Things may get a little messy around here as my website is updated in order to grow with the projects I’m working on. I am putting much of it into the hands of other people, and I’m just hoping to be able to recogninze everything when it is all finished. If things begin to look odd…well, you’ll know why! I’ll try not to gnaw my cuticles in the meanwhile.
Also, I’m writing a new book, currently titled Slow Schooling…And Other Thoughts on Rescuing Childhood. I thought I would write through my blog, and allow my readers to give feedback and thoughts along the way. It’s called “blogging a book”. Does that sound interesting? As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts either through the comments or email. Here’s the rough start.
It’s morning. My eyes open to tentative sunshine coming through the thick textured curtains and I stretch. Saturday. I can hear my little brother already up, banging away at drawers, doors, toys, his voice full of mmm’s and rrr’s as little metallic cars race over carpet folds and crash into one another.
I know how the morning will go. Dad will make Eggo waffles with Mrs. Butterworth looking regally on. He will read the newspaper in his slippers and at some point will take Tinker, our pomeranian, for a walk. Mom will wash all of the dishes, sanitize wherever we’ve been, and then get busy ridding dust and dirt. Larry will finally tire of his matchbox cars, pad into the family chatter, and ask for Fruit Loops with his waffles. And I…I will read a chapter of Archie Andrews and then race out the door. I will jump onto my pink banana seat bicycle, pump my legs, and seek out friends. They, too, are flowing from homes, blinking into the sunshine, and grabbing bikes and balls.
Roller skates soon rush down sidewalks, clicking over breaks between the squares. Laughter, shouting, shrieks of tag. Jump ropes, soccer, chatty girlfriends sitting on curbs and stretching legs and pulling gum.
It’s Saturday morning.
I think about this, my childhood, especially when I cruise down a suburban neighborhood full of single family homes, square checkerboard garages placed front and center. Sidewalks roll like hills in front of yards polka dotted with dandelions. But it’s as if each family packed up their lives into worn leather bags and set them off unattended onto foreign freighters.
My eyes sweep and I see at least one limp pool with a slide, evidence of water play. One young teen boy, half-heartedly walking the family dog. What I want to know is…where is everyone? Where are all of the children, the rollickling laughter and hullabaloo? Where is the pick up soccer game? The underdogs at the playground with show-off boys zipping their 10-speed bikes underneath screaming preteen girls on swings? I hear them in my mind, but my eyes relay the truth.
I consider maybe they don’t exist, tempting trails in my mind to ponder the plummeting birth rate or abortion, but, really, it’s too nice of a day to think like that and I’m here prowling for yard sales, anyway.
It’s still Saturday. But it just feels a bit hollow is all.