Think back to your own childhood experiences. Reflect upon the wild innocence, the excitement. The freedom of running barefoot, or playing in the streets. The times of bicycles and hopscotch. Holding hands with your best friend, riding on each other's handlebars. How, perhaps, your mother flipped the porch light on after dark, her way of calling you home.
When I think of the magic of childhood, I always think about TV shows like The Wonder Years. And I guess, in a way, sometimes I feel just a little bit homesick for my own childhood, the simple times in the good ole days. I watch as my daughter grows up with cell phones and laptops, tablets and hand-held video games like the DS and I feel a little sad that she'll never see how simple, fun, and free it was to play on a neighborhood street and just enjoy merely being a child in the company of other children.
Back when I was a child, I had the endless thrill of rolling hills. We picked raspberries fresh off the bush and ate them. Who needed all those flashy video games when you had your imagination, when you could go anywhere and be anything? We played on the street and said hello to neighbors without ever fearing an abduction. Our mothers called us home from a hard day of playing from our own front porches. And the end of a school day always meant another evening full of play.
"They spend their whole lives in trees, young apple trees and old tired ones, red oaks, walnuts, the dogwood when it flowers in May. They hold leaves up to the light and peer through them. They close their eyes and press their faces into showers of leaves and wait for that feeling of darkness to come and make their whole bodies stir. They discover locust shells, tree frogs, a gypsy moth's cocoon. Now they know what that sound is in the night when the tree frogs sing out at the tops of their lungs. In the fields, they collect groundhog bones. They make desert piles and bless them with flowers and leaves. They wish they could be plants and lie very still near the ground at night and in the morning be covered with tears of dew. They wished they could be Robin Hood, Indians..."
~Flower Children, by Maxine Swann
So for this week, I want us all to look back on our own childhoods and write about them. Do you have a special memory, celebration, defining moment you'd like to write about? Or maybe you just want to remember it all?
Any writing type goes. Don't forget to paste the link to your poem below and visit each other!