If you read and enjoy this column regularly, I suspect we share a common bond. I suspect that you, like me, grew up in a world free of many of today's dangers and troubles. I lived in the country surrounded by farms, fields and woods.

From the time I was 7 or 8 years old, I spent most of my free time outdoors. If there were other kids around, we played baseball or football from dawn until dusk.

In the fall we'd rake piles of leaves in the end zone to jump into after a long touchdown.

At night, we'd sit on the bench of the general store and tell ghost stories. We dared each other to cross the street and run around the church and dash through the graveyard. Just thinking about it gives me goose bumps.

When there was no one to play with, I'd leave on my bike in the morning and get home in time for supper. There were no limits. My dad worked and mom knew I'd be back when I got hungry.

I had three favorite destinations. One was a patch of woods surrounding an old abandoned house. Some people said the house was haunted and I suppose that was the lure. But I never saw a ghost or even heard any strange sounds, so I'd leave my bike at the old house and explore the woods. I climbed trees, rolled logs and flipped rocks in search of bird nests, salamanders, snakes and spiders.

Another of my favorite places was a deep swimming hole along a spring-fed stream about 8 miles from our house. On really hot summer days I'd bike there alone, but usually I'd wait for my dad. He'd get home from work at 4 p.m., and after a long day in the factory, he was always up for a swim.

"The Rock," as we called it, was a natural swimming pool. It was in this pool, lined with house-sized boulders, that my dad taught my brothers and myself to swim and dive.

And it's where I got to know crayfish, minnows, frogs, water striders and diving beetles. Everything I caught went home in a peanut butter jar to be identified with my dog-eared Golden Guides.

But the place I liked best was Smitty's pond. It was just a short hike through a couple of hay fields to the old cow pond, so I usually walked.

In retrospect, it was a just a big old mud hole, but there were always plenty of frogs and painted turtles.

I'd spend hours on my belly crawling along the edge of the pond, net in hand, stalking those critters. And whenever I caught one, you couldn't convince me I didn't belong on "Wild Kingdom" with Marlin Perkins.

I'm sure many of you have similar memories, but times have changed.

Few parents today let their children out of sight for more than a few minutes in the backyard, much less all day. And if they did, they'd probably be reported for neglecting their children.

Stalkers, child molesters, serial rapists, murderers and garden variety perverts make even suburban back yards a seemingly dangerous place.

So children stay indoors and venture outdoors only for rigidly structured and supervised sports.

Consequently, we have raised a generation of children who know more about tropical rain forests and African savannas than the plants and animals in their own back yard.

I came to this disturbing conclusion not via an insightful "Eureka" moment, but by reading a new book by Richard Louv. "Last Child in the Woods -- Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit-Disorder" (2005, $24.95, Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill) outlines a serious problem that managed to slip beneath my radar.

From overprotective parents to communities that literally outlaw unstructured outdoor play, Louv defines and documents the problem, which boils down to this: Most of today's conservation and environmental leaders made their connection to nature as kids. Absent that connection, who will lead us tomorrow?

Parents, grandparents, and teachers -- resolve to read this book to learn how to get our children back to nature.