THOUGHTS ON A SUMMER DAY

          The “Minnie Hole” is what we called the place where all the kids in town went swimming on summer days. I actually don’t recall seeing any minnows there, if that’s what the word “minnie,” I think, refers to.  Or maybe it refers to a “small” swimming area. I never thought about it before today, after all these many years. I sure went swimming there a lot—sometimes twice or three times a day. I just assumed that the name had something to do with those little fish that people use for bait.

          It was just a wide area of the creek (Sharps Run) that ran through Medford. To get there you had to take the “main path” that cut through the middle of the woods just off Allen Avenue or by way of one of the many paths that led past the frog ponds until you reached the reddish brown waters of the creek. There was a dock, the pilings of which were heavily coated with creosote, and there was a diving board. Some of the big kids hung a Tarzan rope in a tree just by the water so you could swing out and drop “into the deep” so to speak.

          It was crowded every day, and you could hear the joyful commotion from a distance as you made your way there. The anticipation sometimes made you walk faster or even run, forgetting all about trying to “play it cool.” This was serious kid business—no time for false dignity. That sort of thing was for adults—not kids.

          I always thought I was a better swimmer than I suspect I really was. I could swim well enough to play water tag or Marco Polo, but I don’t remember if I ever won, if that’s what you were supposed to do. Too long ago to say. Swimming under water was fun and somebody once in a while would ask if you kept your eyes open—I don’t know why—they just did. There were a few dares now and then—particularly having to do with the diving board. “Jackknife,” “front flip,” “back flip”-“betcha can’t.”

          One of the things that stands out is that there were very few adults who ever went there, except for some who came to lie or sit on the small beach. It was mostly all kids, no adult supervision, and no one trying to organize us or get us to be better behaved. We were just kids who understood kid rules and mostly played by them. That is not to say that there was never any kind of disagreements, but whatever they were usually over quickly and we went on as if it wasn’t that important.

          As I think of those days in these elderly years of my existence, I am tempted to call them by that all-too-familiar name—“the good old days.” But their so-called goodness has left me wondering: Will these be the “good old days” for some of the children of today? Probably in some way because they have nothing to compare it with and because they are living out their own days of innocence and play.

          However I suspect that they may be much more aware of what’s happening in the world than I was. I also suspect that, especially during this trying time we’re all going through on many fronts, that a little cynicism may be quietly and slowly creeping into their psyche to color their outlook on life—a more harsh reality than I remember ever experiencing. If only such a word could get around, and move us adults to the awareness of how our words and interactions effect the hearts and minds of children. Just a thought.