“And the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in the streets thereof.” –Zech. 8:5

My parents and teachers were all guilty of gross child abuse when I was growing up. How could any self-respecting parent open the front door in the morning and tell a 1st grader, “School is that way. Get going.” Yet they did. Every day. It was a one mile walk along a busy, 4-lane thoroughfare. The school did throw us one plum in giving us four crossing guards and some nifty stop signs that lowered into the street when we had to cross over. They were manned by the big kids, probably 6th graders, and all us younger boys could only dream of one day getting that prestigious job. Mid-morning and mid-afternoon we were turned out on a large, fenceless playground of asphalt and dirt to make our own way in the world for a 15 minute recess. It was totally unsupervised to my best recollection. If there was a teacher out there with us 200+ kids, it was an ineffectual token force. We were left to the mercy of bullies, steel monkey bars, brain-banging teeter totters, avaricious marble players, and overly mature girls. Still, we looked forward to it and discovered nooks and crannies around the school house where we could run, hide, roll, and tussle to our heart’s content.

At noon, they made us go home for lunch. Another mile walk and then return. We all beat it back as soon as we could so we could continue any game left over from recess before our hour was up. The walk home after school was the best as we could go in twos or threes with our best buds and maybe stop off at the corner store for some gum if anybody had some pennies.

Summertime was a blur of backyard romps with our dog, hours of sandbox excavations, and days of wandering the neighborhood. By fourth grade, it had to be raining to keep me inside. I would leave the house in the morning and be gone for hours just wandering the neighborhood. I had a totally irresponsible mother who trusted I knew where my food bowl was and would come home when hungry. We had a small pack of boys who claimed the vacant lot out back as our own. We climbed trees, dug holes, built forts, rode bikes, and periodically tormented one another when we weren’t the best of friends. Some days would find us walking downtown Rockford, some 3-4 miles away, just to check out the department stores, pet shops, and to ride the one and only escalator in town. Occasionally we wandered through the local railroad yard dodging trains while hunting souvenirs.

In fifth grade, we moved to the country where my dad tried his hand at farming. Instead of wandering the city, I learned to wander the woods, discover a river, hunt pheasants, and shoot tin cans at the farm dump. It was heaven. By means of contrast, Jeremy Lloyd wrote a piece in Sunday’s paper saying that outdoor play for American children has declined by 50% in the last two decades. Air conditioning is much to blame along with a plethora of electronic entertainment. Yes, it is risky sending kids outside where bees and ticks lurk and predatory strangers hide behind every bush. Yet, not letting kids get out is risky as well. Lack of physical activity can lead to a hideous list of afflictions from obesity and its related diseases to asthma, osteoporosis, stress, depression, and ADHD to name just a few. Many positive correlations exist between healthy children and outdoor exercise, and these have been substantiated in study after study. Lloyd cites better concentration, better grades, healthy brains, normal weight, and better sleep. “The key is to get outside in nature and engage in more unstructured playtime.”

So maybe my parents weren’t so abusive after all. Thanks, Mom, Dad. By the way, the up-coming campout is guaranteed to wear your kids out with a total overload of chasing, tree-climbing, scootering, bike-riding, and critter hunting, all in the grand outdoors. Their sleep will never be sweeter. Promise.

Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe