Friday was one of those beautiful June days, when the sun kisses the skin with just the right amount of warmth and gives the landscape sharp edges. When I was young, it was the kind of day that flung me out of the house and into the street as if I was attached to the end of a stretched rubber band.
In those days, 15th Street was so full of kids you only had to step outside to find one of your favorite street games underway. Hide & Seek, Red Rover, Cops & Robbers, Ringolevio, Duck-Duck-Goose, Freeze Tag and the ever popular Kick the Can. If you had one of those 10-cent pink balls from Woolworth’s you played 7up or Wheaties/Clapsies, taking turns bouncing the ball off a brick wall. If you had a flat stone and some chalk, you played Hopscotch. A piece of clothesline served as a jump rope.
I was in the midst of this happy reverie, driving down a suburban street chock-a-block with four bedroom houses separated by wide, green yards, when I noticed something that struck me as odd.
Where were the children?
I began to scan the backyards as I passed, then the front porches, the expensive jungle gyms, the in-ground swimming pools. Not a child in sight. I drove by a baseball field, the bleachers filled not with parents, but with tall weeds. Next came an empty playground, the swings hanging forlornly, the ground covered with rubberized mulch. To protect whom, from what, I wondered. I finally saw someone on a bicycle, pedaling rapidly down a bike path, but she appeared to be about 30 and commuting home from work.
School is out, so what explains the absence of children playing outside on a beautiful summer’s day? Of course, times have changed since I played on 15th Street. Mothers work. Young children spend the day at summer camp or daycare. Even stay-at-home moms and dads bring their children to safe, supervised activities, because that’s where all the other children are. The kids old enough to stay home alone, if they do venture outside, are glued to their smart phones and iPads.
There are any numbers of reasons why the all- day, unsupervised, unstructured play of the 15th Street crowd doesn’t exist in today’s world. It’s a shame though, because free play is what bound our neighborhood together, almost as family. We kids knew every parent on the street, just as they knew each of us. We loved the elderly woman who gave us cookies and Kool-Aid in the middle of a sweaty afternoon. We all feared the old man who lived alone and yelled at us when we hopped his fence.
Though we lived in the city, we knew our little patch of earth as intimately as we knew our shared secrets. Every crack in the sidewalk, dying elm, fire hydrant, street lamp, and abandoned building. We could name every swimming pool and playground within five miles because we rode our bikes to all of them. We could walk to the corner store and find the candy counter blindfolded, we’d done it so many times.
My point is that we had a very physical and emotional connection with our external environment—our street, our neighborhood, our city—that doesn’t seem to exist for children today. It is the kind of connection made only with the freedom to explore, to discover on your own what is around you.
I am grateful that I lived at a time when we played, wild and free, and every minute of a golden summer day was lived to the fullest. However, as the poet Robert Frost observed, “Nothing gold can stay.” Except in our memories.
What do you remember about your childhood summers? Leave me a comment and I’ll be happy to share your stories!