The Investigative Child

As far back as any of us can remember, my father has experienced the world in a very physical fashion. Oh, he likes to tell you that he does a lot of thinking about things before he acts, but the truth is that he is very much an act-first, apologize-later, think-about-it-someday-if-ever sort of a guy. This drove his poor mother crazy (it has the same effect on his wife!), but he would be off to the next adventure while she was still steaming.

When he was a little boy in Chicago, he received a tricycle. The trike had large, balloon tires, as opposed to those hard, solid-rubber ones. Behind their house was a row of detached garages. Little Tony would hop on his trike, ride up and down the alley, and once he was at speed, ride directly at a closed garage door.

The balloon tires would bounce him back, and he would laugh delightedly at the sensation. So, it was back into the alley, and zoom into another door. He could spend what felt like hours crashing into doors, bouncing back, and laughing. All in the name of science, you understand—physics, and anatomy and kinesiology.

His probably wasn't green. Or this clean. 

When he tired of that, he would head down to the corner bar, and place found objects under car tires, to watch them bust as the drivers wheeled away from the curb. Once, he placed a nail by a tire, to see what would happen. Again, all in the name of science. Luckily, for both the driver and little Tony’s continued existence, he placed the nail at the back of a tire, and the driver pulled out forward.

A block or so away was the ‘L’. He loved to put rocks on the tracks, largish ones, not pea gravel, but as big as his four year-old hands could carry. He was hoping that if there were enough, or big enough, rocks, he would derail a train. That would be exciting to see! Four year-olds have no concept of loss, let alone pain, demolition, injury, and permanent damage to people, homes, livelihoods, or lives. It was mere scientific curiosity.

He tried putting pennies on the tracks, waiting and wanting to see what they would look like once the train had rushed over them. Oddly enough, he never could a single sacrificed penny.

That same “scientific” bent led him to experiment with snowball projection once they had moved to rural Lake Zurich. Outside of the one-room schoolhouse was a swing set, which rarely saw much use in the winter. Technically, the school for grades first through eighth was a four-room wonder: one schoolroom, one cloakroom, two indoor-outhouses (just like it sounds: a pit toilet, with a door, no plumbing, which includes no sinks to wash hands at. One for the boys, one for the girls, located behind the teacher’s desk).

One winter day during recess, a slightly older, but not yet wiser, little Tony rolled himself up a fair size snowball. It was head-of-a-snowman size. And having rolled it on the playground, it contained several little pea gravel pellets. Dad placed the snowball in front of the swing set, and then hopped on a handy swing. Back and forth he rocked, his legs kicking him ever higher. Once he reached the highest any child could go, he reached a foot down, and gave that snowball a might kick as he swung by.

Off, off it soared, describing a beautiful whitish arc through the grey, overcast skies. On, on it rushed—and straight through the schoolhouse window. Needless to say, no one was very delighted with his latest proof of the principles of flight and gravity. And the cloakroom was empty that day, for all the students bundled up they best they could, while school trustees tried desperately to find a replacement for the window.

There have been many other experiments and investigation over the years. The harmless ones were as simple as pulling carrots straight out of the garden and knocking some dirt off before chomping down. Just to see how they were growing, of course.

More reckless ones include taking a test ride, of a new (hand-me-down) Schwinn. Tony coasted down a long hill in Lake Zurich, standing on the seat, arms out wide in a “King of the World” position. He and the bike survived that experiment. A co-worker’s motorcycle, decades later, was not so lucky.

Ah, the joys of the Investigative Child.