It's good to have time to run free

Summertime in childhood had its own special rhythm.

Euphoria after the end of school moved into a routine of running barefoot whenever possible.

Endless games of what we called “knock out flies” took place on “Bennett’s field” — Dave Bennett’s large backyard — without any scheduling or planning. They just happened. A batter would hit a baseball out toward a bunch of kids. If you caught it, it counted as “a dollar.” If you caught it on the first bounce, that counted as “50 cents.” If you snagged an ordinary grounder, that was “a quarter.”

Each fielder kept score until they reached a specified amount that qualified them to be the batter and knock out flies to the rest of the kids.

There were high points on the calendar.

Trips to the pool or Pine Lake were savored, as was the Jay County Fair.

When dusk rolled around, there would usually be a game of group tag. In our neighborhood, for reasons that are lost to the mists of time, the tag game was known as “60.” I have absolutely no idea why.

The premise was pretty simple: One kid — chosen by the always reliable eeny-meeny method — was “it.” But with each kid he tagged, the number of those who were “it” grew. That continued until there was just one kid who was hiding and all the other kids were in pursuit. Last one caught became “it” for the next round.

In some ways, it was a little like a zombie movie, but without the brains.

Those were all routine, but about this time on the calendar — approaching mid-August — a call might go up.

“George is loose!” someone would cry, and the entire neighborhood would spring into action.

George was a monkey.

He was owned by my good friend Dan, who also owned hamsters and assorted other mammals. (At one point, Dan also owned a pony, but the pony never got loose.)

George, on the other hand, was so thrilled to be out of his cage on the back porch of Dan’s house that he went everywhere.

And suddenly, we weren’t just kids. We were monkey chasers, wild game hunters in our own small way.

George, however, was fast. And he could climb a tree faster than any of us. 

So it would be all-hands-on-deck.

“I see him!” 

“He’s over here!” 

“No, that’s a squirrel!”

“George,” we would cry. “George, come home!”

It should be noted that there is no record of George ever answering to his name.

Eventually, with some banana and maybe a little peanut butter, Dan would coax him down from some cherry tree and bundle him off to his back-porch cage.

As for us, we sympathized.

After all, we knew that the opening of school wasn’t far away.

And after that, there was a little matter of becoming grown-ups, something that promised cages all its own.

So as summer begins its inevitable wind-down, let’s take a moment to raise a glass.

George, here’s to you! Thanks for reminding us that it’s always good to run free now and then.