Lucky to Be Alive

I took my 8-year old son to the local playground and reminisced about my own playground experiences at that age. Today’s children have it so easy. Nothing seems to risk life and limb any more.

It was surreal to watch children walk away from the playground with all of their limbs intact. I felt like breaking out war stories from my own playground days…like a salty ol’ war veteran desperate to prove just how sissy today’s generation is in contrast to his own.

How school officials approved the contraptions we climbed on back then is beyond me. I remember how strange it was that the size of my elementary class kept dwindling over the course of the year, but I assumed families had simply decided to relocate between third and fourth period.

It never dawned on me that the missing children were probably among those left behind after recess…entangled, maimed or impaled by the various medieval instruments of death that dotted the landscape.

There was no code of honor amongst us elementary folk. “No man left behind” didn’t exist. Are little Jimmy’s legs caught in the Chains of Despair? Leave him. Is Suzie laying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the slide? Drag her as far as you can and then save yourself.

We were like Pavlov’s dogs when that bell rang. We’d drop whatever we were doing (or whoever we were dragging) and immediately scurry back to our classrooms.

Slides of Agony
As I watched Michael glide comfortably down a soft plastic slide with siderails, I experienced flashbacks of the leg burns I suffered from sliding down big panels of molten sheet metal that had spent the day baking in the blazing sun.

While Michael was able to start at the top and slide all the way down to the bottom in one fluid motion, I remembered that I never had the luxury of such a smooth descent.

I had two options…and both were equally painful.

One, I could raise my legs high into the air like a birthing mother so that only my cut-off jeans were touching the slide. The problem with this approach is that the denim of the 1970′s had supersonic properties when it touched metal. Speeds would approach 150mph as I careened uncontrollably down to the blacktop, and if the landing wasn’t perfectly timed, I’d suffer immediate road rash.

Or two, I could endure a painfully staggered ride as my skin defied the laws of inertia when it came into contact with the searing metal. Sure, the dismount was easy, but the entire ride consisted of painful two-foot bursts from start to finish.

Bars n’ Scars
I then watched Michael climb around on what today’s softies would call a “jungle gym”. Again, I felt like standing at attention and bellowing, “You call that a jungle gym you prancing little sissies? Come here and let me tell you about MY jungle gym.”

I’d then gather the children around and explain that while they get to climb around on luxurious plastic tubes and properly sanded wooden beams, we veterans of the 70′s had to navigate thin metal pipes, sharp bolts, and railroad ties that could double as cheese graters.

And we didn’t have smooth little rounded bolts either. The metal piping we climbed on was held together by sharp hexagonal bolts that were pre-soaked in tetanus.

Think I’m exaggerating? Here’s a picture of my third grade class.

And if we fell? Do you think we landed on soft recycled rubber or sand? Heck no. We landed on concrete, baby! If we were lucky we’d have blacktop to break our fall because it was more malleable in the heat. I honestly remember feeling relieved if I stumbled on blacktop instead of concrete. How sick is that?

They did eventually upgrade to shanks wood chips but I think I preferred the scrapes to the splinters. Over time, a few geniuses figured out that sand and soft gravel might be a better alternative. In the aftermath, sales of Band-Aids and bottles of red sting-laden torture ointment plummeted.

Today we see soft shredded rubber and pads. It’s appalling. What’s next? Landing in big fluffy balls of cotton? Let’s toughen these kids up.

Scary-Go-Rounds
One of the most popular playground toys when I was growing up was this circular metal wheel with deathgrip handles that spun children into cerebral hemorrhages. There was more vomit beside this ride than anywhere else on the planet yet we couldn’t resist it.

Kids would pile onto this creaking, uneven, metal death plate and then three or four other kids would grab the sides and run in circles to spin it faster, faster, and faster.

Sadly, third graders were oblivious to the laws of momentum and it would end up spinning faster than their little legs could handle. Even as our eyesight faded in and out, we watched in horror as blurry figures disappeared from sight and either got wedged beneath the spinning skin scraper or cast off into a nearby tree.

Once the merry-go-round came to a rest we’d all jump off and try to run in a straight line. Kids were running head first into fences, knocking themselves unconscious on tree limbs, tripping over fallen comrades, or puking off to the side, all while other kids were begging to be next.

