Ode to the Hill
Recently I was shocked to find a childhood monument of mine had vanished. In it's place stands a stone retaining wall topped off by a chainlink fence. Pretty nice, if you're into that whole "the hill of my childhood has been annihiliated from the face of the earth" look. It came in stages, yet I was still shocked and chagrined.
My old stomping ground, Riverside Elementary School, lies at the top of my street and just across the road. I admit that, more times than I can count, I snuck off school property, ducking under the space between the chainlink fence and the slight slope leading into the all-weather field, looked both ways for traffic, darted across the road and down the street to freedom: my house. Ahh, those were the days, grades 2 through 7. I remember the first time I stood up for myself against a superior. It took place during grade 6, in a portable directly across from that daunting hill. But that time I did not duck under that chainlink fence. No, in all my twelve year old glory, I glanced over my shoulder one last time at that hill and confidently strode across the crosswalk and to my house.
Considering the proximity of my house to my old elementary school I should have figured it out sooner. The mighty cedar trees that crowned the grandeur that was the hill were removed first. The very cedar trees that Deidra Claypool, our elementary (and high school) bully, chased me around as she tried to catch me in order to pummel me. But as I was able to duck and weave in and out of those girthy trees, she never had the chance. Next, the bulldozers and backhoes came in. The same sort that broke the ground for the playground our PTA had fundraised for and my parents hands had helped put in. I left for a few days, leaving the hill in it's illustriousness, and I come home to find that the flat area leading away from the basketball court has been extended all the way to the edge of the property line, ending at a stone retaining wall. There was a bit of an ache in my chest.
It is the end of an era. Farewell to the "weddings" that have taken place atop the hill, the friendship bracelets made over lunch hours. Adieu to the pacts made and secrets told. Goodbye to sliding down the hill on crazy carpets and saucers at the very first flake of falling snow. This is a valediction to days when childhood was a simpler time, when our playgrounds were made out of metal that was not coated in plastic, when we worried about beating the boys not wearing clothes to attract them, when teachers could freely give hugs when we fell without worry of ramifications. When the only things that had any chance of blowing up were army men and G.I. Joe's the boys were playing with, the only thing that had a chance of catching fire were your pants if you lied. The days of that kind of youth are, unfortunately, bygone days. But at least the memories of days gone by can bring to mind that youthful feeling we sometimes long for in the midst of this beyond grown-up world. Last one up the hill is a rotten egg!
My old stomping ground, Riverside Elementary School, lies at the top of my street and just across the road. I admit that, more times than I can count, I snuck off school property, ducking under the space between the chainlink fence and the slight slope leading into the all-weather field, looked both ways for traffic, darted across the road and down the street to freedom: my house. Ahh, those were the days, grades 2 through 7. I remember the first time I stood up for myself against a superior. It took place during grade 6, in a portable directly across from that daunting hill. But that time I did not duck under that chainlink fence. No, in all my twelve year old glory, I glanced over my shoulder one last time at that hill and confidently strode across the crosswalk and to my house.
Considering the proximity of my house to my old elementary school I should have figured it out sooner. The mighty cedar trees that crowned the grandeur that was the hill were removed first. The very cedar trees that Deidra Claypool, our elementary (and high school) bully, chased me around as she tried to catch me in order to pummel me. But as I was able to duck and weave in and out of those girthy trees, she never had the chance. Next, the bulldozers and backhoes came in. The same sort that broke the ground for the playground our PTA had fundraised for and my parents hands had helped put in. I left for a few days, leaving the hill in it's illustriousness, and I come home to find that the flat area leading away from the basketball court has been extended all the way to the edge of the property line, ending at a stone retaining wall. There was a bit of an ache in my chest.
It is the end of an era. Farewell to the "weddings" that have taken place atop the hill, the friendship bracelets made over lunch hours. Adieu to the pacts made and secrets told. Goodbye to sliding down the hill on crazy carpets and saucers at the very first flake of falling snow. This is a valediction to days when childhood was a simpler time, when our playgrounds were made out of metal that was not coated in plastic, when we worried about beating the boys not wearing clothes to attract them, when teachers could freely give hugs when we fell without worry of ramifications. When the only things that had any chance of blowing up were army men and G.I. Joe's the boys were playing with, the only thing that had a chance of catching fire were your pants if you lied. The days of that kind of youth are, unfortunately, bygone days. But at least the memories of days gone by can bring to mind that youthful feeling we sometimes long for in the midst of this beyond grown-up world. Last one up the hill is a rotten egg!
posted by Lindsey and Mike at 4:30 p.m.
1 Comments:
When the urge to relive some of those childhood bygones emerges...give me a call. Lenard and I will be there...pinchers and all.
Pricilla
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