The
Directly in front of me were the brilliant red, twisty-curvy slides, the shiny new blue bars of the monkey bars, the scent of fresh paint hanging in the air. It was the 4th grade, the red-meter of the “FUNDRAISER FOR PLAYGROUND” poster inside the school had sky-rocketed through its roof the year before, and here stood the reaps of our work and dedication. The familiar wood chips still marked the playground, the concrete and basketball courts stretching behind me remained untouched. And in this time of revolution, our other world still loomed tall around us, enshrouding us, rooted in place as firmly as the roots of the very trees that composed it. In these woods our class had found its stomping grounds; I had found uncharted territory. As long as I can remember, the edge of the playground coalesced into the trees, the steady borderline hardly wavering.
As I crossed this border, I might as well have entered a new continent. The trees were unlike any of those in my backyard, or lining the streets, or in parking lots. The bushy undergrowth edged around the foot-trodden paths, intersecting nearly immediately the creek, its chasm only breachable with a mighty leap across its torrential waters trickling off into who knows where. In the fall, the trees and leaves were beautiful, littering the dirt ground with the yellows and reds of leaves, and every shade imaginable in between. The forest went on for quite a ways, or so it seemed, turning with the creek in a semi-circle around the school. The endearing quiet would always dominate, interrupted by the occasional shout of children’s games, from the old fashion “tag, you’re it” to the hurried whispers of “jump on this side and get down here, they won’t see us”, or the barely noticeable chirping or shambling from some small insect or animal of unknown origin. It seemed like the smell of the bark itself scented the air, kind of like the smell of “nature” I always got to read about but no-one ever showed me. I remember going with my friends to collect the dead wood some of the years, slowly improving on our secluded makeshift fort that we had started to build in one corner of the forest. It wasn’t much, but it was pretty sturdy, littered with reed thin sticks and supported by thicker log-like branches. Wherever I went in the forest, it was the same - a breath of true fresh air.
“HEY, get out of the forest, back to the playground”, Mr. So-and-so would yell at us each day, as I and the others continued to happily ignore them and proceed farther into the depths, where, like Sherwood Forest, mysterious ghosts of some sort would halt their progress where they stand, causing them to shake their heads in disgust, muttering something incomprehensible under their breath as they trotted back out to their benches in the playground. Every now and then, a brave soul of the teacher group would attack our forest, but they never went too far, never in memory past the creek. In school, in the hallways and in the classrooms their word was law; out here, we played by our rules - at least until the piercing whistles rang out, a ringing ultimatum that whatever games were be playing were to be ended, or else. I didn’t mind, though, I knew that tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, sooner or later the cafeteria doors would open and the woods would be my territory once again.
Some years later, I can’t quite remember when, I returned to find myself aghast. The cafeteria doors no longer opened up into the old woods. All that was left was some bright green grass and the odd sewer inlet or two – even most of the creek had been dried up or filled in. Whatever tapering edge that was left of the creek could barely be seen clear across the field, fenced off from the playground. The gentle rolls of the land pleasantly met with the neighboring houses and church now, forming a small clearing. The view of the clear blue sky overhead was uncluttered: It was like a scene of out of a perfect little happy suburbian playground, free of the ominous forest; it was like coming face to face with smoldering ruins, a lifeless corpse. Sadly, as if inevitably, the Mr. Rogers neighborhood look had enveloped my old time favorite hide-out, the best hang-out spot, the best any-spot. I’ve crossed the lush lawn there now so many times, trying to re-kindle a little bit of what used to be there – but it just wasn’t happening. The first time my eyes took in the new image, it felt like somebody had ran up behind me when I wasn’t looking, clubbed me, robbed me and took off before I knew what happened. I’ll always have those great trees, the dwindling creek, the science experiments in the middle of it all in my head with me; I can’t help but wonder about those other 1st graders and 4th graders though, happily swinging away on the bright new shiny swing-set. Where will all the childhoods go?
As
I look back on the bones of this playground, I can just imagine the menace out
there somewhere, sitting behind their nice, orderly desk, smiling in
satisfaction at having removed the menacing woods that posed a threat to every
child that accidentally happened across its path. They probably think that we
should take out strange new lands from all the fiction books everywhere too;
god forbid our poor innocent helpless minds would be released upon such
imposing, threatening places. Maybe soon they’ll decide to expand the
playground out there, too. The kids probably wouldn’t notice the difference
between monkey bars and trees anyway. It’s all the same, right?