Today’s playground merry-go-rounds have govenors. I’m dead serious. They imposed a speed limit on how fast these wheels can turn. I tried with all my might to get this thing to spin faster but to no avail. Back in my day? You couldn’t take it slow if you wanted to and I’m convinced school officials doused the thing in WD-40.

Blades of Fury
Today’s school grounds are mowed on weekends when the masses aren’t at play. Back in my era? I vividly remember playing football in a field of milk thistles while a tractor pulled a few dozen unshielded rotating blades nearby. The sound of rocks ricocheting off the metal still echoes in my head. I swear I have post-traumatic playground disorder.

I remember hearing my friend Eric scream out in pain as blood poured from his face. A rock had been launched from the blades and smacked him square in the nose…breaking it. I helped him to the office and he was just covered in blood. The nurse took him in and the last words I heard were, “You need to be careful out there while they’re mowing.” Stupid Eric.

I don’t remember seeing the mower ever again so they must have come to the conclusion that using a makeshift combine during recess wasn’t such a swell idea. Eric eventually recovered but that little dude was black and blue for weeks.

It was kind of like this video but it wasn’t a soft football…it was a big rock. And it wasn’t thrown by Peter…it was thrown by powerful lawn mower blades. And it wasn’t Marcia that got hit…it was my friend Eric. Other than that, this clip is a spot-on reenactment.

Stairway to Vertigo
Anyone else remember the super tall slide? The one that everyone revered but few dared to experience? You’d walk up a set of thin metal steps two stories high until you reached a narrow platform with knee-high railings.

If you dared to look down you’d see itty bitty children scurrying around like ants on the concrete below.

Assuming you overcame the sudden onslaught of vertigo, you’d settle in for a nice long ride…on a jointed slide…where the sheets of metal were obviously tacked on incorrectly.

Every four feet you’d feel a nice sting in your buttocks as you slid over creased metal edges. You had two choices…leap to your death or go home with welts.

The Chains of Despair
The braintrust at my school also had the epiphany to nail chains to a wooden wall in some sort of criss-cross design so that kids could get trapped and entangled if they dared try climbing to the top. To further encourage injury they placed a few bells atop the wall as motivation.

No matter how many bone fragments lay beneath the Chains of Despair, kids kept trying to reach the bells. Gravity and a complete lack of balance made this impossible but third graders are inherently void of logic. The bells were never rung. Eventually, Ronald Reagan uttered those famous words, “Tear down this wall!”, and the Chains of Despair were nothing more than a memory.

Wheels of Dysentery
Not everything they gave us to play on was made of metal. For those who sought a more forgiving activity they buried huge recycled ties about a foot into the ground.

This way, pools of stagnant water could accumulate and attract worms and bacteria. Rotting bugs and the smell of pee would help finish off the pleasant aroma.

Kids would try to wedge themselves in the tires which ultimately resulted in them falling into the smelly toxic waste below. Ivan Bauer…I can’t believe I remember his name…he loved playing in the tires. Nice kid. And his mom made killer popcorn balls. But man did he stink.

The Ladder to Nowhere
I’ll close my playground recollection with my all-time favorite playground disaster…the Ladder to Nowhere. The Ladder to Nowhere was a metal ladder set at a 45-degree angle that was welded perpendicularly to a set of monkey bars.

I’m still unsure of its purpose beyond the desire to hurt children.

The premise was for children to climb up the ladder and then somehow contort their bodies to be able to safely climb down to the monkey bars. It also provided an escape route for those who made it halfway across the monkey bars before deciding it was time to up the risk factor.

Instead, it went like this. Children would climb up one ladder and then slowly climb down the way they came when they realized that certain death awaited them if they tried to make the transition to the other ladder. Whoever invented this either hated kids or owned the local trauma center.

It’s Time to Recognize
Enjoy your frilly little playgrounds, kind children of the new millennium, but never forget those who slid and climbed before you. For we, the hardened men and women of the 70′s, endured concussions, broken bones, and skin grafts all in the quest for playground safety.

The next time you slide in comfort, the next time you go to bed without smelling like Bactine, and the next time you notice that cinders aren’t embedded in your kneecaps…remember who helped make this possible. Remember the children of the 70′s.

We await your thanks. We await your salute.