My husband Dave and I grew up in a middle to lower-middle-class neighborhood. The world had come through another war to end all wars. The US was riding high. The economy was growing, and anyone willing to work could find a means to make a living. We had an idyllic childhood, happy and peaceful unaware of the social problems simmering under the surface.

It was when watermelons, straight from the fields, were iced in tubs, ushering in seed-spitting contests. My brother Bill, and I stood on an imaginary line and spit seeds to our heart’s content, trying to see who could spit seeds the furthest. He always won.

It was a time when we locked our skates onto our shoes and buzzed up and down sidewalks, balancing precariously, trying to avoid the cracks in the concrete. And sometimes running home with skinned knees expecting a kiss from mom and a dab of stinging iodine on the wound to make it all better.

It was a time on Saturday evenings when boys pushed carts down our streets loaded with Post-Dispatch or Globe-Democrat Sunday newspapers to sell to those who were ready to catch up on the latest news. Street lights and lightning bugs lit the night.

Those of us of a certain age remember a variety of people personally coming to our door to collect insurance payments, sharpen our knives, and deliver milk. On a hot summer’s day, we would meet the man delivering ice for our “ice box” hoping he would chip off a little piece for us to help chase the heat away.

It was a time when Lone Ranger and Hopalong Cassidy were all the rage. These characters were off on a new adventure fighting the bad guys every week. Who needs to be a king of the castle to rule over people when you can be king of the range, riding off into the sunset on your trusty steed, helping people along the way?

Many cowboy hats, guns, and holster sets were purchased as Christmas gifts. The pop-pop of cap guns was a frequent sound as little boys ran around the neighborhood chasing each other. Is it any wonder that all little boys wanted to be like these defenders of the West?

Capitalizing on this phenomenon, people occasionally came through our neighborhoods taking pictures, for a price, of the would-be cowboys.

When Dave was about five or six, here came a man with a pony, the trappings of a cowboy, and a camera. Dave’s mom and dad, Russ and Betty, saw the opportunity to make their little boy happy. Can you imagine how he must have felt when the man lifted him onto the back of the horse, unconcerned that it was a pony, wishing he had one of his own?

The above picture is a snapshot in time, in the 1950s, when life was simple. It was a time when a little boy on a pony in full western threads, could pretend he was a cowboy, if only for a moment when cowboys ruled.