Not long ago, I saw a young mother in a public park serving her children a snack. She handed both of them one of those Minute Maid fruit drinks that comes in a pouch.
The younger of the two siblings immediately dropped his on the ground. Seeing that it had picked up a thin coating of grass and loose dirt, the parent deposited it in the nearest trash can and scolded the tot for “wasting a perfectly good drink” before handing him a brand new one.
No, mom. You wasted a perfectly good drink.
I’m not sure how this mom would’ve survived growing up in the 1960s when dirt was practically a fifth food group.
We wasted little in those days, and if you grew up earlier than the 1960s, you probably wasted even less.
There was a different mindset then. We didn’t drink from sanitized plastic water bottles carefully chilled for our tender tastes.
We headed to the nearest neighbor’s outdoor water spigot and wrapped our mouths around the garden hose if they had one, or directly from the spout if they didn’t.
In fact, once I could’ve earned one of my friend Greg’s shiny new quarters if I could keep my mouth wrapped around the spout of one for five full seconds while he turned it on full force.
That wasn’t one of the smartest things I tried to do in my young life. I nearly drowned. Kids, don’t try that at home.
There was also no such thing as an expiration date. Your mom used her eyes and nose to determine when that bologna had made its last trip to the lunch table or the Christmas turkey had produced its final leftovers.
I can still see my grandmother preparing lunch — pulling a container of chicken salad out of her refrigerator, opening and sniffing it, and saying “Hmmmm…let’s finish this off today before it spoils.” She had raised her family during the Depression when nothing was wasted. I ate lots of things “just before they spoiled.”
We also managed to survive another slightly odd tradition. Regular visits from the bug spray truck.
On warm summer evenings, you’d hear its mournful moan off in the distance, and you’d see its clouds of total insect annihilation approaching on the horizon. I can tell you that as a child, there was no more exciting sound on the face of God’s green earth.
Our home would erupt into full DEFCON 1 status. Like soldiers, we’d scurry through the house at our parent’s command, closing every window in sight. After all, on summer evenings they were all open in those days. There was no central air conditioning.
The bug spray truck would wind its way through the streets spreading its thick fog of destruction all over town.
I have no idea what chemicals they used. I probably don’t want to know. We were warned by our parents to stay out of direct contact with its fumes. We had even been told stories of people who grew third arms and legs from breathing it in.
Truth be told, that only added to the excitement. Think of having a third arm! What an incredible athlete you’d be!
One fateful Friday evening I decided to ignore those warnings and take on the bug spray truck face to face.
At the time, the local Lutheran church had a large standing billboard sign in their front yard just off the town’s main drag. I rode my bicycle directly behind the sign and positioned myself there, waiting for the inevitable toxic, arm-growing fumes.
I took a large final deep breath of fresh air, closed my eyes, and waited.
After what seemed like a small eternity, I opened my slightly burning eyes, jumped on my bike and rode home, choking on the fog all around me. I never told my parents about the ordeal. I figured when they saw my third arm, they’d know what happened.
Well, nothing happened. The incident, along with the bug spray truck, faded into history.
I’m sure that young parents reading this are horrified at the potential for environmental, not to mention physical contamination, children of the day endured. Maybe you’re even a little thankful for governmental regulations that protect us from the bug spray truck and spoiled chicken salad.
Though I think we’ve overdone it a bit, most times I’m a little thankful too. 
Still, there’s a place in the middle of my lower back that itches right now. If I only had that third arm….

Kent Bernhardt lives in Salisbury.