There are no greater optimists than children. Even as the pure
faith of toddlers usually ends by the time they enter the first
grade, the sense that they can achieve wonders colors their outlook
and influences much of their activity for several more years.
There are no greater optimists than children.
Even as the pure faith of toddlers – in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Daddy – usually ends by the time they enter the first grade, the sense that they can achieve wonders colors their outlook and influences much of their activity for several more years.
When you observe a youngster who is in the clutch of a dream, you see the focused intensity of an explorer facing the trackless jungle. He knows his goal is in it somewhere and although he may not yet know how to get to it he is confident of finding it. It may take time and training but he feels it almost in his grasp.
The passage of time and the realization that the goal requires more effort to attain than one had anticipated scatters some dreams along the way but remnants of it remain in the mind like a tattered flag that has come through many battles.
The catalogue makers knew this, and once, sometimes twice a year sent out catalogues that offered new dreams to all the young dreamers. They included everything from model airplane kits, X-ray spectacles (“See through wrappings of paper or even cloth to learn what is underneath the surface”) and periscopes to booklets with easy step-by-step directions on careers that promised adventure and fortune. Dribbling glasses and whoopee cushions were available to those who lacked a high resolution of purpose.
My detective kit with instructions on disguise and stalking lawbreakers arrived at our home in south Toledo on a cold February Saturday in 1942. I immediately took the package to my room, shut the door and opened the package with trembling fingers.
A magnifying glass fell onto my bed, then a false mustache inside a transparent pouch, a pair of spectacles with clear glass, a vial of spirit gum and a blue and gold badge.
The latter was itself worth the dollar the entire kit had cost. Emblazoned on its metallic surface were the words, “Secret official detective.” I immediately pinned it on my undershirt.
The accompanying booklet’s opening paragraph enjoined the reader to never use what was contained therein for any purpose but good, and I took a silent vow to uphold it.
I read and re-read the booklet many times over the weekend, especially the section that dealt with disguises. One that particularly intrigued me was a quick way to mask one’s identity with a three-day growth of beard. It was simplicity itself: one merely moistened one’s face, then patted a handful of pepper over it. I determined to try it just before leaving for school Monday morning.
Nothing prepared me for the stinging that accompanied the application. I drew in my breath sharply and hurried out the door before my mother saw the disguise and stopped me. The cold air helped alleviate the sting, and by the time I reached school was able to tolerate it.
A few classmates looked at me strangely but were able to penetrate the disguise of a third-grader with 5 o’clock shadow. The girl who sat in front of me kept turning around and giggling, and my fiercest frowns did not stop her.
I kept aloof from my classmates at recess. As we were leaving for the day, the teacher called me aside and said in a low voice, “Take a little more time in the morning to wash your face, dear.”
That incident did more than anything else to nip my career as a detective. By the following week I was hot on my new career as a famous scientist.
I finally lost the badge and felt a little poignancy for the career that died a-borning. But I was proud that if I never added credit to the profession, I had used the badge only for good.
