As a kid growing up in the 1950s, I spent the most of my playtime outside.
I did my duty to boyhood too. After a long day of work — no adult could call such heavy exercise as play — I consistently came home bruised, cut and scraped. This, along with torn clothes, was what I did best.
When I stepped in the back door — I wasn’t allowed to come in the front — there was Mom. I could always tell instantly by the look on her face what degree of trouble I was in. I tried excuses, but I wasn’t very good at them. I was seldom punished or scolded. That would have been better.
Mom had something far more scary.
See, she was the family’s medical practitioner. My bruises and scrapes were her target. I could have had one arm hanging by a narrow strap of skin and I would have told Mom that I was totally fine.