Chapter Eighteen: Lessons from the Playground​​​

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     As a pre-teen, I virtually lived at our local playground. In an age before lawsuits, the playground gave me the freedom to enjoy favorites like the teeter-totter, the swing set, and the monkey bars before they were virtually sanitized out of existence.

 

     Realizing there would be some changes from my youth, I figured it was time we took advantage of the newly renovated playground just a few blocks from our home. The kids were restless, and even Homer was beginning to look frazzled. We needed a day trip, so I put jackets on Emily and Jack, and the three of us set off for the Frost Street playground.

 

     I decided on a walk, soon regretting that decision when Jack’s motor ran out, and our walk became a carry. That complication aside, we eventually reached our destination, the playground already teeming with kids.

 

     After my first glimpse of the new renovations, I realized how different things had become. Instead of blacktop, I saw children running on some sort of rubber mat that resembled black wood chips. Feeling my shoes sproining off the hard rubber material, I wondered how high a child would ricochet after a fall. While I guessed that could be fun, part of me couldn’t get past the idea all this was all done just to avoid a skinned knee.

 

     With visions of astronauts bouncing on the moon, I sent the kids off to play and turned my attention to the rest of the play area. What I saw there was considerably more depressing than a tweak to its former asphalt surface.

 

     Once my favorite youth pastime, the Jungle Jim had been replaced by a five-foot-tall wooden ladder leading up to a hut-like structure with a slide meant for those coming down. Outlawed was the metal pipe conglomeration of my youth, with its vantage point several feet above the rest of the playground.

 

     Assuming you avoided the rusted metal of the old Jim, even the climb itself could be fun. Not great athletes, my friends and I still managed to escape any Himalayan-like climbing injuries. From what I observed, however, none of that history mattered. The Gods of the playground had spoken, and heights were no longer tolerated.

 

     Still mourning my lost youth, I noticed the other equipment was, if anything, far worse. The wooden see-saw, its name once the source of endless arguments, had been replaced by a plastic version allowing its riders to ascend no more than three feet off the ground. The fun of the see-saw, abandoning your friend to a sudden fall from the top, had apparently been declared verboten.

 

     I then looked for the sliding board and swing set, almost missing both from their location just beyond the see-saw. Both of these playground staples were now plastic. As with much of the other equipment, the slide was now curved to guarantee the loss of any downward momentum.

 

     I remembered the metal slides of my youth; my friends and I stealing wax paper from our mothers’ kitchens to improve our speed as much as possible. Would wax paper even work on a plastic slide?  While not a scientist, I was still virtually certain it would not. As far as the swing set was concerned, I saw one mother currently pushing her son. Apparently, that was still an option, though I wondered if it required a permit or safety lessons.   

 

     As I looked further, I spotted another legacy from my childhood. In a far corner abandoned by its more progressive brethren, I saw a merry-go-round.

 

     While the Jungle Jim was the number one favorite from my youth, the merry-go-round was a close second, the first introduction my friends and I would have to the more nausea-inducing rides at the amusement park. Notorious in my neighborhood as the big circle of doom, the merry-go-round consisted of a large metal circle with five or six handholds along the edges. Friends took turns trying to spin their cohorts, hoping to see them fly off, puke, or, on a rare good day, do both at once.

 

     If you were the kid hitting the ground, you simply changed places with your tormenter and tried to spin him or her even faster than they twirled you. While I watched today’s version, I saw a couple of kids playing on the merry-go-round, spinning at a more sedate pace. Not as fast as I remembered, but at least they were trying.   

 

     As I continued my childhood reverie, the only other father on the playground walked over to educate the newcomer.

 

     “You’re wondering,” he said, standing next to me, “why they don’t spin the damn thing any faster. You’re thinking maybe we were just stronger than kids today or less prone to motion sickness.”

 

     “Or maybe,” I said, remembering my own frequent bouts of nausea, “they’re just less sadistic.”

 

     “Decreased sadism has nothing to do with it. Have you ever watched kids play video games?”

 

     As we spoke, the children playing on the merry-go-round suddenly stopped and turned their attention to more stationary pursuits. Pointing to the now-empty merry-go-round, my new companion said, “Walk over there and give the thing a spin.”

 

     Challenged, I walked over and gave the merry-go-round a hard push. The big circle of doom was now a big circle of mush – it went around exactly once. I looked at my fellow father for an explanation.

 

     “They weighted the damn thing. Unless you’re the Rock, there’s no way kids can get it up to even a semi-decent speed. We can’t have children hitting the ground, can we?”

 

     While my fellow father grabbed his child to head, presumably, for home, I moved to a bench next to a group of mothers looking after their children. As I sat down, the now departing dad glanced back in my direction, shaking his head as if in warning. Not sure of his message, I sat next to a mother my age, a short, overweight woman in the process of scanning the playground for potential predators. The other mothers in the group were similarly engaged, like meerkats guarding their den.

