Play

Play was serious. "Let's play," was necessary to survival.

Jump. Hop. Skip. I was never very limber. Do the airplane. No.


Colour. Yes, Crayolas. The pack of 64 were the best. It had gold and silver. Bronze. Magenta. Crimson. So many greens. Hours and days and crayons. Sometimes when I was sick, my mother would buy a set of Paint by Numbers. I met those lines with trepidation. I could not easily follow the recommended colours. I tried. Jon Nagy showed my how to draw. His TV show was my favourite program. I ordered his drawing package, and it arrived, not like the free treasure chest I ordered with coupons from the Captain Crunch cereal boxtops. It arrived without disappointment at its contents.

Then there's blocks. Sometimes just tongue and groove wood scraps are a world of possibilities. Fitting, piling, criss-crossing; right angles rising to towers. I built cities and a giant fort to house my little sister. But she moved and the fort tumbled. She cried because the edges of wood scratched her as she climbed out of the wreck. I was angry because she ruined my efforts. I should have nailed her in.

And sand. A pile dumped from a half-ton, centered in a grove of venerable oak. From sand there's roads, and architecture. Winding treads where 'Dinky Toys' plough through to newly furrowed, honed to perfect depths and widths, made smooth with puddle water, creasing the sand with wheel turns, curving to the monoliths, stones piled to mark a destination between the lengths of road. Sticks stuck upright, devoid of leaves, and some with hunks of foliage for trees to shade the highways. As summers passed, the sand pile flattened. The country of origin simply changed.

Indoors, there was 'Post Office'. Deliberating over the plethora of junk mail my father received was a great incentive to engage in this occupation. The game was one of several played in sequence in our playroom, the kid's side of the basement. Dolls, School, complete with a real green chalk board and rows of desks purchased from a catholic school that transformed into a seniors' home allowed a surreal world to be investigated with abandon, spontaneously.

The play room was large, for a child. Approximately 10' by 20', we could enter from the left of the wrought iron stairwell, and enclose ourselves by the sliding mahogany doors. A double bed, and various doll beds were the features of the entrance; wooden table, chairs and dishes for dolls' entertainment completed the first play area. Next was the school area, where Post Office often took place in the north west corner atop a large square storage box covered in black and white plaid vinyl. Somehow, the opening lid for 'posting' made this furniture especially attractive.

We did not play 'House' in the basement. This activity was saved for summer, when we could use the playhouse our grandfather built, first for me, and eventually for my sister. It was a real house, complete with glass panes and a window box, a door that latched, and wooden furniture he had constructed that a 3-8 year old could utilize. The roof was peaked; my grandfather's bald head just fit inside. Every spring the entire house was given a coat of white paint with chocolate trim. Pink honeysuckles graced the doorway, sweeter than honey begun from this bush.

At one point, a swing was installed in the rafters, rope separated by a solid board strung through each side. This was a remarkable swing. Such boundaries were broken. Swinging INSIDE!!! I remember swinging high. How small was I?! Thin hemp ropes, pink dress, my grandfathers hands around my waist. Months, years, passed. Eventually, swinging would encourage kicking of the door, and the swing disappeared; furniture miraculously appeared. Everything was exactly my size.

Different swings. Swinging beside the sand pile in the neighbours yard, swings held by planks supported between the giant oaks made swinging a joy. I was old enough to hold on by myself. I loved smell and prickly stoutness of the rope, the speed and flaying sky as the wind pressed on my cheeks, my flapping skirt, free. Wheee.


Later, when neighbours - kids, congregated, we played more complex games. The Beatles, Ponderosa. I was either George or Hoss. I never liked these characters, but I was not assertive enough to be anyone else. But I got to play guitar and ride a horse. We flew all around the world as rock stars, and stabled our horses between the poplar rows. The neighbour kids got to camp out at night in the poplar wood. The imagination of childeren become especially involved when there is only imagination to play with. I was never allowed to stay out past 10. Who knew what may happen? Especially because there were no guitars or horses. Play may become reality. Innocence would be lost. 'They' were right.