Child’s play
By Rick Ryckeley
The day The Boy was born, I held him in two unsure hands and one thought filled my mind: “Time to put away childish things and grow up.” I did exactly that. Although it’s taken over 28 years, I can now say how truly wrong I was. It took a little girl dancing in the rain to show me my error.
During this time of the year, one walk outdoors and the sound of warmer temperatures abound: baby birds chirping, squirrels chasing one another from tree to tree, and the most notable sound of all — children playing.
It’s true they play outdoors during the winter, but spring brings with it a whole different kind of playing. At least it did for me – a long, long time ago on a street not so far away.
It may seem unbelievable, but the first day of spring was the first snowball fight of the year on Flamingo Street. Because of Dad’s garden, we had a large chest model freezer in the basement, and each year he’d fill it with produce. After every snowstorm, my three brothers and me filled it with snowballs. A snowball fight was the perfect way to start spring and was the first of our warmer temperature games.
Temperatures were well into the 70s during the last week of March, and that was just warm enough for flips off a rope swing into the lake above our house. (Didn’t say the water was warm enough to swim in.) Fed by underground springs, the lake water was never much above freezing cold. The game was to see who could do the best flip and then stay in the water the longest.
To warm up and dry off from our lake plunge, we’d ride our bikes down Flamingo Street to the cul-de-sac where Cripple Creek bent around behind Old Mrs. Crabtree’s house.
Narrowest place in the creek, the bend was the best chance we had to jump our bikes across. We seldom made it, usually crashing into the far bank before sinking and getting stuck knee-deep in the gray silt of the creek bed. The game was to see who could get out of the muck the fastest. After all, we all knew water moccasins lived in the holes of that far bank.
We never got stuck with our homemade steamroller. Once inside our cardboard refrigerator box, my brothers and me could roll right across just about anything. Boulders, logs, and even a lot full of weeds and briars were no match for us. The only thing that could defeat the steamroller was if we had to go in because of rain and we left it outside.
Spring rains never kept us inside for long. As soon as the sun came out, so did we. The game was to find the most puddles and jump in them until all the water was splashed out. As the steam from the showers rose up off a warming Flamingo Street, we stomped and stomped. It was a game we played for hours.
Oddly, Mom never complained about our water-soaked shoes. She knew we were just having fun, just like she did when she was a little girl.
So what of the little girl in this story? Jumping and stomping the puddles on the cart path, Little One started to giggle at first, and then she laughed as a light drizzle began to fall.
The joys that come from simple child’s play are like no other. The video I took of her dancing in the rain went on for five minutes but could’ve gone on for much longer. It was only stopped because I joined in. Something I should’ve done more with The Boy when he was young.
That afternoon, we showed the Mean Lady the video of her daughter. Her response was, “That’s not a mommy-approved activity.”
I replied, “Might not be, but it’s positively a Big Papa-approved activity.”
If dancing in the rain isn’t an approved activity, then spring snowball fights, jumping bikes across creeks, performing flips off rope swings, and steamrolling cardboard refrigerator boxes across weed- and briar-filled vacant lots won’t be either. Guess what the Mean Lady doesn’t know won’t hurt me – at least not until she finds out.
In the meantime, with the warmer temperatures here, I see lots of fun in Little One’s future — and her little sister’s. Soon both will be enjoying all the adventures we had while growing up at 110 Flamingo Street.
It should be easy for them. After all, it’s child’s play.
[Rick Ryckeley, who lives in Senoia, served as a firefighter for more than two decades and has been a weekly columnist since 2001. His email is storiesbyrick@gmail.com. His books are available at www.RickRyckeley.com.]
