Live Artillery Shells as Metaphor
When I was a kid I didn’t know I was poor and I guess I didn’t really care. I wasn’t truly aware of differences until junior high and then of course the high school years changed everything. But while engulfed in the glorious innocence of the elementary grades I think I was pretty much oblivious to differences and how kids played was a universal of outdoor joy especially in the summer months. I do however remember wanting, and at a very early age, a metal pedal car like some of my affluent friends had a few streets over, where my mother would baby sit, at a dollar an hour, the going rate at the time.
To compensate my father made me my own car totally out of wood complete with wooden wheels. It was like a miniature version of the Flintstones’ car which ironically hadn’t been invented yet. My friends, or initially on the maiden voyage, my father, pushed me along the sidewalk with me steering my little automobile with a makeshift rope steering wheel. My dad provided the forward muscle power using a long shaft from a broken hockey stick attached to the back of the car and away we went. Joy on wheels at a budget price made from scrap wood all from my Dad’s basement workshop.
My Dad also built us a huge playhouse, several treehouses, later when I was in track and field events he made me high jump stands, magically found a bamboo pole from somewhere and converted my sandbox into a sandpit for soft landings. It may be that he just loved to build things or he really loved his kids, or perhaps a little of both. The point is we were happy. I know I was crazy happy even without the metal pedal car.
I think the other thing is as kids we also knew how to play. My friends and I could amuse ourselves with very little, a cardboard box was sufficient for entertainment. We didn’t get much for Christmas and so curiosity, inventiveness and a little trouble seeking were our options and incentives for entertainment and adventure. We could organize team sports without parental assistance. We pitched tents in the backyard and camped out while roaming the neighbourhood and beyond at night seeking high adventures. We went on biking expeditions to Niagara-on-the Lake and once even a week long trip to Lake Huron to a friend’s cottage whose family did own a cottage.
My father who grew up in the Ukraine had even less as a child to play with and likely he and his brothers did more with less because they had no choice. They grew up during the Russian Revolution when life was tough and life threatening. My father told me grim stories of growing up during that time that made me feel I was living in the wonder years. He and his brothers’ idea of play or mischief was to wander on to a former battlefield and gather up discarded sabres, rifles and even shell cases and other souvenirs of war while meandering amongst the dead soldiers fallen on the fields. Just as I never confessed my sins to my parents, nor did my dad and his brothers tell their parent’s about the collection of weapons they had accumulated and hidden away during “play”.
Its actually a miracle I was even born given the fact that as a kid my father and my Uncle Henry enjoyed the pass time of taking unfired, or so-called dead artillery shells and throwing them in a fire to see what would happen, or taking a rock and hitting them on the active end to see if they could get a reaction. The fact that I am here and my dad and my uncles made it to Canada eventually tells of their lack of success with their experiments. Given the circumstances it was their version of independent play, it did nurture curiosity and they did live to tell the tale. Every generation has its challenges, its quirks and even near death experiences.
The other night two of my grandkids came over for our Sunday night family dinner. They walked in made straight for the couch lay down, took out their smart phones and started up with their games. Today’s kids often define play as gaming and interacting or socializing as that time spent online. Once I had finished the manly art of barbecuing the meat for our dinner I took the kids outside in order to show them “something” in the garage.
The first response was,”Why did we have to put our shoes and stuff on to go outside to come into the garage when we could have come through the house?”
“Because I wanted to show you something”. I picked up my Tommy Bahama frisbee and said I thought we could go out front and toss the frisbee around.”
I got a reluctant, “Sure” for my efforts.
With some further reluctance we went to the street and began throwing the frisbee badly.
“Snap the wrist”, I instructed.
Gradually, we were getting it and only hit the neighbour’s car three times. Amazing how much a frisbee hurts when your fingers are cold, but we were making progress. The oldest one, 12, found three excuses to go in during our brief play, obviously a weak bladder, or he couldn’t relate to non-virtual play.
Each time Grandma kicked him back out. We lasted until dinner was called and just before the neighbour came to check on his car. I think it was a marginal success. But one battle does not win a war.
It is with some sadness as a parent, grandfather, and teacher I look to the current generation with a sigh and think they too have their burden to bare as well. I played with home built wooden cars, my dad live artillery shells, perhaps a bad choice. This present younger generation has their ubiquitous screens of every size shape and design, so perhaps not so much poverty they face or the shame of a home build toy or the adrenaline rush of a real bomb, but the frightening future of being robbed of real thoughtful, inquisitive, creative play in a society that routinely enables them.
