Contributing Writer

There once was a time when my whole hand could fit into a bag of Fritos and both of my feet into one of Dad's favorite Sunday-going-to-church shoes.�Life was a little different then. There was no color television, no video games, no computers, and no cell phones. It was a time long ago when all the kids answered, "Yes, ma'am, or yes, sir." Only the bad kids talked back, and there was just one of those - Down the Street Bully Brad. It was a time when kids actually listened to what adults had to say.�Yes, once upon a time, before all of our modern conveniences, life was simpler and much less complicated.

There once was a time when biscuits had golden dabs of real butter in the center and not some polyunsaturated substitute stuff. No one worried about cholesterol or high fat content.�Biscuits from our childhood were made by Mom from scratch with Crisco, buttermilk, baking soda and flour and with helping hands from one of us kids. They didn't pop forth from a pudgy little dough boy inside a cardboard can.

Mom's biscuits never came out the same.�Some were soft and fluffy, other were hard and crunchy. The really hard ones were perfect for sling-shot wars with the kids from The Duke of Gloucester Street. The biscuits were always good,and no mater how many she made, they were gone before breakfast was over. Mom's biscuits were made the old fashioned way. For all of its convenience, modern biscuit making lacks something - a mothers' love.

There once was a time when we walked over to our friends' houses to see what they were doing.�Or we all got together at the end of the street and played a game of baseball or street football. And if we got an elbow or a knee scraped, we didn't go crying to Mom and try to sue whoever knocked us down.�Nope, we just got up and kept right on playing - with blood trickling down.�Everybody knew - when you walked home with a stream of dried blood on an arm or leg, it was a badge of honor.�Getting little scrapes was just a part of playing the game - just a part of life.

It was a time when Goofy Steve made being goofy an art form, kids played together at the end of the street without being in gangs, and no one ever thought about swearing, smoking, taking drugs or drinking.

As the haunting sound of a lonely train whistle echoes in the distance, it pulls my mind slowly