Rainy days in the 1960s started with both of the captains. Captain Kangaroo and Cap’n Crunch.

A bowl of Cap’n Crunch, placed strategically on the corner of my parents’ Formica dinette table allowed me to shovel those tasty, compact cubes of processed grains and sugar into myself. All while watching Mr. Moose drop ping pong balls onto the captain’s head.

Every weekday in the little red brick house on Beech Street in Ashdown, Arkansas, started with the Cap’n and Captain, but the rainy days took a different path after breakfast.

Instead of the summer day smoothly melding morning and afternoon from TV to outside activities, an abrupt change would occur in the schedule for my sister and me.

A game changer, if you will.

Mom kept our board games in the hallway closet. Up high, so we couldn’t get and play with any of them without her both knowing and approving of it first.

But I don’t recall a time when a request for a board game on a rainy day was declined. A round of Monopoly could occupy us for hours. Weeks if we ever had finished a game.

I used to hear rumors about kids who actually had finished a game of Monopoly, but each pursuit of a rumor always turned out to be a dead end.

You could say they turned out to be a Trivial Pursuit. A game that was later invented and I was banned from playing in my own home. That’s another story for another day.

When it came to playing Monopoly, the responsibility of handling the money always fell to yours truly since my sister hadn’t learned to count yet.

Monopoly usually lasted until one of us started losing. Then, mom would trade in Monopoly for a different game from the hall closet. Chinese checkers, Old Maid, or sometimes just plain old tic tac toe.

Game playing lasted until dinner (In the South, dinner is what we call lunch, and dinner is called supper. Now back to our regularly scheduled column). Dinner might consist of a fried baloney sandwich and Frito’s, boiled weinies and light bread for a bun, or, if we were lucky, mom made us potato patties.

Potato patties were buttered and mashed cakes of leftover mashed potatoes, which were browned in a cast iron skillet.

Fine eatin’, right there.

After dinner we went back to playing. Whatever we were playing, we were usually close to a window when it wasn’t cold. We had no air conditioning, so a breeze was absolutely necessary in humid southwestern Arkansas.

As the wind traveled from the windows in the back of the house, down the hallway, around us and out the front windows, I’d grab for the Monopoly money as the air tried to carry it away. Even having to grab for the cash, you were grateful for any air movement.

And there’s nothing quite as satisfying as open windows, a breeze, and the sound of rain falling. Except for open windows, a breeze, the sound of rain, and playing games with your sister without another care in the world.

If the rain cleared up, we’d head outside and get our bicycles. She had a purple Murray and I had a purple Murray. Hers had a basket with a plastic flower on the front of the handle bars. Mine had a sissy bar.

If we’d eaten the last of the baloney or Frito’s at dinner, I’d be sent to Shur-Way at the end of the street to buy more. If I didn’t think any of my buddies would see me, I’d take my sister’s bike since it had a basket.

Today on rainy days, kids bury their heads in their electronic devices. For that matter, they bury their heads in their electronic devices on any day. Rain or shine.

I rarely see kids playing outside these days, and if they’re inside, they have their eyes on the phone, and headphones in their ears.

The world and their youth are passing them by. They just need their mom to put a Monopoly on their family time. So they’ll have memories for a rainy day.

 

©2025 John Moore

John’s books, Puns for Groan People and Write of Passage: A Southerner’s View of Then and Now Vol. 1 and Vol. 2, are available on his website TheCountryWriter.com, where you can also send him a message.