True Story 2 - Parks

There was a neighborhood not far from ours that was a world away. Our houses were large. Huge to a seven year old. This other neighborhood - where my friend Russell lived - was compact. Russell's home was a second floor apartment. Across the street was a park. Our neighborhood had no park. We had a golf course. Adults probably called it a country club. But Russell had a park.

I remember staying over Russell's once. We read riddles all night and laughed until it hurt. But there were riddles I just didn't get. Like that park the next day. It must have been a Saturday because it was filled with people. Families. Playing badminton, croquet, spinning hula hoops, spreading out picnics. It was positively joyous. Not at all like my neighborhood.

I spent much of my ensuing childhood looking for parks. I'd push the known limits, first on foot, later on bike, in search of sylvan glades. I may have been looking for Russell's happy family park, but I don't think so. Because I didn't want to find people there. I wanted pastoral and I wanted it for myself. Me. Only.

I found the ideal park. Tucked neatly away, it was small, just two conjoined hills with a stream dividing them. A weeping willow by the stream provided perfect cover. But no cover was needed as no one came to this park. It seemed unknown to all. How's this for disturbed? I stopped going there for fear that someone else would discover what was to me my own private park.

Funny, these two parks loom large in my life. Both were sources of wonder to me. In one, society was magnified, idealized. In the other, grades of schooling later, society was diminished, to be avoided. Go figure.