I’ve always said a boy’s finest years are between ages 7 and 11. Or at least they were my finest years.

I was no longer a little pisher with knobby knees, a running nose, and a slave to every authority figure in the Lower 48. Instead, I’d wandered into world of wonders and delights.

I had what seemed like total Freedom. I was now allowed to go to town, or anywhere, alone. And in those halcyon days before wireless servitude, I and my fellows rambled about wherever we wanted, the only restriction on our feral selves was we had to be home for supper.

Not only did I run wild, but my imagination did as well. I could be whatever I wanted — a cowboy, a sailer, a jungle explorer, a lumberjack. If wanted to be a pirate, it was easy-peasy: With a stick I’d dubbed a cutlass, a bandana headscarf, a ballpoint pen tattoo, and a tree for a mast, I was a beardless Blackbeard of the first water.

Those years were a lush pasture on a sunny summer’s day, full of wildflowers, butterflies, and songbirds, with perhaps a pair of unicorns gamboling about in the distance. And there I was, lying in the shade of a stately elm, a stack of comics on one side, a bottle of root beer on the other, with nary a care in the world.

Sadly, as if in the blink of an eye, it all disappeared, mowed down by the teen years’ onslaught. Gone was my idyllic pasture. Instead, I was crawling through an uncharted minefield, completely surrounded by an enemy who owned both the high ground and the heavy artillery.

Ultimately, maybe the problem is no matter how young or old we are, we can’t understand the context of any time we’re in until we’re years past it. Kids we thought were our friends, were no friends at all (unless they had four legs). Conversely, teachers we thought were bloody sadists, were actually disciplinarians who only wanted us to grow, as both students and people. And of course ideas we initially thought would be surefire successes, turned out dismal failures. A perfect example of the last one was Bunk Griffin’s 1950 attempt to become The PT Barnum of My Home Town.

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Shock

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It took place on a crisp, cold October Saturday, with, ironically, Halloween only a few days away. What was ironic, you ask? Just that 10-year-old Bunk and his 8-year-old brother Bob, almost literally stumbled on the mortal remains of The Ducky Lady.

We never knew The Ducky Lady’s real name, or anything else about her, except she was very old and had a distinctive walk that looked kinda like a waddle. And thus Bunkie’s nickname for her.

But nomenclature aside, the sad fact was The Ducky Lady was on the path between Dorsey and Leona Street — literally and figuratively belly-up.

They stood there staring, speechless. Finally, Bob spoke.

“She’s dead, isn’t he?” he said.

Bunk nodded.

More time passed in silence, then Bob spoke again.

“So whatta we gonna do?” he said.

“Let me think about it,” said Bunk, the brains of the outfit.

If you knew Bunk you knew he thought constantly. He was a nonstop and nervous thinker, who manifested his nervousness by drumming his fingers on whatever surface was in front of him. In fact, his years of tapping had worn away all the polyurethane on the bar in front of HIS stool in the Downhill Grill. If there was no surface to tap, he’d rub his index, middle finger and thumb back and forth rapidly.

And there he was, standing on the path, frowning and finger rubbing, till the light bulb in his brain went on.

“OK,” he said, “I got it.”

“What is it?” said Bob.

“Were gonna make some money.”

“How we gonna do that?” said Bob.

“You go back to town and tell every boy you run into that for a quarter they can look at a dead lady.”

If you think Bob was confused, shocked, or repulsed by Bunk’s plan, you either never knew or have long forgotten how the mind of young boys — authentic, American, Mark Twain boys — worked.

Bob immediately sprinted off on his errand, a vision of Wealth Unlimited fired up in his head.

Within minutes, a few boys showed up, and a few minutes after that, there were more boys. Finally, there was a crowd of ragamuffin gawkers, standing there, staring, overwhelmed by the mystery of It All.

As we all know, word travels fast in a small town, and not just among boys. So a short while later, one of the town fathers showed up. After taking in the scene, he took charge.

“What’s wrong with you nitwits?” he said. “Have some dignity, will you?”

Those were two of the best examples of rhetorical questions on record.

The mood of mystery shattered, the kids once again became kids — and reprimanded and right-sized kids at that.

“C’mere, you,” said the man, motioning for one of the boys to come over. When he did, the man continued his marching orders. “Go to the police station, tell them what’s happened, and bring a cop back.” Then he needlessly added, “And do it chop-chop.”

After the kid bolted off, the man narrowed his eyes and spoke to the others.

“All right,” he said in a low, ominous voice. “I’m gonna turn my back and count to three. And then I’m gonn turn back. And when I do, if one of you idiots is in sight, he’s gonna rue the day he was born.”

He turned around and counted. When he turned back there wasn’t an idiot to found anywhere. I’m sure none of those kids knew understood “rue the day they were born,” but they understood perfectly what a swift kick in the dupa was.

Once the cops arrived, the incident was resolved as expected, and pretty much faded into the past — except for Bunk and Bob.

Bob told me about this around 25 years ago, and a few years later I decided to verify it with Bunk, when I saw him in the Downhill Grill.

“Yeah,” he said, after I told him my version, “that’s what happened, all right.”

Then he frowned and looked off in the middle distance, tapping up a storm on the bar.

I knew he had something more to say, so I just stood there, waiting.

Finally, he stopped tapping.

Then, an 80-year-old man channeling a 10-year-old boy, he slowly shook his head and said, “And, ya know, not one of those kids paid up.”