Outdoor entertainment

In the Pixar flick “WALL-E,” humans are depicted as brainless blubbery blobs who gape at their TVs while slurping super-sized sodas. In other words, they act much like video game enthusiasts.

Such behavior — sitting indoors during the summertime — would never have been tolerated when I was a kid.

The main reason for this is that video games and cable TV hadn’t yet been invented, nor was air conditioning. Whenever my siblings and I complained about the heat, our parents would say, “Be quiet and go lie in front of the fan. And don’t even think about whining that we don’t have air conditioning; it hasn’t been invented yet.”

So, we would lie in front of the box fan, crowding together, jostling for the best spot, becoming angrier and hotter. Our parents would then order us to go outside. Back in the 1960s, parents believed that all child-rearing problems could be solved by sending the kids outside.

Banished to the wilds of our farmstead, we had no choice but to invent our own entertainment, such as climbing trees or playing “Special Prosecutor and Unindicted Coconspirators.” If we wanted to call a friend, we had to get permission to use our home’s only phone, which was connected to a party line. “Texting” involved writing on a piece of paper using the aptly named cursive. This was called “sending a letter.”

Had we expired while participating in our outdoor activities, the adults would have simply shrugged and said, “Well, at least he was outside.” Being a kid was tough back then.

Our world of summertime entertainment expanded as we grew up but remained solidly outdoor-centric.

For instance, during one summer when I was in my early teens, my buddy Steve suggested that we go fishing in the nearby Big Sioux River. After recruiting a handful of reluctant earthworms, we scrounged up some rudimentary fishing equipment and drove our beat-up old farm pickup to the banks of the Sioux.

After drowning several hapless worms, we observed the day was growing quite warm. We speculated that the river might feel cool and refreshing despite its appearance. “Too thick to drink, too thin to plow” is a phrase often used to describe the Big Sioux.

We had brought along the inflated inner tube from a rear tractor tire. We tossed the tube into the Sioux, threw ourselves onto the big black donut and proceeded to drift on the lazy current.

As we floated, Steve shared rumors he’d heard about the river. One was that an ancient sturgeon the size of a Volkswagen lurked near a secluded cutbank. Another regarded a fearsome northern pike that had pulled down an adult mallard amidst a flurry of quacking and splashing.

About then is when my toes registered a faint nibbling sensation. “Probably just a curious carp,” Steve said.

I promptly announced that I had cooled sufficiently and we shouldn’t disturb the cows who were lounging downriver in the shade of those shoreline trees.

A few days later, we trundled the inner tube out to the prairie pond known as Lake Campbell.

Even though I was (and still am) an avowed non-swimmer, I thought nothing of clambering aboard the inner tube. Together, Steve and I paddled and kicked our way out to the middle of the lake. Once there, I remarked casually, “I heard this lake is only four feet deep. Is that true?”

“Let’s find out!” Steve replied as he slipped off the inner tube. I watched, aghast, as he disappeared beneath the murky, greenish water. A hand suddenly popped up nearby.

“I was standing on the bottom,” Steve sputtered when he resurfaced. “It’s definitely deeper than four feet.”

This meant it was also deeper than me. At that exact moment, I noticed a trail of bubbles emanating from the belly of the inner tube. So, that’s why it had been thrown away.

Trying to conceal my rising panic, I suggested it was time to return to shore. The inner tube grew squishier as we went, slowing our progress. My racing pulse and frantic breathing snapped my mind into sharp focus, and I saw how truly vast the lake was. Steve remained cool and calm as I struggled to out-paddle a watery demise.

Steve chose that moment to tell the tale of a young man who had perished in the lake. Rumor had it that he was found with his feet stuck to the mucky bottom, the top of his head at the surface of the water. A gull had made its nest on the small, hairy island formed by the crest of his skull.

“Well,” I panted as I paddled harder, “At least he was outside.”

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at jerry.n@dairystar.com.