From my weekly column:
It’s the end of a long and weary day. Mondays always are, but especially after a tiring, yet fun holiday weekend, getting back into a routine is challenging.
I make the short drive home from work. Home is now at my parents’ house on a quiet, little cul de sac just around the corner from where we were living before. As I near the house, I’m expecting to see the driveway full of cars, there’s four usually parked there between all of us — it takes some serious manipulation in order for everyone to get their cars out in the morning as we all go our separate ways. But on this day, I was the last to arrive home in the early evening, so I anticipate that there will be strategy involved with pulling into the garage between the other vehicles already present.
I become even more frustrated when, to my displeasure, as I approach the driveway, I discover about ten bicycles all heaped up on the ground blocking the entrance.
Exasperated and too tired to get out and move them all, I maneuver my car to the curb in front of the house instead. As I get out of the car, I notice the tall, wooden gate to the house across the street is open, and I hear peals of giggles and laughter coming from within. Curiosity got the best of me, despite my desire to just go inside and go to bed. I couldn’t help but walk the few steps required to peak inside and see what was going on.
Just beyond the gate, I found the owners of those bicycles, about ten kids of varying ages including my own two precious daughters, all piled up in a king-size hammock, swinging and laughing, obviously telling stories and sharing secrets.
I felt the fatigue of the day fall away as the sight reminded of the glorious days of my own childhood, playing with my neighborhood friends.
Riding bikes, swimming, creek-stomping and volleyball with make-shift nets. Those were days without care or worry, just kids living life to the fullest. It may sound silly now, but we called ourselves the Stratford Scavengers. Stratford Avenue was the main thoroughfare through the neighborhood and the street I lived on then. Everyday during the summer, all of us kids would gather at the meeting tree at some point after breakfast. We surmised a mystery each morning that we had to figure out by the days end like “Where did Mrs. Cathey from the house at the corner go everyday in her big blue Caddy, driving in her bathrobe and slippers?” and “Why did Mr. Tall Man (we didn’t know his real name) wear all those keys on a key ring on his belt?” We theorized brilliant and sometimes funny stories for every situation. We played like we were Tom Sawyer on mysterious adventures, and we created completely new sports in the empty field behind a row of homes.
As the sun diminished late in the day, lights would start popping up on the street lamps, and we knew it would soon be time to go. My parents would flash the lights on the front porch when it was time to come home for dinner, and our group of comrades would part ways until the next morning would dawn with a new day and a new escapade.
As I stood there watching my own kids with their friends, my memories flooded back in such detail that I could almost smell the honeysuckle and the fresh cut grass. I could feel the wind whipping in my hair as we raced down dirt roads on our bikes, and I could hear the songs playing on the radio as we laid on a blanket in the middle of the solitary field watching the days slip away.
Those days were so sweet and I immediately felt so grateful that my children have the opportunity for similar experiences. I’m so glad that we live in a city and a neighborhood where they have friends nearby, and it’s safe to roam the streets and play.
All of a sudden, it didn’t matter to me that I couldn’t pull my car in the drive or that there were bikes in the middle of the road. The angst from the day seemed like a distant memory, and I felt my frown fade away.
Through the windows of our house, I saw my mom wafting through the rooms turning on lamps, and I could smell something cooking in the kitchen.
I know it must’ve been my imagination, but I could’ve sworn the front porch lights flickered on and off saying, “It’s time to come home.”
As I called to my kids from across the street, they came running over to meet me.
“Did you have a good day?” my youngest daughter asked.
“I sure did!” came my heart’s reply, cause in that one moment, nothing could’ve been any better.
I make the short drive home from work. Home is now at my parents’ house on a quiet, little cul de sac just around the corner from where we were living before. As I near the house, I’m expecting to see the driveway full of cars, there’s four usually parked there between all of us — it takes some serious manipulation in order for everyone to get their cars out in the morning as we all go our separate ways. But on this day, I was the last to arrive home in the early evening, so I anticipate that there will be strategy involved with pulling into the garage between the other vehicles already present.
I become even more frustrated when, to my displeasure, as I approach the driveway, I discover about ten bicycles all heaped up on the ground blocking the entrance.
Exasperated and too tired to get out and move them all, I maneuver my car to the curb in front of the house instead. As I get out of the car, I notice the tall, wooden gate to the house across the street is open, and I hear peals of giggles and laughter coming from within. Curiosity got the best of me, despite my desire to just go inside and go to bed. I couldn’t help but walk the few steps required to peak inside and see what was going on.
Just beyond the gate, I found the owners of those bicycles, about ten kids of varying ages including my own two precious daughters, all piled up in a king-size hammock, swinging and laughing, obviously telling stories and sharing secrets.
I felt the fatigue of the day fall away as the sight reminded of the glorious days of my own childhood, playing with my neighborhood friends.
Riding bikes, swimming, creek-stomping and volleyball with make-shift nets. Those were days without care or worry, just kids living life to the fullest. It may sound silly now, but we called ourselves the Stratford Scavengers. Stratford Avenue was the main thoroughfare through the neighborhood and the street I lived on then. Everyday during the summer, all of us kids would gather at the meeting tree at some point after breakfast. We surmised a mystery each morning that we had to figure out by the days end like “Where did Mrs. Cathey from the house at the corner go everyday in her big blue Caddy, driving in her bathrobe and slippers?” and “Why did Mr. Tall Man (we didn’t know his real name) wear all those keys on a key ring on his belt?” We theorized brilliant and sometimes funny stories for every situation. We played like we were Tom Sawyer on mysterious adventures, and we created completely new sports in the empty field behind a row of homes.
As the sun diminished late in the day, lights would start popping up on the street lamps, and we knew it would soon be time to go. My parents would flash the lights on the front porch when it was time to come home for dinner, and our group of comrades would part ways until the next morning would dawn with a new day and a new escapade.
As I stood there watching my own kids with their friends, my memories flooded back in such detail that I could almost smell the honeysuckle and the fresh cut grass. I could feel the wind whipping in my hair as we raced down dirt roads on our bikes, and I could hear the songs playing on the radio as we laid on a blanket in the middle of the solitary field watching the days slip away.
Those days were so sweet and I immediately felt so grateful that my children have the opportunity for similar experiences. I’m so glad that we live in a city and a neighborhood where they have friends nearby, and it’s safe to roam the streets and play.
All of a sudden, it didn’t matter to me that I couldn’t pull my car in the drive or that there were bikes in the middle of the road. The angst from the day seemed like a distant memory, and I felt my frown fade away.
Through the windows of our house, I saw my mom wafting through the rooms turning on lamps, and I could smell something cooking in the kitchen.
I know it must’ve been my imagination, but I could’ve sworn the front porch lights flickered on and off saying, “It’s time to come home.”
As I called to my kids from across the street, they came running over to meet me.
“Did you have a good day?” my youngest daughter asked.
“I sure did!” came my heart’s reply, cause in that one moment, nothing could’ve been any better.
published in the Columbian-Progress 04/28/11
