big old station wagon, or whatever vehicle we had at the time and made the trek back home. We usually left with a feeling of satisfaction for having provided valuable service, even on days where we played more than we worked. And as an added bonus, we often stopped on the drive home for ice-cream at our favorite roadside ice-cream stand. Ahhhhhh!!! What an end to the day!

Dream Big

I remember when Dad was pursuing his consulting business in Cleveland (roughly 1978?). Although Dad and Mom tried not to burden us with the details of our difficult economic situation, we could not help become aware as times grew lean.

Prior to this, as one of the middle of eight kids, I do not recall spending a great deal of time in casual conversation with Dad. He was generally at work all day at the bank, and traveled quite a bit. On Saturdays we were often doing chores (sometimes together), and Sundays he could sometimes be busy with various Church callings. Now, he was often at home, working in his office.

I became very interested in Dad's success; primarily, I suppose, because I was curious to know what the prospects were for us to be able to overcome our difficult circumstances. So, I began stopping by to ask how things were going.

Dad often seemed to have a rather exotic set of characters seeking his help financing their interesting variety of business of proposals. He may have attracted such because more traditional financing sources found them rather too risky. The need for a creative, non-traditional approach promised relatively high fees and profit-sharing arrangements.

I recall Dad telling me about the well-connected Venezuelan(?) fellow who was trying to sell multi-millions worth of confiscated oil-field equipment in Latin America, ...before it rusted away to worthlessness; who was very happy to share a generous (several millions of dollars-generous) slice of the profits with the guy who could arrange the financing; ...or the guys with a revolutionary technology to improve the dialysis process; ...or some high-risk, high-profit mining operation.

The projects were often interesting and varied; the profits were often dizzying. It seemed that succeeding in any one of these several projects would put us "on easy street." I would often sit in rapt attention as Dad would share his excitement for one of these opportunities (schemes?) And I think that perhaps he appreciated me taking such an interest in his efforts.

Although we never did hit one of the really big ones; and Dad eventually accepted the bank job in Oklahoma, this experience helped me find optimism during a rather difficult time. ...and even more importantly, helped me build a deeper relationship with my Dad.

After all these years, I still see that, when it comes to pursuing his dreams, my Dad hasn't lost that spark of optimism and a desire to work to accomplish "the big one." His example continues to help me to remember to "dream big!"

A voice from the past.

I received the 80th invite. Sorry we'll be in Baja then, celebrating a
neighbor's 85th down there on 12/31. Barry was my first boss when I got
out of highschool in 1962, I was 17 and he 33 when I became his
secretary. It was a great 6 years and his VERY STRONG work ethic taught
me to work at maximum capacity daily! But I loved the challenge. 

Diane Winkler McCament 

Toronto Mission Slide Show

Swimming Pool in Tulsa, Backyard Campouts, and Nighttime Dips

In the summer of 1979 Dad and Mom moved the family from Cleveland, Ohio to what was for us a very foreign Tulsa, Oklahoma. For most of us kids Cleveland (and to a lesser extent Placentia) was where most of our formative years were spent, so the move to Tulsa represented a significant change. The fact that our new home in Tulsa had a swimming pool made the adjustment a more palatable for sure though and we quickly put it to great use. As I (Jonathan) recall, Dad handled nearly all of the pool maintenance himself with help from us kids doing some of the more minor care such as vacuuming the pool and keeping leaves and other debris out of the pool. For a teenage boy, having a swimming pool meant loads of fun with family and friends. Having a close friend and member of the church in Steve Richins a few houses away who loved swimming as much or more than I, sure didn’t hurt. It led to proposals to Mom and Dad such as letting Steve Richins come over for a sleep out in the back yard, which on at least one occasion they obliged. Of course, the reason behind the request wasn’t so much that we loved camping outside, though we didn’t mind it, but rather that it was much easier to sneak in a midnight swim, and a post midnight run to the 7-Eleven store a mile away for some munchies, when we didn’t have to worry about being caught sneaking out of the house at those hours. Needless to say, having a pool was lots of fun, for the daytime and night time swims.

