“Okay kids, are
you ready for some fun?”
“Yes!” shouted
Judy and Harry from the back seat.
Marvin was
excited, too. This was the first time in fifteen years that he visited his old
neighborhood and he couldn’t wait to show his kids where he used to play. Some
of his best childhood memories came from this park, and he still hasn’t found
another playground that looked half as fun as the one they were about to see.
“Tell us about it
again, Daddy,” begged little Harry.
“Well, there’s a super tall slide, and a merry-go-round and see-saws longer than our car—nothing
like that lame playground by our house.” Secretly, Marvin couldn’t wait to take
a ride down that slide again himself. It always scared him to climb to the top,
but the rush of adrenaline was worth it. “And here we are!”
Marvin parked the
station wagon in a gravel parking lot and they all jumped out. The children
followed as he led them down a windy trail through some trees that opened up
into a wide field.
Marvin pulled a
branch aside for the big reveal. “Ta-da! Wait, what the—“
“This looks just
like the park back home, Daddy,” said little Judy.
Sure enough, the small
manufactured playset that stood before them had tiny plastic stairs, a tiny plastic
slide and a tiny rubber bridge that looked identical to every other playground in
their neighborhood.
“That slide isn’t
very big,” said Harry, stomping his feet.
“I don’t get it.”
Marvin blinked his eyes and looked around. Maybe he took a wrong turn
somewhere. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to a woman pushing a stroller nearby.
“Do you know what happened to the playground?”
“It’s right
there,” she said, pointing toward the plastic monstrosity.
“No, no.” Marvin
shook his head. “I mean the real
playground. There used to be a humongous slide and a merry-go-round and
see-saws—“
“Oh, they tore down that deathtrap years ago,”
she said, checking her baby. “Our neighborhood association determined it to be
unsafe and rallied to have everything replaced. Thank goodness, too. It was
only a matter of time before someone was killed from all those safety hazards.”
“That’s
ridiculous,” said Marvin. “That was the best playground ever! I used to play on
it all the time and I turned out fine.”
The woman looked
up from her baby and let out a gasp. “Well, sir, you may want to endanger your
own life, but I can’t believe any sensible person would let their kids near a
merry-go-round or a hard metal slide taller than a house. And the see-saws… can
you imagine a child sticking his head under one of those things?”
I’d like to stick your head under one of
those things, thought Marvin, but he remembered his children and kept the
comment to himself as the woman marched away.
Judy tugged at
his sleeve. “Is the playground going to hurt us, Daddy?”
“No dear,” he said. “The playground won’t hurt
you.”
Marvin looked up
again at what had become of his childhood and felt a deep sense of nostalgia.
He remembered climbing up the long ladder as the whole slide wobbled, burning his
legs on the hot metal on the ride down and scraping his palms and knees on the
landing. He remembered running around the merry-go-round and hopping on at the fastest speed, sometimes bashing his head against the metal handles. Oh, if he
had a nickel for ever time he twisted his ankle jumping off! And the see-saws—he
could have ridden them all day. Of course, one of his friends would usually
jump off the other end when he was at the highest point, causing his seat to
crash into the ground. It always bruised his tailbone and twice caused him to
knock out a tooth on the handle. He remembered the laughs, the tears and the
blood—something his children would never be able to experience.
Marvin wiped away
a tear and took Judy and Harry by the hand. “Come on, guys. Maybe I can at
least show you the abandoned mill where I used to play.”
“The one with all
the saws and electric cables?” asked Harry.
“That’s the one,”
said Marvin, determined to help his kids build some character.
ode to playgrounds and the great memories we won't be able to pass down to our children.
ReplyDeleteThanks Rebecka!
Delete