A Writing Life (Part 16)

I once wrote, as a university student, a story about one of our trips to a public park. Every summer, we would go to the same place as a large group for recreation and relaxation. It was a conservation area just over thirty minutes from my hometown. Coolers and barbecue grills would come out, as would collapsible chairs and tables for games of dominoes. The sound of those tiles clicking together as they are shuffled, or being slammed on a cardboard-topped table nearly broken with blows, is one of my vivid aural memories. The children had to amuse themselves; not a difficult thing to do with the trees, the man-made swimming areas, outhouses, canoes and the wider river, balls and games of distraction. I often climbed trees, played soccer or went down to look at the river. What I enjoyed most was to walk alone on one of the many trails on the other side of that river and end up on the far side of that park (I still wonder how I was able to get away like that without telling my mother). Later, back at the tables and benches, there was music, laughter and boasts. We would eat and then arrange things for a game of rounders. I remember making the small indent in the ground that would count for the home base (your heel had to be in it as you tried to swing at a pitch). Adults and children played this together (this was rare in the teamed domino games) and I am glad that I saw these adults at play as a child (another important memory). And then, without noticing the new darkness, we packed our things and found the exit home.