 

     Still trying to pretend I wasn’t there, the mother sitting next to me continued her playground surveillance. Not sure what else to do, I tried starting a conversation.

 

     Pointing to Emily and Jack, I asked, “You see the boy and the girl climbing the slide?  Those are my kids. I haven’t taken them to this playground since it was renovated, but it looks like fun.”  The new, improved playground actually looked like anything but fun, but I figured the truth might be unwelcome.

 

     My new companion stared back at me, forced by social convention to make conversation back. “Those are your kids?  They don’t look like you.”

 

     This was unexpected. Perhaps she figured I stole my two children, cutting short my getaway to hide at the local playground.

 

     “Thankfully for them, they look like their Mom. If you’d like, I could have their DNA checked.”

 

     One should never rattle a woman who probably knew the local cops on a first-name basis. Hoping to dial things down a bit, I held out my hand and introduced myself.

 

     “My name’s Alan. It’s very nice to meet you.”

 

     I noticed the other members of the playground Mafia move closer to my reluctant seatmate. I wondered if any of them possessed a Taser. Who knows, perhaps they all did.

 

     I was on the verge of starting a riot with a gang of inexplicably angry housewives – Alma would not be pleased. I withdrew my hand quickly, afraid it might be severed or perhaps eaten while still on the limb. Was there a Good Housekeeping recipe for severed arm?  I suspected these women would know.

 

     I moved to the far corner of the bench, outside what I hoped was their kill zone. I then shifted my attention back to my two children.

 

     Emily had moved to the swing set, curiously unoccupied by any other children. I wondered if it was weighted, like the merry-go-round. I thought of asking one of my former seatmates, but I decided to table that question.

 

     Jack was on the slide, sort of. In true Jack fashion, he walked up the slide from bottom to top, moving surprisingly well for a child only three years old. While watching my son, I noticed Jack had also caught the attention of some of the other children. While I was sure he was violating at least one playground rule, I rooted for him anyway. My son – the Pied Piper of the Frost Street playground.

 

     Engaged in a group discussion, the harpies sitting next to me had yet to notice Jack’s mini-heresy. Several more kids had, however, and a few now made their way up the slide following in Jack’s wake. Soon he was leading a group of five children, boys and girls, up the slide, down the ladder, and back up the slide again. For his part, Jack seemed unaware of his entourage. He was in his own little world, though clearly having fun.

 

     One eye alternating between Jack and Emily, I kept the other on the harpies. A minute after the parade got started, one of them finally noticed a ripple in the force.

 

     “Is that your child?”  It was the harpy who doubted my parenthood shortly after I first sat down.

 

     “I think so. The DNA tests haven’t returned, but their mother swears he’s mine, and I’ve never known her to lie.”

 

     “He’s going up the slide the wrong way.”

 

     “Are you sure about that?  If you’re going up the slide, it would seem there really is only one way.”

 

     “He needs to use the ladder. The other kids are following him.”

 

     “Actually, it appears he is using the ladder going down. Regarding the other kids. It looks like they’re having fun. Who knows, maybe it might catch on.”

 

     All now openly listening in on our conversation, the woman’s cohorts also stopped and stared. My status had moved from dangerous to dangerous moron. Wondering if the change was better or worse, I turned away from the harpies, ignoring their glances and any defensive weapons they might possess.

 

     Jack’s game was growing more popular, though Jack himself had set his sights on other challenges. Abandoning his posse of five, Jack moved to the now-vacant see-saw and proceeded, for some unknown reason, to remove his right shoe. At this point, he also drew the attention of his sister, who paused her attempt to complete a swing set three-sixty in an effort to determine just what her wayward brother was up to.

 

     One could sense the harpies' relief as Jack moved away from the slide, no longer fearful their charges faced imminent doom. Without the three-year-old hooligan in their midst, their kids would be free to go back to the boring style of play so prized by the designers of this particular playground.

 

     Still oblivious to the attention he was drawing, I watched as Jack picked up the shoe he had just removed and placed it on one side of the see-saw. Still unsure what he had in mind, I looked on in fascination as Jack walked to the other end of the see-saw, reached up, and pulled it down as hard as he could.

 

     Jack had invented the see-saw catapult. Where I had seen a now-boring version of a distraction from my youth, Jack had spotted a possibility only a three-year-old mind could devise.

 

     I wouldn’t have thought it possible given how low the contraption was now set, but Jack’s shoe flew a good ten feet, its trajectory bringing the footwear projectile dangerously close to Jack’s head.

 

     Emily appeared delighted by her brother’s brainstorm. Running to Jack, she removed her own shoe and prepared for a distance challenge. With no one else on the playground, the whole thing would have worked beautifully, a bonding experience between brother and sister.

