May 2, 1968
When my friend and I drove into the spacious parking area back of the garage in which my jeep was undergoing repairs, we arrived just in time to see the Lone Ranger step up to a low tractor, take a couple of turns with his reins around a convenient lever, give his invisible steed an affectionate pat and walk sedately away on some mysterious errand.
Little Robert, the 6-year-old Lone Ranger, down from his home in Portland on a visit to his grandparents, was busily engaged at patrolling the premises out in the back lot and inside the garage, sometimes prowling on foot with his famous horse tethered nearby, but usually mounted on his great charger and ready for any contingency. No law-breaker would have the nerve to venture near the domain of Ranger Robert and his incomparable Silver.
When he saw us walking over to inspect the row of wrecked cars at the back of the lot, Robert cautioned us not to walk to close to Silver’s heels, the implication being that his horse, being strictly a one-man beastie, doesn’t take kindly to the presence of strangers; so I obligingly veered slightly away from the old tractor with its make-believe hitching post and spirited stallion stamping fretfully there. The serious little ranger made it all seem so real that as we turned away I half expected to feel the impact of a pair of silver horse shoes on the seat of my jeans.
His curiosity in our movements aroused, Robert joined us in our inspection of the wrecked cars. A couple of these were smashed almost beyond recognition, and we wondered what the stories were behind the apparent catastrophes. Robert had a ready explanation for each wrecked vehicle. For the most badly-wrecked one on the lot the story was really gruesome: It had been hit by a train (trains are always present in Never Never Land). The lady driver was found hanging out of the car window, and her little boy had been thrown onto the railroad track and run over by the train. He assured us the car was in “bad shape,” an expression he often used in explaining the wrecks to us.
I guess the most important word in the dictionary must be “Imagination,” a natural endowment that is absolutely necessary to progress and a happy human existence. Without imagination we not only wouldn’t be exploring outer space but would still be depending on horses for transportation, or riding around on dinosaurs with Alley Oop.
Imagination, coupled with intelligent activity, is what makes the wheels of civilization go round. It is an essential ingredient in the work and worry program of all our great scientists and builders of society. This sort of imagination, born of mature intellects in adult minds, is of course all-important to us as a people; but the kind that comes untrammeled from immature child minds, uncluttered with work and worry, can furnish us with the kind of amusement that plays a lasting tune on our heartstrings.
What more satisfying entertainment can be found than furtively watching a bevy of tiny tots playing at grown-ups – wee girls clomping around in their mothers’ shoes, flowing sleeves crumpled up on tiny arms and long skirts dragging, setting the table with diminutive dishes and gossiping away like mad? Or little boys, swaggering about with small hands poised over gun butts, or galloping away in swift pursuit of the enemy with guns blazing?
On my frequent trips to the garage while waiting for my jeep I became quite well acquainted with the little Lone Ranger; so well, in fact, that just before I finally drove away he paid me a great honor. He came up to me that day and solemnly presented me with a silver bullet – the ultimate gesture of undying friendship.
I gravely accepted the imaginary, priceless token of the Lone Ranger’s esteem and reverently tucked it away in my shirt pocket.
And nothing will ever induce me to part with my precious unseen souvenir that was given to me by a little Lone Ranger on our brief sojourn together in the Land of Make-believe.