Dad, as Scoutmaster, Inspires us to Great Heights

Us Thompson boys (and probably even the Thompson girls) were well aware that Dad had been an exceptional scouter as a young man, earning his Eagle Scout and then three palms. Something that none of us probably considered, at least until he was called though, was that he would make an excellent scoutmaster. I vaguely recall not being overly excited when Dad was called to be the scoutmaster. There was nothing like having your father around when goofing off as a scout or trying to be cool with the guys. However, Dad’s status rose in my books, and probably in the books of the other scouts, when he inspired us to undertake and complete a major feat, that of hiking the four-day, 70-mile Emerald Necklace trek that circled the Greater Cleveland area. It was no insignificant undertaking for a bunch of young “tenderfoots” like us. No doubt it took a lot of preparation to ready us for the task. The journey surely was not free of whining and grumbling, but I recall us being encouraged and motivated by Dad and others to continue, to finish the course, and as we trudged on, and eventually completed that arduous four day hike, we felt a great sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, and because we had a leader who inspired us to great heights, we and I gained a greater love and appreciation for Dad, and for how he could help us attain great heights in our lives.

The Best Souveniers

One of my favorite memories connected with Dad was when he brought soaps, shampoos, candy, and the occasional shower cap home from one of his many trips. I loved to look through and sample the packages of food and presents sent to us at Christmas time from his friends and business contacts overseas. And I was fascinated by the dolls and other treasures he brought home from foreign countries, which we had on display. One time, he surprised Margaret and me with the latest Guess and Swatch watches from New York. We were thrilled and the envy of everyone at school, as they were all over the fashion and teen magazines, but wouldn’t be available locally for many months afterward.

A Haunted House to Remember

For Halloween one year, perhaps in '77 or '78, we created a spook alley in the big house in Cleveland. Viewers would enter through the back door, led slowly up the back stairs by myself as the guide. I was robed in black, seated in the creeping electric chair with a flashlight held under my chin. At the landing by the apartment entrance they were then turned over to someone else who led them up more stairs to the attic. They had to pass through black plastic strips and wet strings, I think. Upstairs Mom had a bowl of peeled grape eyes and spaghetti intestines. I recall there were shadow shows and halloween spooks lurking. The real thrill came when they entered the dark, musty attic room and were startled by dead bodies rising from coffins. There was a large trap door in the floor and a pulley suspended overhead from which an ancient looking rope and hook were attached. The participant would sit on the seat from the swingset and get lowered by the thick rope down into the apartment below as dry ice mist rose up through the trapdoor opening. Victim after victim were lowered down by Dad and his assistant, that is, until large Pete Gail had his turn. With much strain and difficulty, he was let down to safety below. The next person in line was Jon's friend, Tyler Yorgason, who couldn't have weighed more than 80 lbs. But, after the last oversized load, the old rope gave up and broke with Tyler on the swing. He only suffered minor injuries, but it sure was a scare. After that I don't recall if that part of the tour was closed or if another rope was used.
-Margaret

Dating Competition

Ralph Bozwell, a friend of mine from Provo, had become Barry’s roommate in Manhattan. We had double dated. Barry had asked Ralph if I was just a friend, or more, and would he mind if he dated me. Ralph was my good friend and had no objection. BT invited me to see a tennis match, to watch the Red Sox play the Yankees, to the Opera, to see the Rockettes at Rockefeller Center. And though he would occupy my weekends, I had other boyfriends whose company I enjoyed. He seemed a little annoyed when I wasn’t available. When he saw me at the art museum one Sunday, he chided me, "Do you do such things on the Sabbath?" (What was he doing there?)

Jack Laney had taken me to see My Fair Lady on Broadway a month or so earlier, and we were quite friendly. Barry seemed peeved. I thought,“Does he want to occupy all of my time?”

I was called to the Sunday School Board and traveled some to the wards as a teacher trainer. Brother Bennet of the Stake Sunday School Board wanted to introduce me to his brother, Bob, at the summer picnic. I was interested. Who should show up, but Barry Thompson. Of all the nerve!

In July, Janey Thompson prepared a program during which Barry and I were in a group of Square Dancers. He was good at it and so strong, as the boys lifted us off the ground during one part. He led me to believe he liked it. Actually he thought it was too hot for such things. I was disappointed. I loved Square dancing.

A friend of mine, who I had dated at the Y had returned from a mission and came to New York to visit me. Mel’s intentions were serious. He was a worthy man with high ideals. I was fond of him, but not sure.

I became ill and visited a doctor. After an examination, he asked,“Are you in love?” “I don’t know” I replied. He suggested I take a little vacation and think it over. My grandfather had just passed away, so in October I returned home for a few days. I needed to clear my head.

