“In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” –Albert Camus
As a child, I was blessed with the freedom to dream, create, and play independently. Whether my parents were keenly aware of the significance of unstructured outdoor play or simply needed a moment of peace, I cherished the space they afforded me.
One particularly vivid memory is of a playground near my father’s childhood home in Georgia. We had an old metal merry-go-round where we invented a chaotic game called “flying monkeys,” which involved launching ourselves off while it spun wildly.
How to Play Flying Monkeys:
- Crouch in the center of a 1970s merry-go-round, roughly the size of a small trampoline.
- Encourage your friends to spin it as fast as possible.
- At the shout of “GO!” attempt to rise, battling the centripetal force trying to keep you down.
- As you near the edge, centrifugal force sends you flying off in an unpredictable direction.
- Try to avoid the metal animals intended for sitting and leap off as far as you can.
If I’ve explained it well, it sounds as unrealistic as it felt. Often, we either tumbled off immediately or tried to jump and ended up precariously hanging on while the spinners had to hit the brakes. Regardless of the outcome, we always ended up in fits of laughter.
After the merry-go-round, we explored the nearby wilds. A dense tangle of kudzu and poison ivy surrounded the woods, but the creek remained untouched. We eagerly marched down to the water, where our true adventures began. Sometimes we would mold the red clay from the shore into creations that often resembled anything from sculptures to unfortunate blobs. We leaped from bank to bank and splashed in the refreshing, knee-deep water. When we grew weary of trying to catch water spiders, we boldly ventured through the culvert to discover what lay beyond.
The thrill of stepping into that slimy tunnel is etched in my memory. I would relive every moment—the fear, the pressure from friends, the anticipation, and the sheer exhilaration—without hesitation. The temperature drop upon entering the dank, dark tunnel felt dramatic, and I remember gripping the metal rungs as I tiptoed through. Emerging on the other side, we were fueled by adrenaline, ready to explore further. I can’t recall what we found beyond the culvert; the adventure itself was the only prize I needed.
Reflecting on those days, I can’t recall my father ever checking on us. I’m particularly grateful for his ability to let us roam freely. He must have felt we were safe enough in our neighborhood, even if I believed it felt dangerous as a ten-year-old.
Looking back at my own childhood, it’s clear that my parents had even more freedom than I did. My father often reminisces about biking to school in first grade, navigating busy intersections, which is something I wouldn’t dare let my kids do today. Go back another generation, and the independence expands further. My grandmother shared stories of constructing a fort with her siblings in a vacant lot in Miami during the 1930s. Her parents allowed her to sleep in it without a worry about lurking dangers.
Now, as I consider the limited freedom I’ve granted my own children, it feels almost unfathomable that kids once roamed so freely. Despite the tightening circle of trust, I strive to raise free-range kids who will hopefully experience the same space and confidence I had.
Recently, I enrolled my children in the summer camp I attended as a child, where I’ve returned as a counselor for the past two summers. The anticipation of those hot days ahead offers a welcome distraction from the biting cold of a New England winter. Unfortunately, the dynamics at camp have changed in the near-decade since I last counseled; children are now required to check in and report their exact whereabouts during any free time, stripping away the essence of freedom. I suspect the camp staff has faced numerous parent complaints; today’s parents expect constant updates on their children, even in a camp setting.
Not me. I revel in the idea of my kids getting “lost” in a mud pit or wandering along a creek. As a counselor, I push the limits when I can. Gaining permission from multiple people, preparing a cell phone and emergency supplies, and making lists of attendees, I take groups of kids into the wild unknown for creek adventures.
To them, it’s just as thrilling as my own escapades over two decades ago. Perhaps what they don’t know won’t burden them. After all, what happens at camp stays at camp.
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In summary, while childhood freedom seems to shrink today, we can still provide our children with adventurous experiences that foster independence and joy.