That Place - the Park

I have spent almost my entire life living in or near the same miniscule map dot – an estimated thirty-five of my current forty-four years.  That place— exit 99, head west five miles and whatever you do, Don’t Blink!— and all its surrounding space has housed more of my moments than I have memory of.  All my secrets, all my scars, lay embedded in the dust and rust of its half-hearted attempted development.  People come, places go, names change, but the bones – the streets, all stay the same. 

As a child, the township park was a place that always promised to be a source of sweat-drenched smiles.  In blistering heat, through downpours and drizzles, we’d merry our days away.  Whether in spring or summer, or the slathering of snow— as a child, that park was much more than a place of simple swings and slick slides.  It was the apex of imagination for us tiny town tots… Full of go ups, come downs, spin round and rounds - through grass and grime we’d roll and run.  Up hills, in forts, through woods and weeds - we’d hunt and hide.   Gathering for Girl Scout games and Easter endeavors, skipping studies for snow-day sledding, or school sport play days – the park was the place where friendships were forged and families found common ground. 

For myself, as an adult living in that same sleepy town, that township park always provided a place of continuance and comfort.  Unchanged and seemingly untouched for decades, it was a place where I could hide from adulthood and seek myself again in the serene swoosh of the same swing set.  I won’t lie – when no one was near, when the coast was clear, I’ve been known to spend some time lost in the flow of that back and forth line, allowing years of tears and fears to be turned towards smiles through the treasured memories of my more youthful miles.    

Not only did that park provide a place of ongoing reminiscent pleasure for myself, it also gave my children a wondrous place to play.  On random sunny or shade-spot days, we’d venture down that way, and I’d share the secrets of that sacred space with my sweet tots.  I’d watch in wistful wonder as their grins grew with every go ‘round and climb up and down.  In case you’ve never noticed – it is a truly sublime sight to see the shine of imagination arise in the eyes of those next in line at life.  There is magic in watching memories in the making.  With every hopeful hop of such happy little hearts, all the pressure and all the pain of playing your grueling grown-up games can fade away; even if just for the day.                      

But something seems to have gone awry in the most recent years since I’ve been removed from that rural town—as if time has worn out the welcome and wonder of that poor little park.  Perhaps the townspeople and their tots have forgotten what fun could be found on its once hallowed ground? … It was a rare, warm fall day when I went to visit its vestige.  A trip home that I had hoped would heal my heavy heart as it always had.  But my hopes for happiness turned into heartbreak at the horror of one lonely hour spent at that old haunt.  

When first I arrived I immediately observed the eerie effect of weeds and would-be grass grown up too tall.   An unkempt appearance that suggested not only neighborly neglect, but oversight from town officials as well.  The ball fields were kept with their tight trims, but the poor park was hedged with haphazard care at best… a meager mow-over… garbage ungrounded.  

The crude appearance of upkeep was immediately obliterated as soon as I came to cross the creek.  I remember playing in its refreshing waters many moons ago—cooling off, catching crawdad’s, basking in its babble.  Now, the weeds and the muck have made it all yuck— the stagnant water coated in grime and slime, is no longer fit for a dip in the least bit!  The stout little bridge still seemed to hold strong, but the years of neglect had taken effect on its poor remaining paint—fractured, flaking, and as faint as the faces that once flanked it now rusting rails.

In fact, to my eyes, it seemed as though every precious piece of entertainment once placed in that park had descended into disparaging decay…with teeters that frightfully tottered, and slides that threatened to scar.  The monkey bars mimicked the mess of the park the most… its cold and corroded bars barely letting in the light, as if imprisoning the park from its natural progress.  Paralyzed, glazed, and hazed – like the fright-filled eyes of bouncy-spring riders…   Everything worn, everything wasting away—except one ride—the one with the ability to alter it all… the merry-go-round… the one that whirls, the one that twirls; the only one with the ability to blur the stark state of the pathetic old park – still bold, still bright – sticking out like a sore thumb. 

I left the park that day much sadder than when I started.   With the sun at my back, there was no turning back… the time, the tears, or the slow decay of years, the reminiscent release I hoped to receive was lost in ruin.  I pray that one day, someone will see the potential of that old park.  That perhaps the people of the town will take the time peel back the paint, remove the rust, and give the next generation the gift we all grew up with – imagination, inspiration, and smiles to last through life’s long miles.