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"Bee, bee bumble bee, all bums come in free!" The chant
would echo around the neighborhood as the child who was "it"
ran out of places to look for hidden playmates.
Hide n' Go Seek was one of the games we played on those warm
summer evenings before the shadows of dusk got too dark for
us to see. There were the favorite hiding places and the
new ones that challenged the ability of all players. After
tagging "out" the easier hide-aways, I would get them to
help me search out the adventurous players in field or
garage. It was scary, it was fun, and it was exhausting;
but we all loved the game!
Then we would sit on the old wooden porch steps and let the
warm breezes cool us before we started play again. The dull
yellow bulb on the porch would push the shadows away a bit,
but we would sit lulled by the warmth, charmed by the lights
playing through the tree leaves, and enchanted by night
sounds and smells. Crickets, katydids, locusts, and frogs
would serenade us as we told favorite stories or gossip.
The lightning bugs would begin the blinking pinpricks of
light, and we would get up to chase them around the yard.
We thought of them as fairies and vied with each other to
capture one in cupped hands. We could watch the light-glow
squeeze through our fingers until we released our tiny
captive into the velvet night.
"Swing the Statue" was our next game, and with due parental
caution, we would swing each player into poses and pick the
best statue to be the next "swinger." When we tired of this
game, we would play "Shadow Tag." The person who was "it"
would try to step on the shadow of a child. It took agility
and maneuverability to avoid the shadow tap that would end
the session and make a new player "it."
Sinking down on the old porch steps again, we would wait for
the bell of the ice cream man. On a good night every kid
had the coin to buy a cold popsicle, a luscious fudgesicle,
or a yummy Eskimo bar. We would laugh and tease as we
licked up the delicious cool treats.
Tired now, the kids would slowly disperse to go home. I
would head up for bath and window gazing at the end of my
bed. I'd sleepily watch the fairies in the trees and be
very sure that Mary Jane and Snuggles of comic book fame
were cozily settled into their bedroom beneath the tree
roots.
Time fell away when I re-lived the fantasy with my own son
and his playmates in a new neighborhood that was similar to
the one of my childhood. Now I was the mom sitting in the
chair in the dark part of the yard watching the joy, the
fantasy, the fun. Occasionally I would get called into
service as a swinger of statues or an arbitrator of
arguments. Occasionally when friends were too few, I would
play the games, frequently allowing myself to be odd man
out, "it," or "least pretty," to heighten the fun of my
small companions. Quite frequently, I would provide the
cash or coin for the ice cream man, or bring bunches of cool
treats from the freezer.
The air was still sweet--so near to body temperature that I
could almost not separate inside from out. The slow, subtle
merge with nature and all living things, and the magic of
sights, sounds, tastes, and smells once again enchanted us
all. Crickets, katydids, locusts and frogs joined in
chorus, fireflies blinked, and the light and shadows
filtered through leaves of large trees. Somehow in the
shadows, sitting on the old stoop, I could hear the
laughter, the voices from long ago, join in with the sweet
sounds of my son and his chums. Somehow there was a part of
me still as spontaneous and free, still as full of fun and
endless activity as the pigtailed urchin of long ago. How
glorious that the child never dies--is there to reenact the
magic and share the fun!
This time, though, the magic was better, stronger, as tiny
arms snuggled around my neck for a bedtime story after the
outdoor games were done. The magic of warm summer
nights--fantasy nights--and wondrous stories is awesome; but
none is so sweet, so deep, or so rewarding as the love of my
own child and the warm circle of family and friends.
(c)2003 Mary-Ellen Grisham
meginrose @ charter.com |