-Ellen

The 4th of July Parade

I don't know quite how it began, but my earliest memories of the 4th of July were participating in the neighborhood parade. It started in Placentia, California on Hamer Drive. All the neighbors met at our house. They could come and decorate their tricycles, bicycles, wagons, etc. We would use crepe paper and flags, etc. We also made hats out of paper plates and newspaper. Mom would often have special red, white, and blue clothing for us to wear. Then we would march around the block.
When we moved to Ohio, the tradition continued for a few years. Our first 4th of July in Ohio was in 1969 where the parade started at our house on Corydon Road. I believe the parade continued until 1972. That spring we moved to Fairfax Road and invited out old neighbors to join us. My recollection is that was our last year of the parade.
After moving to Fairfax Road, we began an early morning flag raising ceremony. The bird house was removed from its pole and a flag was raised while dad played his trumpet. Then we would have a delicious breakfast. These are some of my favorite childhood memories.

Kathleen

Christmas memories #4: Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve took forever to come for us kids, though I’m sure that it came quicker than desirable for Dad and Mom. After dinner we prepared for the Nativity. Although they adjusted over the years, the roles were reasonably fixed for quite awhile. We all knew that Kathleen would be Mary, Brad would be Joseph, and the cleanest doll in the house would be the baby. In later years Margaret and Martha took the part of Mary, and Jon and David tried their hand at Joseph. The littlest kids were usually the shepherds, wearing robes and towels on their heads. At least one year they tried to get Herman the cat to be their sheep. Doug was a dramatic and brooding Herod. I was the angel—probably because I had the speaking part memorized: “Fear not, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy…”. Dad was the narrator, but it seems that he doubled as a wiseman. Mom was the director and costume coordinator. She was probably the only one who actually “watched” the pageant, as everyone else was in it, but that only seems fair when she did most of the preparation for the play, as well as the rest of Christmas. It was her small compensation for a daunting task.

After the play we gathered around the Christmas tree, for “as the wisemen brought gifts to the baby Jesus, and Heavenly Father gave us his Son, so we give gifts to each other”. Mom and Dad usually specified the one gift we could open on Christmas Eve—often new pj’s. Although I was young, I remember showing off my new nightgown on one Christmas Eve in California, only to be surprised that everyone else’s pj’s matched my red and white candy-striped nightie. Taking our first gift of Christmas with us, we lined up according to age and marched upstairs singing “Holly Bows Are Arching”

What happened after we went to bed remains a mystery to this day, for although I have been the parent doing the last-minute Christmas Eve prep, mine has been for a family of five, not ten. I don’t know how it was done in one night, and then how Dad and Mom managed to wake up and function the next morning.

Christmas memories: Christmas morning

There was a family rule that no one could go downstairs without the rest of the family, and that we couldn’t wake Dad and Mom til 8:00 or maybe it was 8:30. Brad and David volunteered every year to relieve our anticipation by running down about 7:30 to check that Santa had actually come. I have no hard evidence, but I am pretty sure that several years they made an early run at 6:00 or so, but made it back up before the rest of us knew. When we finally convinced our bleary-eyed parents to roll out of bed, we again lined up to sing “Holly Bows”, and to march downstairs. I don’t think that any of us kids ever knew the real lyrics in their entirety, but mom did so we sang back-up. We marched into the living room to view Santa’s generosity. I can’t speak for the whole gang, but I never remember being disappointed at his gifts. The presents were lined up in order of age so no one would get mixed up about whose were whose. After we had admired each other’s goodies, we sat down for a breakfast that would fuel us for the fun ahead. It didn’t do us any good to say we weren’t hungry. Breakfast was a must.

When we finally assembled around the Christmas tree our anticipation was at a fevered pitch. The first gift was handed to the youngest (lucky Martha), and the great unveiling began. Presents were opened one at a time, and in order—youngest to oldest, round and round—until every one of the hundred or so gifts were unwrapped. It was unreal. It was a thrill to open your gifts, but nothing matched the butterflies as family members opened the gift you had chosen for them. Would they like it? Would they feel the “righteness” that you felt about it when you bought it? I remember the year when I got a package of brads for dad at the hardware store. I hadn’t seen any nails of that size on Dad’s workbench. I worried that he wouldn’t know what they were, or that he wouldn’t understand how much he needed them. No need to fear. He looked so delighted when he opened the package, and even got how funny it was that the tacks were named after his second son. He deserved an Emmy for that performance. The wrapping paper melee continued, it seemed, for hours. The shed wrapping paper filled several large leaf and lawn bags.

When the paper and ribbons were cleaned up, the reveling began. Everyone chose a new favorite toy or game and put all their energies into breaking it in. I remember Kathleen trying out her first blow dryer—very cool. I can see the spot, straddling the doorway between the dining room and front hall, that Brad and David played the premiere game of Stratego. Martha was on fire the year that Santa left her “Loud-mouthed Singers” in China and brought her the pink rag doll instead. She ran around the house, entranced with the responsibilities of her new charge.