 

     Unfortunately, Jack and Emily were not alone. When Emily took her first flying leap on the see-saw, several of Jack’s slide followers finally noticed his new game. Running to join the fun, a blonde, curly-haired young man was struck on the right leg by Emily’s now-flying shoe.

 

     In the process of gloating that her shoe had flown farther, Emily didn’t notice its impact. In truth, I don’t think the curly-haired boy noticed it much either – he continued running toward the see-saw, stopping only to take off his shoe for the now-popular catapult.

 

     Unfortunately, the young man’s mother did notice. One of the harpies, she was the tall, slender woman, blonde like her son, sitting farthest from me on the bench. Alarmed and likely prepared to call nine-one-one, the woman ran to rescue her little boy from what I’m sure she considered a gang fight.

 

     The other harpies ran as well. While unsure precisely what they were thinking, I suspected most had watched West Side Story. Figuring they were witnessing a real-life version of the Jets and the Sharks, my bench mates were determined that horrifying scenario would never happen in their neighborhood.

 

     I decided I should play peacemaker. Left to themselves, I knew the kids would be fine. That clearly wasn’t happening, however, and I needed to make sure my children didn’t get trampled in the adult rush to restore order.

 

     Tall skinny blonde mom arrived first at the scene. Bravely taking stock of the situation, she grabbed for her young progeny, her movement coinciding with the launch of her son’s left shoe. The impact on her forehead was less than catastrophic, but the woman appeared stunned, as if her favorite diet supplement had been suddenly pulled from her drugstore’s shelf.

 

     Blonde mom then started towards Jack, the remaining harpies nearby for support. I moved quickly to step in between, but I was too slow; Emily had beaten me to it.

 

     Like most older sisters, Emily lived by a creed. She had no problems yelling at her brother or resorting to the occasional shove, but she would be damned if she would allow an outsider that same privilege. Whatever her motivation, I recognized her determined look – for anyone hoping to get at Jack, moving Emily out of the way would have to be step one.

 

     Blonde mom stopped to reconsider. Pausing to gather her breath, she pointed at Jack, sputtering all the way.

 

     “You…, You… don’t play right.”

 

     Now it was my turn. “I wasn’t aware there was a rulebook. Do you have a copy?  I’d like to see what decree Jack was violating”

 

     “You’re supposed to go up the ladder and down the slide. Everybody knows that. And the see-saw is for kids, not shoes.”

 

     I was genuinely curious. “Were you ever a kid, or were you simply born the age you are now?”

 

     The other harpies had long since joined their friend, and suddenly they pulled in even closer. Remembering my earlier concerns about tasers, I considered backing off. Before doing so, I paused for one more question.

 

     “Did you ever consider maybe this was the first time all day your kids were having fun?”   Blonde mom and her cohorts looked equally dumfoundered. Fun?  What was that?

 

     Did they genuinely have the police on speed dial?  Before one of them reached for their phone, I gathered Jack and Emily, both more curious than scared, and hustled them off the playground. Turning one last time before leaving, I made the deepest, darkest threat I could think of.

 

     “This playground is really great. I’m going to tell all my friends to bring their kids.”

 

     The immediate crisis averted; the harpies ignored me and returned to their place on the bench. I didn’t watch, but I assumed their children resumed using the slide and see-saw the proper way - the way God and our Founding Fathers had intended.

 

     Still, I wondered if a seed had been planted. Would one child, waiting for their mother to resume speaking with her mom-gang, dare use the slide or the merry-go-round in a manner that did not meet parental standards?  Would several?  I liked to think Jack and Emily’s little insurrection would spread. If so, there would be hope for this generation, after all.

 

     While walking home, Emily asked, “Why were those ladies mad at Jack and me?”

 

     “Some people like things done the same way all the time with no deviations. You need to know that I’m not mad at you. In fact, I couldn’t be prouder.”

 

     We went home and had some ice cream, a reward for a battle well fought. After returning home that evening, Alma asked me about my day.

 

     I told her about the playground rumble. “You might want to avoid Frost Street for the next few months – maybe the next few years.”

 

     “People tend to get a little tribal when they go back to the playground.”

 

     “I think we may be banned for life. Your daughter and son are apparently gang members.”

 

     Alma shook her head. “As long as no felonies were committed, I’m okay.”

 

     It was then I had an idea. “Can I build them a swing set and slide here?”

 

     “You couldn’t even attach car seats to our minivan.”

 

     “That should make you feel better. Anything I build will be here for life.”

 

     “Something I’m sure the kids will appreciate when they reach adulthood.”

 

     I ordered a swing set anyway.  Someday I would add an old-fashioned see-saw and Jungle Jim. I planned on skipping the asphalt surface, but the setup would still be fun. As adults, Emily and Jack could tell their kids about the day we stood up to the harpy gang in the playground a few streets away.

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     And if I could just manage to build it, maybe I could play on the thing myself.