Our family walking along the small-town road on Easter.
A group of people walk along at different distances along a quiet street. A man and young girl walking a dog are in the forefront. It is early spring with the remnants of snow and puddles lining the road.
“Wow! Busy day in town.” I exclaimed as our herd moved to the shoulders of the sidewalk-less road.
It was Easter, and the nine of us who gathered to celebrate were on an afternoon walk. We were moving over for two vehicles driving towards us in opposite directions when a third one came into our view at the crossroad ahead. Three cars in thirty seconds boasted unfamiliar liveliness in the small Albertan town my sister lives in.
Taking a walk has become an expected practice when we come to visit my sister. From my outsider’s viewpoint, this town is either dying or painfully tired. The main street might as well have a tumbleweed roll across as no one is seen perusing shops, attending to business, or even taking a stroll. Many of the buildings are boarded up with only a few bearing signs of life with “For Lease” plastered on their windows. Are they displayed as dreams for progress, or are they there as pleas for release? What do these sleepy towns have to hope for?
I had grown up in a town of roughly 4000 people. Walking in the middle of streets where the ditches were our sidewalks, where drivers raised a hand in greeting as they passed, where wandering parent-less until sundown was a way of life, is how I experienced my years of innocence. When I lived there, the town was prosperous and growing.
But then it started to die.
Industry left the area. Families, like mine, and individuals found themselves pursuing opportunities in the cities. The wounds of economic scarcity started to appear.
When I visited my hometown in later years, I felt like I was walking through a ghost town. Although the town wasn’t dying to the extent that my sister’s town seems to be, the town that I knew was no longer there. Isn’t that the journey of growing up? Much of what we know as children takes on new meaning as adults.
When I do visit my hometown, I often find myself at the school playground. Standing beneath worn monkey bars and cautiously climbing contorted ladders brings me back to innocence. I look at the tire swing and get flashbacks of “around the world” pushes and the dizzying ecstasy it yielded. I imagine schoolmates all around; some running, some chasing, others huddled, and the rest occupied by the pieces of equipment.
What bewilders me the most during my visits is that the equipment looks unchanged. Twenty years and the same plastic slides welcomed my use. The large wooden posts stand sturdy and just as full of splinter potential as they did in the past. The peace that comes with realizing that not everything has changed is tangible.
In the small Albertan town where there are at least three active townspeople, I experienced echoes of that same peace. As soon as the vehicles departed, my children, knowing we were heading towards a playground, noticed the worn rungs of a slide ladder peaking out the back of an alleyway.
“The playground!” my youngest yelled. With only the one structure in partial view, I was uncertain how my kids would react to an old small-town playground. With my erroneous belief that newer means safer, I also wondered how I would fare as their mother.
As we neared and began to see the rest of the equipment appear, my worries were quelled. What I saw was my past. Jagged wood that threatened splinters, metal that lacked the lustre of newness, sand that holds evidence of generations of kids between every grain, rubber and plastic that was warped and cracked from decades facing the elements—every good material used to produce this circa 1990s playground equipment echoed the joys that were absorbed into it by the many children that graced its parts.
It looked so much like the playground I grew up on. I loved it. The sentimental touch of a bin full of intergenerational Tonka trucks and sand pales showcased the beauty of small-town intimacy. As I watched my children, husband, sister, and dog run freely across all the structures, my heart swelled.
I am unsure why I didn’t walk on the structure or climb the monkey bar pyramid or slide down a slide or even sit on the swings. It seems bizarre since playgrounds have been such a grounding source for me. But it didn’t even cross my mind.
Reflecting on it, perhaps it’s because I didn’t feel the need to be the kid again. Perhaps the stresses of adulthood left me as I stepped into the sand. I didn’t need to frolic or shut my eyes and pump my legs to reach the highest height of the swings. I didn’t need to feel the wooden bridge waver beneath my feet. I just needed to be in the sand. I just needed to watch my kids learn to slide down the fire pole and slip down gritty, silver slides.
Their living of the life I used to live brought me immense joy. At that moment, I developed an ardent hope that this town would survive, that the pendulum of its population would swing from decline to flourishing. I hope the shops sell and that the new owners take pride in running a business in a vintage town. I hope the residents of that town commit to bringing life into the community.
But most of all, I hope that the playground stays intact, just as it is.
May the toy bin be forever emptied and refilled by playful children. May the necessary maintenance be allotted to the structures. And may the adults reminisce and allow their children to experience the unique activities that small towns afford, like walking down the middle of streets and finding peace standing in the sand of an old playground.
Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.