Christmas memories #3: playing Santa

One family night each December we loaded the family in our station wagon, along with several boxes full of oranges, apples, home baked goodies and other unknown wrapped items. We drove in the dark, singing Christmas carols, and stopping in strange neighborhoods at strange homes. Dad, Doug or Brad would sneak up to the house, place the box on the porch, ring the doorbell and dash back to the car parked down the street. It was the best kind of doorbell-ditching. Dad and Mom never told us who it was that was in need of some Christmas cheer, but a few times I remember seeing the silhouettes of those who came to the door, and could tell by their body language how excited and surprised they were. It always gave me a warm and grateful feeling to be able to help someone who I assumed was in need. These experiences became much more meaningful the year that our family was struggling financially. It was early December and we had not bought a Christmas tree yet. It didn’t seem like Christmas, and I think that all of us kids were feeling a little bit of concern. One night the doorbell rang. I think that Brad opened the door, but I was right behind him, and we were both amazed at what we found on the porch. My recall may not be precise, but I remember a Christmas tree and two or three boxes full of goodies and other items. What was in the boxes was really unimportant. I just remember feeling overjoyed that someone cared about us, because that meant that the Lord was aware of the worries of some of his children, and wanted to answer our prayers. In that moment I remembered the silhouettes at the homes we had visited other years, and then I understood that although it may be better to give than to receive, sometimes it was good to receive gifts of love with no ability to give back. That was a moment of pure joy.

Christmas memories #2:music, caroling & open house

Music was a big part of our holiday. The day after Thanksgiving, and occasionally before that, the Christmas albums moved to the spot adjacent to the stereo, and it seemed that they played most of the day. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Julie Andrews were our favorites. Now and then during other times of the year Mom would put on a Christmas album, and that’s when we knew she was homesick. Since all of us took piano lessons at some time growing up, every year there were a couple of us learning carols for our lessons, so there was disconnected background music each December afternoon that sounded vaguely like familiar Christmas tunes.

Christmas was about making other people happy. I remember the family going to a nursing home to sing carols. We weren’t real thrilled about singing to strangers, but mom insisted we go. The home looked and smelled strange inside. The senior citizens looked blankly at us, wondering why our horde had invaded, I suppose. But when we started singing, their faces brightened. Some smiled, some clapped their hands, and some tried to join us in raspy voices. After our performance we passed out oranges to the residents. Some of them grabbed for us and wanted hugs. I felt a little awkward, but couldn’t say no. I remember thinking that they really weren’t hugging me. They were hugging the people in their lives that should have been there for them, but weren’t. I was just the stand-in for their moment of pleasure, and that felt good.

Several years we hosted a Christmas open house at our place, inviting ward members, neighbors and the missionaries. It was chaos, but it was fun. Mom baked like crazy the week before to provide the refreshments. She made banana bread, light and dark fruitcake, and her heavenly lemon nut bread. I remember squeezing the citrus for the hot spice punch (the juice of seven lemons and seven oranges in each recipe). It had to have been a load of extra work for dad and mom, but everyone enjoyed the party. There seemed to be wall-to-wall people of all ages. I recall that one year Frances Whiting commandeered the grand piano and sang like an opera diva. Someone--probably Dad---hung mistletoe from the hallway light, and there was some strategic maneuvering by certain guests to avoid or congregate underneath it.

Christmas memories

Margaret's post about Christmas sparked a bunch of memories for me. I'll post them in digestible doses, and hope that everyone will correct or fill in the details I may have forgotten. Christmas was not just a holiday at our house. It was a season, a lifestyle, a state of mind. Although there were preparations and a lot of talk before, it officially began on December 1^st--Kathleen’s birthday. She always pulled the first figure out of the number one pocket on the felt advent calendar and placed it on the tree. We took turns, by age, decorating the advent calendar day by day during December. On the first, Kathleen also lit the wick on the first day of the Spirit of Christmas candle. It was lit at meal time and stayed burning throughout the meal unless we were less than civil to each other. We helped lick the stamps on the out-going Christmas cards Dad and Mom addressed, and hang the in-coming cards on the cord across the dining room.

It seemed that we had a tall Christmas tree every year, though that tradition may have actually started in the high-ceilinged rooms of the Fairfax house. I remember Dad putting the lights on first, which seemed to take forever while we waited to get started with the other decorations. The huge pinecones (from California, I think) went on next, and then the ornaments. Mom was so careful with the ornaments, and I felt like she was holding her breath while she let us kids help put them on. Hanging the icicles was the most fun of all, though the messiest. Everyone had their own style—some separated one icicle from the bunch and placed it carefully in it’s perfect pre-destined spot. Others impulsively tossed handfuls, watching them fall willy-nilly wherever they might, often in tangled clumps. Then the dining room lights would be turned out and we would be amazed at the artistry of our slipshod handiwork. Somehow, the next morning, the tree would be evenly covered with silver shininess and well-spaced ornaments, as if some fairy had rearranged the mess after we had gone to bed.

