This entry is dedicated to the good old times, many of which may be gone now, but never forgotten.
I don't often wax nostalgic about my childhood, but I don't claim not to miss it, either. You've often heard the expression, "Everything I needed to know I learned in Kindergarten," and it's all too true. Being an adult rocks, but looking back, much of what I know today I learned on the playground.
As a kid, when you're not in class learning your times tables or conjugating verbs, you were probably outside doing what kids do best. I can confidently say that those were indeed the best of times and the worst of times. Every day, I was observing something new and different:
I learned about sex when I found a used condom in the hole of a tree, which ultimately became known as "The Condom Tree". No, I didn't touch it.
I learned about drugs when I found a used syringe near the fence. No, I didn't touch that, either.
Most frequently, though, I learned about pain, either firsthand, or having been witness to some of the most spectacular injuries I've ever seen in my life.
I went to Jefferson Elementary School for Kindergarten through Third Grade, and Northwest Elementary through Sixth. The following year when I entered Junior High, I unwittingly gave up one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.
I have no idea how old it really was, but if I had to guess, I'd surmise that the playground at Jefferson was at least 30 or 40 years old. We had a tin slide and two wooden see-saws. The Jungle Gym was mostly constructed out of welded metal bars, interspersed with cracked and discolored plastic, the basketball court was crumbling black asphalt, and the year prior to my First Grade year, they'd constructed a metal geodesic dome. Northwest's playground was larger and somewhat newer, but not much safer. Plenty of metal suspended over concrete, and every opportunity to injure oneself.
The playground I remember was not unlike this.
For those first seven grades of school, I saw just about every single possible bloody interaction between child and playground fixture.
I've seen various limbs broken from surface-to-air swing launches or from gravity's attraction to hanging children. I've seen more cuts, scrapes, and bruises than I ever care to see again. I've seen rocks and wood chips embedded in flesh. I've seen blackened eyes aplenty from contact with every ball associated with every sport. I saw my friend suffer a concussion when he was hit in the temple with a metal bat. I myself sprained my arm very badly in an acrobatic feat which wasn't really much of a feat. Hell, even our basketball court was a slaughterhouse, stained with years' blood loss of the unfortunate.
My brother related his stories to me once, too. He once saw a kid faceplant the cold November earth from the monkey bars and become promptly frozen there, only to be extricated some minutes later by a janitor and a shovel. He told gruesome tales of seeing bloodied patients between classes in the school's emergency ward, which contained a pseudo-operating table and enough gauze to soak up an ocean.
Injuries were a sort of twisted spectator sport on the playground. Instead of running off for help, nearby observers would form a vulture-like circle around the injured, who writhed in pain all the while. Fortunately, the teachers had learned to spot these macabre gatherings and respond immediately, so help was usually readily available.
But modern playgrounds differ greatly from those of yesteryear. We've become a lot of sissy, politically-correct, ultra-sensitive, overprotective "guardians", trying to shield our children from even the slightest of dangers.
Remember these? *Pff!* Gone. You don't see them anymore. Why? Because our society has become so frivolous that every little incident is an opportunity for a lawsuit. Unfairly treated? Bam, lawsuit. Superficial injury? Bam, lawsuit. I was in Sixth Grade only 9 or so years ago. That wasn't even a
decade ago, and such injuries were then seen only as unfortunate accidents, end of story. Nobody raised a stink about it being the school's fault, because it wasn't. (And in most lawsuits nowadays, still isn't.) If
anything, it was gremlins tinkering.
I always had the time of my life on Merry-Go-Rounds. The dirt circumference was always packed hard and was about six inches lower than the ground around it, because kids were always trying to push as fast as humanly possible, presumably to send the occupants into orbit. Many times, I remember having been nominated the pusher, and suddenly becoming dragged around because of the force. I suffered a few skinned elbows and knees, but who cared? You sniffled a bit and went back to playing. Kids don't care about getting a settlement from the school.
We even had hanging rings on our playground, as modeled by Elijah, here. Those are gone now, too. Back in the day, we kids were bound to be gymnasts.
Now, our children are being raised in a world of plastic and rubber.
The good old things have been torn down to make way for colorful safety measures. I implore you, if you can still find an old playground (and they are a dying breed), take a child to play, even if just for one day. If nothing else, you should go play.
Unless you've had your ass branded by a searing metal slide on a hot summer day, you've never truly lived.
