I may miss my kids, but I don't miss the playground. Whenever I pass through on my way to/from the library, to return an overdue book in many cases (oops), I remember: the pushing of swings, the settling of skirmishes, that kid — you know the one — who doesn't want to give someone else a turn, the neverever wanting to leave and go home ...
I also remember playgrounds when I was a kid; we did such stupid stuff, had way too much fun. Swinging as high as we possibly could — pumping, remember pumping?? — with hands on chains and butts on wood, then jumping off at the highest point. Wheeeee. How did we escape breaking ankles upon landing??
And twirling on swings — or having a friend twirl us — until twisted chains pinched fragile fingers and our feet were several feet off the ground, then letting go, letting ourselves untwirl, getting sooooo dizzy, and stumbling around pretending to be even dizzier than we were, and loving that feeling. Was it a precursor to getting drunk??
And where were the parents?? Nowhere in sight ...
The slides were my favorite, for whatever reason, except when they were hot; those metal ones could get so hot. Sliding is the only thing that works for me now, somehow. Swinging makes me sick. And twirling, on anything?? Forget about it. I'm just no fun at all. What happened to fun?? And play ...
Anyway, yesterday, late afternoon, as I was walking the few blocks from home to the Newport Public Library — such a welcoming place in this town for which the pineapple (the mark of hospitality) is the symbol, and telling myself that the late fee for the book I was returning was actually a tiny philanthropic gesture to this ultra-important and wonderfully-welcoming establishment — I approached two boys from behind. They were scuffling along the sidewalk on their way home from school, I guessed, judging by backpacks. Perhaps they, too, were headed to the library ...
Again, when I was kid (and when exactly did I get old enough to say that??), I'd have been kicking a stone and wearing really wide bell-bottoms. If there were boys in the bunch, they'd have been practicing belching ... can't say I ever understood the appeal. But these boys, in present-day Newport, though it/they could be anywhere, were wearing those huge-pocketed droopy jeans that look like they're going to fall off at any second — as if bell-bottoms weren't equally ridiculous — and swearing up a storm. "I'm f—in' this." "You're f—in' that."
One more detail: These were little boys, no older than ten.
So, at precisely the moment I passed them on the sidewalk, and "f—in' something-or-other" happened to emit from one of those sweet little mouths, I said, "Oooooo, watch your language."
I couldn't help it; it just came out.
Well, the look I got ... and the response. "Who the f— are you," asked one of those little/big boys. He had a point.
And then, on my way home from this typically circuitous walk that took me from the library down to Lower Thames — as it's hard to resist soaking up a bit of that glorious late-afternoon sun on the harbor, especially after such a mind-blowing trip to the library — some bigger boys passed me in a car, windows down, music pumping. This was broad (broad??) daylight on a Wednesday, mind you, and it was thirty-something degrees outside. These guys were cruisin' as if it were a f—in' Friday night in July ...
And, just as they passed me, one of them barked. Yes, barked. "Woof."
Wait — did he just call me a dog?? I may be old(er) and out-of-it, linguistically and otherwise, but one wouldn't woof at a hot chick. Perhaps it was some sort of karmic (if that's a word) payback for my unsolicited comment to the younger boys earlier, not that the big boys had anything to do with the little boys, although it's conceivable that they did.
It's just that bad language (unnecessary bad language) bugs me. And those boys (boys will be boys??) crossed the line ...