I loved the star that Dad made out of plywood and lined with outdoor lights. It hung on the garage at the green house in Cleveland, then over the front door at the Fairfax house. There were years that we put up other lights outside, but the star was always my favorite. It seemed to say, “There’s always room at this inn”.

The First "Not Really A Date"

In March, St Patrick’s Day is a grand celebration in New York. It is vacation time. All Barry’s roommates were away. He was lonely and called to see if he could come over. I would make him an Irish feast. I couldn’t find corned beef in a can. It only came fresh. I bought a brisket. I fixed cabbage and potatoes with a green jello salad for dessert. I didn’t know that one must boil the corned beef for a long time to make it tender and rinse out the salt. Barry didn’t seem to mind. We chatted as we waited. And eventually the meal began. Afterwards we went to an cultural exposition at the World Trade Center. I was impressed with BTs knowledge of the various countries represented.
-Ellen

Days of December

During this month, my boys remind me of the anticipation of Christmas I experienced as a girl. I smile, even now, as I recall the excitement of the days of December.

For weeks I would consider what gift I could give to each family member for Christmas. I never had much money, so it was necessary to be creative. Sometimes I decorated IOUs or made some other homemade gifts that I, perhaps, had made in school. At least once, Kathleen took me to Twigbees, a special branch of the department store Higbees which was around at Christmas time. It was stocked with gifts children could afford.

It was great fun to plan to fill the stocking of the family member whose name I had drawn. I loved keeping it a secret, while at the same time trying to figure out who everyone else had.

I tried hard to be good and kind so that when I put my shoes out on the stairs at night, I would find a mint or orange slice or some other sweet left in the night by Santa's elves. I recall a few times actually seeing elf tracks on the railing and window sill outside the sunroom. I kept my eyes peeled, but never got a glimpse of those sneaky little spies.
-Margaret

Crawfish Etouffee Anyone?

Family campouts are a staple of our childhood memories. One of my (Jonathan’s) particularly memorable campouts must’ve taken place in the early to mid-1970s. We were camping at a place with streams flush with crawfish which some of us kids exploited to the max. I don’t recall now the numbers, but it seems as if we caught somewhere between 50 and 100 clawed friends. Some were quite large. We brought the most prize specimens from our loot back to camp and stashed them at the base a tree nearby. Mom or Dad had boiled some water and had some left over. Not aware that us kids had established a “crawfish zoo” by that tree proceeded to dispose of the excess boiling water right where our prize crustaceans were, scalding them good. As young hunters and gatherers we were devastated. However, if our appetites had been a bit more sophisticated, we could've turned lemons into lemonade by asking Mom and Dad to serving up a delicious dish of crawfish etouffee.

The Boys Beer Can Collection: Who says Mom and Dad Were Always Strict?

Us Thompson kids probably all agree that Mom and Dad were pretty strict disciplinarians. Yet there were moments when they definitely gave us some leeway or at least chose their battles. One such occurrence was their allowing David and I (Jonathan), and I believe Brad too to keep vast beer can collections. In the 1970s in Cleveland, OH beer can collections were all-the-craze. Many of my friends were doing it and us younger Thompson boys did not want to be left out, so we began collecting empty beer cans, most definitely in a clandestine way at first. In time we worked to collect cans with exotic shapes, sizes, and brands. We had 7 ouncers, 8 ounce short stacks, 20 and 24 ounce cans, and even 32 ouncers. We had flip tops, pop tops, cone tops, and unopened tops. We had shiny, new, pristine cans, rusted out cans from decades gone by, and everything in between. We had cans from all throughout the country and even some from around the world. Unlike the other kids, our Mom and Dad didn’t drink beer, and we knew they’d never purchase full cans just so we could expand our collection, like some of the other kids folks did. Consequently, we relied on hunting and scavenging to find new exotic cans. We’d ride our bikes around town and on occasion rode to the outskirts of downtown Cleveland in search of rare finds. We searched for new labels on our vacations across country and even stashed them away on our rented RV. I wouldn’t have thought Mom and Dad would’ve let us keep the alcoholic beverage containers, even though they were empty, but they did. It just goes to show that they did grant of more leeway at times then we probably give them credit for, or at least chose their battles. I’m sure Mom and Dad were relieved, however, that we tired of the hobby before we developed drinking problems.