A friend was at a family barbecue last week, and one of the young boys there fell out of a tree and bumped his head pretty hard. After a trip to the hospital, a scan told them he would be OK. But it was a remark by the doctor that got my attention. He said, “You seldom see kids falling out of trees any more; they rarely play outside these days.”
We lived outside when we were kids and if there was no one to play with, we always had our imagination. Our imagination would push our buttons, but today, kids push buttons to have their imagination displayed for them.
I remember the satisfaction of finding the perfect stick. If it was just the right weight and length, it could be anything you wanted. Maybe it started out as a rifle or a machine gun that would never miss and never run out of ammunition or batteries. It could be as loud or as silenced as you wanted and maybe once in awhile make a ricochet sound, as you ran from tree to tree or rolled under the porch to avoid return fire.
After awhile, it was a perfect pirate sword made from the finest Spanish steel, balanced for your hand alone. It was sharp enough to slice the rope releasing the enemy sails but crafted just right to clamp between your teeth as you leapt swashbuckling from ship to ship, lopping off limbs in an attempt to rescue the damsel in distress.
If you tucked it under your arm as you swung up onto your steed, it was the sharpest lance in the kingdom. Made from the hardest oak in the land, it would never splinter when you jammed it into the breastplate of the Black Knight.
As you walked down the road to your friend’s place, it could be Mickey Mantle’s bat. Each pebble you smacked was a game-winning home run in the seventh game of the Word Series, each ball going farther over the wall and higher into the stands.
Its final role for the day — an enemy battleship floating down the ditch under fire from dive bombers — an amazing toy.
Just a stick, company for time alone, time to be kids, time to let the imagination take you places Mom and Dad couldn’t afford to.
I passed a lot where a house had been torn down. In one corner, a tree was still standing with an old tire hanging from a rotting rope. I wonder where the kids from that house went when they climbed on board. If they were lucky, they left this earthly plane behind. At least, that’s what McGregor says.
Off Road Tire
Maybe it can’t touch the ground,
But that won’t stop it travellin’ round;
Once the rider gets on board,
His imagination squeals when floored.
The strongest limb, the perfect tree;
That’s all he needs to be set free;
Around it spins like carousel,
Til he succumbs to dizzy spell.
The rope becomes a flowing mane,
As he gallops ‘cross the plain again
High he climbs with grimaced face,
His shuttle launching into space.
Once dismounted and discarded,
Now like a treasure, it’s regarded;
It may never touch the road again,
But un-travelled miles still remain.
