Playgrounds.
Standing at the kitchen sink waiting for the coffee to brew, my mind did this.
Tired. Coffee. Wake up. Energy. Run. Freedom. Thorn school in Princeton. The White Building (those who know know). Recess.
And I was back on our playground.
It struck me that we played on asphalt. Grades K-3 had the “upper playground”, and 4-6 had the “lower playground.” There was grass at the lower one, but we weren’t allowed to be on it until the end of year picnic, where we’d all sit, eat our bagged lunches, and drink pop that our moms had wrapped in foil (being allowed to bring a pop to school felt like such a privilege).
What did we do during recess? I remember coming through the doors of the white building, being released into freedom for some 20 minutes, and my friend Jody and I would run a fast lap around the perimeter (we had to burn that energy that had built up while sitting and learning addition, subtraction, and penmanship!).
We had no jungle gyms.
Just asphalt, energy, and imagination.
And sometimes jump ropes.
I remember playing rollercoaster in first grade. There was one hill at the playground that we’d run down, all holding on to the backs of each others’ shirts, and the leader got to “make the track” for the rollercoaster.
On one occasion, I fell pretty hard, put a hole in the leg of my green jeans, scraped up my knee, and Ms. Boyles cleaned and patched me up.
I thought I was something as everyone gathered around and looked at my injury.
I earned that. I played tough!
I then remembered—not sure what year it was enacted—that we were no longer allowed to run on the playground. Perhaps too many rollercoaster wounds? Who knows. But running
Was
Not
Allowed.
So we skipped really hard. If we put a little bounce in it and didn’t move our arms much, we could still “run”. Kinda.
But what did we do? Kickball was reserved for special occasions (and oh, it was my favorite!), not recess. We played Four Square. Hopscotch. What else?
I remember seeing girls often sitting on the wall at the lower playground—lookin’ all grown & stuff. Not me. I had to be moving. Playing. Skipping really hard. And once recess was over, we’d get in a line, walk into the building, and each take turns getting drinks out of the water fountains.
I never did drink enough—I always felt like I was taking too much time and making the people behind me wait too long.
Sometimes, we couldn’t go outside because of the weather, and we’d play inside. I remember a red foam ball (not the rubber ones we play dodgeball with—bet you could smell and hear that just by reading it, couldn’t you?), and we’d play “Quiet Ball.”
We’d get in a circle, the teacher would sit at their desk, and we’d silently throw the ball to the person of our choice. Whoever dropped it had to sit down.
No talking.
Just throwing the ball.
While the teacher had blissful silence for 10 or 15 minutes.
Pretty smart, Teach’.
Childhood might have been the greatest exercise in resourcefulness we’ll ever experience.
Give a group of kids an empty playground and they’ll invent rollercoasters.
Give them a ball and they’ll invent rules.
Give them twenty minutes and they’ll invent memories that still come back fifty years later while standing at a kitchen sink waiting for coffee.
Somewhere along the way, many of us lost that skill. We started believing we needed the perfect circumstances before we could enjoy ourselves. The right house. The right schedule. More money. More time. Less stress.
Yet some of the happiest moments of my childhood happened on a slab of asphalt with almost nothing on it.
Maybe that’s why the memory stayed with me.
We spent years trying to get off that playground—to grow up, move on, become adults.
Standing here waiting on coffee, I find myself a little amazed that I can still picture that playground so clearly.
Not because it was beautiful.
Not because it was impressive.
Just because it was ours.
An asphalt lot where hundreds of ordinary school days happened.
Maybe that’s all a memory really needs.
Not a grand event.
Just enough life packed into it that fifty-some years later, it still knows how to find its way home.