Slidin’ Through Time--Playground Memories

Recently, I recollected playing on playground swing sets during my early school days. Sometimes other kids beat me to the swings, and the line for a turn was greater than my patience could bear. I’d scamper over to the slide that towered over our asphalt empire and join the folks waiting there. It required more time to climb the ladder than it took to shoot to the scooped out dirt belong the bottom of that old metal treasure, so I knew I’d get a few thrills in before the bell called us back to our seats.

Height and speed loving youngsters dutifully waited their turn to climb that towering slide. If they were lucky, the well-worn metal undulated in the middle, which added a little lift to those jetting down on cotton clad fannies. Other slides were straight shots to the ground and anyone zipping down with legs pressed together to increase speed had to be ready for the sudden landing at the bottom that often propelled them to a gravelly face plant.

Under teacher supervision, we followed the one at a time rule.  After school, on weekends, and during the summer, we learned physics by risking our lives. Someone would walk up the incline while another daredevil whizzed down the slide through legs or had a head on collision. 

That adventurous equipment offered other challenges. How many youngsters could form a train to race down its slick metal? The person serving as the engine had to press both legs hard against the narrow sides to stay in place until everyone was in line. At the bottom, participants landed in a giggling dog pile or sometimes a crying mess if someone landed on someone else’s hand or finger.

One time, only my brother was available to play. I had the brilliant idea to put him in front on the slide and tell him to hang his cowboy booted legs over each side. Before we started down, I put my arms around him and pushed off, anticipating the crash landing at the bottom. Imagine my surprise when he swooped out of my arms and over the side while we were still near the top.

Once at the bottom, I expected to see him Humpty Dumpty-like on the pavement. Instead, I found him hanging upside down with one booted foot caught in the side-stabilizing bar. I tried to reach him to tug him out of his shoe, but this was a tall slide, and I was a little girl. I tried pulling him up from the top but that hurt his ankle too much. Finally, I left him dangling while I dashed to get our parents. Thank goodness, we lived within a block and my dad was able to lift him out of that trap into my mother’s arms. 

To this day, I can’t look at one of those old slides without feeling hot or freezing metal against my back side or seeing  a vision of a little boy in cowboy boots dangling upside down, hollering for help. It’s a wonder my brother ever let me talk him into climbing trees or diving into swimming pools after that adventure.

Valentine Memories

It’s hard to ignore Valentine promotions. Big box stores dedicate aisles to red and pink candies, stuffed animals, balloons, tableware, and other items most of us don’t need. Flower shops depend on profits generated by lovers sending bouquets to their sweethearts. Card stores tempt us to send our partners expensive cards declaring true love. It’s the February assault on our winter-dulled senses, and we’re all gullible—me included. I love getting posies from my husband.

Despite my adult vulnerability to this over-promoted holiday, kids really know how to celebrate it best. They spend considerable time using construction paper, crayons, and glue to craft personal mailboxes for their friends to fill with corny cards signed in childish scrawl, which are then folded, and tucked into thin envelopes that would never make it through the U.S. mail.

As much as I loved room-mother hosted Halloween and Christmas parties in primary school, the Valentine bash is the one I most anticipated. In the weeks before the event, I hoarded scraps of colored paper, bits of lace or rick-rack, and dug about in drawers hoping I might find some hidden glitter.

The weekend before the big day, I spent in my room, constructing my treasure box. First, I sorted through old shoe-boxes to find one that wasn’t too bashed in from being Barbie or Ken’s race car. It also needed a lid so I could use my tiny scissors to open a Valentine Card size slit.

Once I had the mail opening in a suitable carton, the wrapping challenge began. My mom would help if needed, but she believed children design their own projects, which sometimes led to some interesting corners and edges in the finished product. Until I was a teacher, I couldn’t understand why some of my friend’s containers had such sharp and perfect lines. They’d had a great deal of adult assistance.

Covering the rectangle in red or pink paper was only the beginning. Once I accomplished that, the real fun began. I got to snip around dozens of little embellishments: hearts, lips, dorky cupids, and fluffy clouds. My imagination was the only limit to the possibilities. At that point, I’d never heard of white space in a design, so I went whole-hog in applying my little cutouts everywhere I could dab a glob of glue.

After ornamenting my once plain shoe box, I set it up to dry. I then tackled picking out the prettiest cards for my best friends from the little box of Valentines mom and I selected at the dime store. I had to be sure I didn’t give any too friendly ones to boys with cooties.

 In those days, kids didn’t learn to write their names until kindergarten, so my handwriting still looked an awful lot like chicken scratches in first and second grade. It took a while to sign off on those annual missives to my classmates.

The best part of Valentines was coming home with the now scraggly container filled with little white envelopes. Some of the kids had added a sucker or a candy heart to their notes. I loved sitting on my bed and opening each one. I savored admiring the clever drawings, figuring out the funny sayings printed on each card, and deciphering my class-mates crooked lettering. I’m sure more than once, I fell asleep surrounded by this sweet dream-generating loot. 

