Over time, I will be posting a nostalgic series of vignettes exploring my youthful days in the Osceola Park neighborhood of Pittsfield, Massachusetts during the 1950s and early 1960s. Such tales will describe my adventures when I was seven to twelve years old.
We gathered at “Indian Head Rock” in Osceola Park to make tomahawks, bows, and arrows. We applied “warpaint.” We scavenged about for native plant materials existing in the surrounding fields and woods. We used our handmade implements, not to hunt animals or fight off intruders, but to raid and capture Osceola Park itself. Yes, the entire park. We thought big for 10-year olds and had no fear of failure or its consequences.
As the melodious-voiced Paul Harvey would say: “It’s time for the rest of the story.”
We met secretly at Indian Head Rock on the appointed time for a “pow-wow” and planned what to do with our wicked weapons of war. Ten of us decided to waylay Osceola Park and make it exclusively ours, albeit for a short time.
We added further breathtaking daring by sneaking cigarettes from our homes and smoking them while we coughed and hacked and spit a bit. The cigarette smoke wafted thickly up from the trees at the Rock, not unlike Native American pow-wow campfire smoke from centuries ago. We were now chemically stimulated and fortified enough to activate our nefarious plans.
Indian Head Rock was hidden by a hill in the woods and was only about 200 feet from where the park directors gathered in the early mornings. They would sit under the big elm tree near the sandbox and water fountain. There they would greet Park attendees and announce the schedule of daily events. We nearby marauders weren’t on the agenda, of course.
With wailing whoops and horrible hollers, we came running down the hill with a fierce frenzy. In our hands we held our goldenrod-stem arrows, which were attached to tree-twine bowstrings and our knobby goldenrod tops acted as our tomahawks. Our war paint consisted of multi-colored flower pollen and juices. We were on an unprecedented mission to attack Osceola Park. We felt immensely invincible. Victory would be ours in no time at all.
As we surrounded the gathered park targets, our demands were simple: we wanted the nearby shanty door keys and $10 in popsicle money from the park directors. We told them that no one would be accosted or hurt if they acceded to us.
The two 17-year-old park directors were shockingly submissive to our dictates and totally nonresistant. They gave up the keys and the cash without incident. They never even called the park police on their walkie-talkies. Perhaps they were frozen in fear and totally unprepared; it’s likely park attacks weren’t part of their supervisor training.
The neighborhood kids that were with them were not exactly intimidated, but did not outwardly laugh at us, at least. Indeed, this was a pretty cool scene in that the actions of a bunch of nicotine-infused 10-year olds could succeed without shooting an arrow or whacking someone in the noggin with tomahawks.
Despite our emotional high, reality returned in due time and we returned the shanty keys and the cash out of a sense of remorse and fair play. After all, these kids and the park directors really weren’t our enemies. The park directors even agreed not to tell our parents or the park police what we had done.
Our 15 minutes of Andy Warhol-like fame lasted not a minute beyond, and calm, peaceful normalcy soon held sway at Osceola Park.
