“In the heart of winter, I discovered a resilient warmth within myself.” –Inspired by Albert Camus
As a child, I reveled in the freedom my parents provided—an unstructured canvas for dreaming, creating, and playing on my own. Whether they recognized the significance of outdoor exploration or simply needed a moment of quiet, I cherished the space they allowed me.
One of my fondest memories is a playground near my father’s old home in Georgia. It featured a small metal merry-go-round where we invented a chaotic game called “flying monkeys.” The objective? To jump as far as possible from the spinning contraption.
How to Play Flying Monkeys:
- Crouch in the center of the merry-go-round, reminiscent of a 1970s Jazzercise trampoline.
- Invite friends to spin it as fast as they can.
- When they shout “GO!,” attempt to stand up, battling the centripetal force trying to pull you back.
- As you reach the edge, centrifugal force would launch you off.
- Aim to leap over the metal animals meant for sitting and land as far as possible.
If my description paints an accurate picture, you can imagine how comically impossible it was. More often than not, we either fell immediately or leapt awkwardly, requiring emergency stops from our friends. Regardless of the outcome, we always ended up in a pile of laughter.
After our merry-go-round antics, we would turn our attention to the wilderness around us. The thick kudzu vines and poison ivy loomed menacingly, but the creek remained an untouched paradise, beckoning us to explore.
Our true adventures began there. We would mold red clay from the banks into all sorts of shapes, which would eventually dry into crude replicas or, at worst, resemble dried dog droppings. We leaped between banks and splashed in the cool, shallow waters. When our attempts at catching water spiders failed, we would bravely traverse the culvert to the mysterious world on the other side.
The thrill of entering that slimy tunnel remains vivid in my memory. I would eagerly embrace the fear, anticipation, and exhilaration all at once. The transition from the scorching Georgia sun to the dank chill of the tunnel felt monumental. My toes clung to the metal rungs as we navigated through; it felt like an eternity until we emerged. Once out, we thrived on the adrenaline, exploring the stream further, with no recollection of what lay beyond—just the pure joy of adventure.
Reflecting on those days, I can’t recall my dad ever checking in on us. I admire and am grateful for his trust in letting us roam freely. He likely believed we wouldn’t find much trouble in our neighborhood, which, to me as a ten-year-old, felt like a grand adventure.
My parents themselves had even broader freedoms as children. My father often reminisces about biking to school in first grade, navigating a busy intersection—something I can hardly fathom as a latchkey kid. Even further back, my grandmother shares stories of building a hut with her siblings in a vacant lot in 1930s Miami, where her parents allowed her to spend the night without worry.
In comparison, the small circle of independence I grant my own children seems restrictive. Yet, I’m committed to raising free-range kids who, with a bit of luck, will experience the same trust and space I once enjoyed.
Recently, I enrolled my kids in the summer camp of my youth, where for the past two summers, I’ve returned as a counselor. As I anticipate those sweltering days ahead, I reflect on the changes that have occurred. Over the near-decade since my last stint, the pendulum has swung toward more protective parenting. Nowadays, kids are expected to report their exact locations during “free” time, stripping away the essence of freedom.
Not me. I cherish the thought of my kids getting “lost” in a mud pit or wandering along a creek. As a counselor, I push boundaries when possible. Although I must secure permission from three people and prepare a cell phone and wilderness emergency kit, I still lead groups into the wild for creek adventures.
To these kids, those excursions feel as adventurous as they did for me over 20 years ago. Perhaps what they remain unaware of won’t burden them. After all, what happens at camp stays at camp.
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