My husband might want to save himself some money and send me a dorky little handmade Valentine this year. It would bring back memories of some very good old days.

Golden Hour in Good Hands

Rapid care in the golden hour after an accident or major health issue such as a stroke or heart attack gives hope to patients and their loved ones. For those of us who live in remote areas, time between when a cardiac incident or traumatic injury occurs and treatment begins depends on how swiftly emergency services arrive on scene. For most of us living on the high plains, that means we depend on neighbor/volunteers during crises.

When 911 systems and dispatchers send that initial page to first-responders, recipients drop what they’re doing to head for either an ambulance or fire station. That first call may wake an EMT or firefighter out of exhausted slumber or buzz as a volunteer is working at the top of a grain elevator. Maybe one of those local heroes is cuddling a grandchild while sharing a favorite storybook. These individuals set aside normal life and switch into lifesaver mode, which allows them to focus on providing the best emergency care possible to increase survival chances for the patient.

In big cities, emergency crews usually aid strangers. That’s not true in small towns like ours. Often the responders know the casualty and his or her family well. Their children play ball together, or they worship in the same church on Sundays. Sometimes they’re even related, which adds an extra poignancy to what they do. I asked a friend who serves as a first-responder if knowing their client causes more concern when they go on an emergency run. He said, “No, the first thought is to get there and help.”

I recall the time our youngest daughter blacked out and turned blue as a toddler. My fingers could barely punch the required 911 into the wall phone. From the moment I reached the dispatcher to the second those whirling lights pulled into our drive, I felt less alone. What a comfort that people I knew provided oxygen and assessed my baby’s condition as they raced her to the emergency room. Their concern and professionalism reassured a frightened little girl and her mother as we sped toward Hays. Later, their calls to make sure our child was okay lent additional support.

This is a difficult job performed under rugged conditions. By the time an ambulance crew arrives on site and begins treatment, it’s still a long way to a trauma center with facilities necessary to care for serious medical situations. These rescuers make snap decisions with minimal resources to care for complicated emergencies that involve friends and loved ones. They understand the feelings of grandparents waiting  at home praying for injured grandchildren. They can contact an accident victim’s loved one without looking it up on a computer. Maybe that person’s number is listed on their own cell phone.

In communities with dwindling populations, we’re fortunate so many sacrifice to receive the necessary training to perform emergency treatment. Once they learn these skills, we’re blessed they wear that pager and respond when it buzzes. It’s good to know that golden hour is in the hands of people with hearts of gold.

Just a Swingin’

Once upon a long time ago, children played on asphalt or gravel playgrounds filled with tall metal swing sets and finger pinching chains. Those thick links froze little hands November through February and roasted those same palms July through September.

Anyone afraid of heights elected to play foursquare, jacks, jump rope, or cling to red brick walls every recess rather than get in line for a chance to test the laws of gravity. Those swing sets inspired the careers of many an astronaut and future jet pilot as boys and girls escaping wood and metal desks raced to be the first to claim a wooden slat or canvas sling.

 Once on board, wannabe acrobats pushed off and began earnestly pumping jeaned or bare legs to launch themselves into the stratosphere. Little girls wore shorts under their dresses to prevent boys from seeing their underpants as they flew higher and higher. After a swinger achieved peak arc, you’d hear a shrill “Cowabunga” and see a frail body hurtling earthward before they assumed a last second untrained parachute landing fall position.

Wishful watchers stood beyond the contact zone, judging those gravity-defying acts with approving oohs and awes or derisive raspberries. Once that swing was empty, another brave soul got in position for an arms wide, leg-paddling leap toward the sun. Later in sophomore English, the myth about Daedalus defying his father to fly too close to that golden orb made perfect sense when I recalled my primary school playground adventures.

 Swinging high enough to bail and twirling around metal side poles until we were dizzy enough to fall down were the extents of our daring while teachers were on duty. Once school was over and adults left the premises, neighborhood kids gathered to challenge one another to creative and dangerous feats.

More than once, I found myself first pulling and pushing monkey-like until I reached the horizontal support pipe that connected both ends of the swing set. Upon reaching that goal, our rule was to straddle the casing, inch the entire distance across, and slide down the other side, fireman style. It was doubly daring since girls often wore dresses that caught in swing chains or on peeling aluminum paint. I still remember friction burns on the inside of my legs.

I was luckier than some of my friends because I never experienced a bone-breaking fall. A few hard landings unnerved me and chipped a front tooth, but I didn’t require a cast. More than one buddy left school holding an arm chest-close while sobbing in pain. A day or two later, that little daredevil returned,   brandishing bright white plaster that begged for autographs. Though I longed to have everyone crowd round me waiting to write names on my arm, I didn’t want to spend six to eight weeks standing against the wall watching others play.

It’s funny to look back on these adventures. Somehow, over the decades, I’ve lost every ounce of thrill seeker I ever possessed. In fact, standing on chair to dust a ceiling fan causes vertigo. Good thing modern playgrounds aren’t nearly as thrilling as they used to be. I’d hate to rescue grandkids from the top of an old-school swing set.