PBW: My Old Sandbox

Every child should have a sandbox. I'm not sure what it is about sand, about fine particles of glass that become malleable when wet, that differentiates it from regular dirt. It could be the connection one feels to the beach, even when no where near the shore. There's a Nathan's in the middle of Long Island that's far from the original and far from any shore, but the sand surrounding it along with an old boat and some life preservers always made me feel otherwise. The other difference between sand and dirt is the mud factor. Once in elementary school I chose to leap into a puddle, which in turn splashed mud up all over me, which in turn resulted in my mom being called in to the principal's office to bring me a change of clothes. My principal's calls to my mother were frequent in those days, and my exploits legendary.

Playgrounds have sandboxes, and some lucky kids have sandboxes. There wasn't much room in my backyard for one, but I did have a full swing set and one of those small plastic inflatable pools. There was a hill with some “steps” made of large stones leading up to my mom's garden. Every time my mom went to the beach, she would collect sand in a milk carton and empty it on this hill along side these steps. Some of my happiest childhood memories are of playing in that sand with my Tonka trucks. I had—or more likely somewhere HAVE—a crane, a dumptruck and a bulldozer. I'd make imaginary roads and reshape the environment, and my dad would sometimes join me which was the BEST, because he could do all the sound effects of the trucks’ engines. My dad has always been hardworking and responsible, so it was rare to see him just let go, be silly, and have fun. Young as I was, I think I somehow sensed that HAVING kids, among other rewards, allows adults a much needed excuse to be children again themselves, if but for fleeting moments.

We both got older. My dad couldn't get back up as easily from the ground. I was getting too old to play like that, though as with most things I probably did it longer than most normal kids. At some point ants made a home in my hill. I took a nearby polished stone and smashed as many as I could, stopping in horror when I realized the lives that had been snuffed out in the little pit my pounding had created. From that day forth I strove to avoid even stepping on ants by accident, and any insects found indoors would be caught in a plastic container and released outside, even spiders. There have been occasional exceptions, such as finding a nasty-looking spider on my bed. I see that running through my sheets, and it’s not long for this world.

Time wore away the sand naturally. My mom planted various flowers there, and it became another part of her garden. A large rock that was found at the top of the hill when a tree was dug out, was moved to the base, and when we had our front sidewalk redone my dad used the cement chunks from the old one to make a second set of steps. I'm horrible with flower names, but whatever kind my mom planted are looking amazing this time of year, and she's been after me to photograph them for weeks now. And that's the tale behind this week's photo.