As far back as I can remember, I was outside.
Not “playing outside” — I mean living outside.
We were basically feral children in Toughskins jeans, released into the wild after one bowl of cereal and a 22-minute cartoon.
Every Saturday began the same way:
Superfriends on a TV with six channels — seven if someone in the neighborhood adjusted their antenna at the exact right angle.
Then cereal (always cereal — seven days a week like it was a government mandate).
Then we were off.
Our parents didn’t “plan activities.”
They just opened the door, like farmers releasing livestock, and said,
“Be back when someone cries.”
A simpler time.
The woods behind my house stretched on forever…
until they didn’t.
Now it’s McMansions, golf-course lawns, and yards big enough to require a riding mower and a small prayer circle.
But back then?
It was our kingdom.
We built underground forts.
Let me repeat that:
FIVE FEET DEEP HOLES IN THE EARTH.
We dug like we were auditioning for Shawshank Redemption: Junior Edition.
We’d lower plywood across the top, cover it with dirt, crawl inside, and hold meetings — as if we were tiny woodland diplomats with urgent business.
We had dirt-bomb wars, which eventually graduated into BB gun fights —
but don’t worry, we had rules:
“You can only pump it once!”
Because nothing says “safety-conscious child” like limiting the velocity of the projectile you’re firing at your friend’s leg.
When the sun went down, the real magic began:
Sump Tag.
Everyone had a sump. Ours smelled like scallions, lavender, and dirt — the scent profile of a Yankee Candle no one asked for.
We’d hop the fence, bring flashlights, and run around like unhinged raccoons until someone’s mother leaned out the door yelling a name in that voice that meant,
“I’m not kidding, this is your FINAL FINAL warning.”
Winter didn’t slow us down.
We’d go to the sump (of course) and sled until our fingers went numb, our toes froze, and our noses fell off — the holy trinity of childhood hypothermia.
Some kids had nice sleds with metal rails; others used garbage can lids, which honestly went faster and were more aerodynamic, in a doomed-to-die sort of way.
On warmer days we played football in the street — boys, girls, everyone. Boxball, Red Light Green Light, tag, manhunt.
We fueled ourselves with Twinkies, Ho-Hos, Hostess cupcakes with that squiggly white line that tasted like pure joy, and Kool-Aid mixed at a ratio that probably altered our DNA.
We didn’t schedule playdates.
We just rode our bikes to someone’s house, dropped them in the driveway like fallen dominoes, and walked in.
That was the invitation:
Your bike is here. You are here. Let the games begin.
And I haven’t thought about any of this in decades.
Not really.
Not until life finally slowed down enough for my mind to wander back — to the forts, the sump, the snow, the snacks, the freedom.
Back when life was simple.
Back when childhood felt like an endless summer, even in winter.
Back when I knew exactly who I was without trying.
Now?
Now I sometimes can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday.
But these memories?
They’re still there.
Bright. Wild. Waiting.
Proof that the best parts of us never really disappear —
they just sit quietly underground, like those childhood forts,
ready for us to climb back in
when the world finally stops long enough
to let us remember who we used to be.
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