Remembering

My husband, Terry, and I were talking about the Newburgh Festival and how much fun our kids used to have spending their weekends combing the attractions, meeting people and having a ball. Because we both grew up with a tremendous amount of freedom, we gave our children the same, so from the time they were about five, they had more or less the run of Newburgh.

“Don’t fall in the river we eat at six,” was our family motto. It was (and is) a safe place to grow up, and the run of the town taught them a lot. They made friends easily and learned how to care for themselves. They learned how to buy something they wanted, how to be polite all on their own, how to go to the library and borrow a book. They figured out how to cross town to the pool and be responsible enough to come home when the weather got bad.

I was always home, and they knew home base was within a few blocks. When they did come home, there would always be a fresh supply of cookies and someone to listen to their tales of adventure.

During the festival days they could walk to the school - about half a block away and take the double-decker bus to the festival with their friends or a sibling. They could spend their time as they pleased among the rides and attractions and food booths where they dined on luxurious things like carnie pizza and hamburgers. Every so often they’d gravitate home with a handful of little plastic trophies and a hand out for more pocket change. I remember saving for weeks so they’d have enough to spend.

Those were sweet days; independent days I’m sure my grandchildren will never see. The world has closed up a lot since then. Sending kids out alone is not done much anymore even to the school playgound seems dangerous now. We’ve become frightened, so we keep our kids in the back yard under strict supervision.

At the same time fun has changed. Instead of combing the river’s beach for kid-interesting stuff like dead birds and washed up treasures and tumbling down embankments covered in rocks and weeds, today’s equivalent is air conditioned buildings where kids play video games and tumble on mats.

Years ago a stubbed toe, a giant splinter, a cut foot was ignored or wrapped in a leaf left to be tended when the child finally got home. Today, analgesic washes are a moment away from the injury.

Games have changed as well. Today children’s games are viewed – passively. The only action is pushing a button. The real test of good judgment is absent.

Terry reminded me of all the games that used to grace a festival - games of chance and skill that would probably bore today's child. Could you throw a ball? Could you remember? Did you have enough grace to get that ring over the bottle or that quarter in the little square or could you shoot the duck?

Yesterday the big stuffed toy was the grand prize. Today it’s a stack of cards that can be cashed in at the counter. Getting that huge stuffed dragon handed to you over the game counter because daddy could throw a baseball was about as exciting as Christmas.

Joy for children comes in what is a very small thing to an adult, but joy is constant - a string of little moments, and joy should always be constant yesterday and today.

I remember the first time I had my fortune told. I went into this little closet draped in fabric - very exotic and very beautiful. I really wanted to be there. The old woman, she was probably 35, took my hand and looked into her crystal ball. She was wonderful and kind and she told me that I would grow up to be this or that; I don’t remember, but I remember the moment; it was all very magical and fanciful and a lot of fun, and I remember thinking about her and what she said for a long time.

I wonder about that kind of fun for kids today. I wonder if that kind of experience would still be fun or if it has become ho hum. I wonder if the memory would stay with them, or if it would dissolve.

It would be interesting to put on an old fashioned festival and see. Maybe we’ll do that at the Garden School the last week we are in school this summer. Thoughts?