My wife and close friends will be the first to tell you that, since the first day of owning our house, I've been a crotchety old man in his late 20's. Within the first few hours, even as our volunteer moving crew of said friends were trudging furniture and boxes through the near-freezing rain, I was complaining about people driving fast on our street. When spring came in that first year and the kids next door and all around started tromping through our yard with Nerf guns, I worried about the plants coming up through the soil and asked the boys not to climb in our tree as visions of lawyers and insurance documents flashed through my head. I guess a switch flipped the day I got that key in my hand. If I could find it again, I'd turn it off.
Two days ago I was washing dishes and watched as two boys stalked each other in the trees at the back of our yard. From my viewpoint I could see everything and wanted to scream "NO! He's got the drop on you. Come around the other way!" Before I could join in the fun they took a detour through our fledgling garden and I found myself opening the sliding glass door with a dish towel slung over my shoulder to ask them not to run through the garden.
Later on, as we drove to dinner and past the houses where the kids were safely tucked away eating dinner and watching TV, I thought about when I was their age. Did I tromp through people's gardens and climb trees I had no business climbing? The short answer is no, but not because I was a paragon of politeness and did everything my mom and my friends' moms told me to do. I climbed trees and crashed through bushes and gardens and fell into creeks and streams all the time. I just had the luxury of huge yards and unclaimed "common areas" to explore and damage without fear of wagging fingers and angry adults whose names I did not know. I was lucky to have the freedom and space to create my own understanding. The kids in my neighborhood now can't help but cross into other yards. A Nerf battle, after all, must run its course without overly constricting boundaries. To suggest otherwise would be to suggest that a tornado must abide by the local zoning ordinances.
When it comes to our street, I admit I am a bit crotchety. I worry about the kids next door who play outside each afternoon. Though they are incredibly careful and well-conditioned not to venture past the sidewalk, I know it only takes a moment for something horrible to happen. The last thing I want to hear is the sound of tires squealing and bicycles--and worse--being crushed under tires.
My feelings towards the kids running through our yard are more complicated. While I love the flowers and the bushes that will bloom in the coming weeks and months I think I'm more jealous than anything else. I want nothing more than to don a bandoleer of Nerf darts, hold the plastic stock in my hand and crouch down in the bushes waiting for my prey. If I can't join them, they can't play in my yard. If you aren't going to play by my rules, I'm taking my ball and I'm going home. So there.
Ryan
No comments:
Post a Comment