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Illustration by Drew Shannon
Not too long ago, two of my grandkids came over for Sunday night family dinner. They walked in and made straight for the couch to lie down. Aged 10 and 12, they took out their smartphones and started up with their games. It makes me sad to watch them, and so many other kids today, define play as gaming, and to see how their interacting or socializing is done mostly online.
As a child, I knew how to play.
When I wanted a metal pedal car like some of my rich friends had a few streets over, my father made me one out of wood complete with wooden wheels. It was like a miniature version of the Flintstones’ car, which ironically hadn’t been created yet. The car was pushed along the sidewalk using a long shaft from a broken hockey stick attached to the back and steered with a makeshift rope wheel. At first, I was self-conscious about my wooden car but soon realized I had a good thing going when many of my friends craved a ride. Dad also built a huge playhouse and several tree houses. Later, when I competed in track and field events, he made me a high jump stand and converted my sandbox into a sandpit for soft landings. It may be that Dad just loved to build things or he really loved his kids, or perhaps a little of both.
In my neighbourhood, we didn’t get much to play with for presents, so curiosity, inventiveness and a little trouble-seeking were our options and incentives for entertainment and adventure. We could organize team sports without parental assistance. We pitched tents in the backyard and camped out while roaming the streets at night seeking adventures. We even went on biking expeditions to Niagara-on-the Lake and once even a week-long trip to Lake Huron.
My father, who grew up in Ukraine, had even less as a child to play with. He and his brothers grew up during the Russian Revolution when life was tough and life-threatening. His grim stories of that time often made me feel like I was living in the wonder years. Their idea of play or mischief was to wander onto a former battlefield and gather up discarded sabres, rifles and even shell cases and other souvenirs of war while meandering among the dead soldiers fallen on the fields. It sounds unbelievable but I read about these exploits from his diary and also from the book that my uncle self-published while in Canada.
Just as I never confessed my goofing-off sins to my parents, nor did my dad and his siblings tell their parents about the collection of weapons they had accumulated and hidden away during “play.” When I think about it, it’s actually a miracle I was even born considering Dad and Uncle Henry passed the time by taking unfired, or so-called dead artillery shells, and throwing them in a fire to see what would happen. They’d even take a rock and hit them on the active end to see if they could get a reaction.
Given the times and circumstances, however, this was their version of independent play, it did nurture curiosity and they lived to tell the tale. Every generation has its challenges, its quirks and even near-death experiences.
But back to my grandchildren. That Sunday night, once I had finished the manly art of barbecuing the meat, I took the kids outside to show them something in the garage.
The first response was, “Why did we have to put our shoes and stuff on to go outside to come into the garage when we could have come through the house?”
“Because I wanted to show you something,” I said and picked up my frisbee. “I thought we could go out front and toss the frisbee around.”
I got a reluctant, “Sure” for my efforts.
With some further reluctance, we went to the street and began throwing the frisbee around, badly.
“Snap the wrist,” I instructed helpfully.
Gradually, we were getting it and only hit the neighbour’s car three times. It’s amazing how much a frisbee hurts when your fingers are cold, but we were making progress. The oldest grandson found three excuses to go in during our brief play, and I wondered if he couldn’t relate to non-virtual play.
Each time, though, his grandma kicked him back out. We lasted playing outside until dinner was called and just before the neighbour came to check on his car. I think it was a marginal success. But one battle does not win a war.
As a parent, grandfather and teacher I look to the current generation with a sigh. I remember though, that they too have their burden to bear. I may have had to play with home-built toys and my dad with live artillery shells (perhaps a bad choice), but today’s younger generation is stuck with ubiquitous screens of every size, shape and design. So, while they may not experience the shame of a home-built toy or the adrenaline rush of a real bomb, they do face the frightening future of being robbed of real thoughtful, inquisitive, creative play in a society that routinely enables them.
Marty Rempel lives in Waterloo, Ont.