Advertisement Oh, not from the self-appointed neighborhood pyrotechnicians for the past few weeks Kabul has nothing on us after nightfall but for the rest of the day, save for the occasional lawn mower, passing Harley or twittering songbird, there’s nothing but the whoosh of the wind in the trees and hum of the neighbor’s air conditioning to break the summer silence.
Which begs the question where are the kids?
Now, I know we have kids in town. I know we have kids in my own neighborhood. Nine months a year, morning and afternoon, I see them rounded up, packed onto big orange buses and herded into stuffy, overheated classrooms by the buildingful. But for the past six weeks, if it weren’t for the skateboard boys around the corner and down the block who the dog finds annoying, I’d think we’d all been moved to Sun City north.
To this once-and-future kid, it’s a bit bizarre. Summer and no kids running around no knots and clots and little gangs of urchins running loose in the parks, in vacant lots and backyards. No kids scampering willy-nilly up and down the sidewalks, racing bikes, chasing with water guns from house to house and back again. No kids pushing lawnmowers, pitching tents, dangling from trees, having fights, playing ball It’s summer. Where are the kids?
I even went looking for them. On a glorious July afternoon, I prowled the city checking parks, playgrounds and likely hangouts for free-range youngsters doing what youngsters are wont to do. But in all the acres of neat mown grass, on the tens of thousands of dollars worth of play equipment rooted in super-safe, fall cushioning wood chips, and on a dozen or more professionally groomed ball diamonds, tennis courts and soccer fields, there weren’t two blocks worth of children all but six of whom had mother in tow out and about in the entire city. In the entire city, I didn’t see enough kids out playing to make up a decent pickup game of baseball.
So where then are the kids? Home, I suppose. Trouble is, even in a really big house a kid can’t run very fast or very far once he grows past the size of a medium-sized dog, which goes a long way toward accounting for the reports circulating over the past week or so on how by the time the average American kid gets to 9 years old he’s well on his way to couch potatohood fat and inert.
To a kid who spent uncounted childhood hours huddled with confederates plotting the overthrow of the tyrannous adult world, it’s disconcerting to so rarely see a preteen not in the company of or under the watchful eye of a concerned adult. Now, having been both child and adult, I know those adults aren’t about to join in a squealing sprint to the end of the block. They’re not going to be climbing trees, exploring the hills, chasing frogs or riding bikes down steep hills no-handed. Adults mean rules and respect for property lines, sunscreen, bike helmets and elbow pads. They come with fresh fruit, washed and pared, bought at the market rather than bruised, under-ripe apples swiped from old man Mitroit’s backyard orchard. There may be no spiderwebs clinging to their raspberries, but we risk raising a generation unaware that filched fruit is always sweetest; a generation of kids who believe you need a pool pass, trunks and a lifeguard to go swimming. Kids who can’t settle their own fights, make their own rules or put a Band-Aid on a skinned-up knee and get on with life.
Locked away, safe and inside, or shuttled to and from adult organized, sanitized and supervised games featuring matching T-shirts, chipper activity directors and much sitting around waiting for a turn the most exciting, adventurous thing in a contemporary kid’s life likely happens in a video game or online chat room.
Like the dog in the Sherlock Holmes story who didn’t bark in the night, the kids who don’t scream, screech and generally raise ruckus from one end of the bock to the other point to the resolution of a mystery why our kids are getting so doggone fat.
It’s elementary.
And too quiet. Way too quiet.
Jerome Christenson is the online editor at the Winona Daily News.
