Ed. — Archived from the Sunday, Oct. 8, print edition.
VIRGINIA BEACH — When I was growing up, the neighborhood parents pushed us kids outside on summer afternoons and told us not to come back until dinner. Mom rang a cowbell to herd us home when the sky darkened. Stars lit the night as we headed back. If lucky, we could return outside after dinner and play flashlight tag a half mile away in someone’s backyard.
We roamed all over town. We went ice skating in the woods by ourselves. We took our shoes off to hike up the creek. We bought candy and sodas at the corner store and walked the streets in deep conversation about important things. If we were beyond cowbell earshot or our mother’s second sight, another parent would be on the lookout.
Did we get into mischief? Sometimes. Were we ever in stranger danger? I doubt it. Our freedom was essential and not unique to our small rural community.
My family has lived in Ashville Park for 12 years. It is a sprawling subdivision still under development. Our first years here were a time of transition for the development’s owners, and many of the few existing houses around us stood empty. There was nothing behind us, in front of us, and only one vacant house beside us.
Our youngest was seven and the only child still at home. My husband and I spent many weekends exploring the area with him, behaving like children, getting muddy and wet as we tromped through the wooded paths and around the lakes at the back of the development.
Slowly, the neighborhood filled out enough that our son found playmates nearby. Some of the other parents shared our willingness to let the kids ride off on their bikes and be gone for hours. Our son didn’t have a phone until he was 14, so he and his crew used a set of long-range walkie-talkies to stay in touch with us. They filled their backpacks with goodies and other necessary supplies needed by great explorers and disappeared – sometimes from lunch until sunset.
We put limits on how far they could go into the surrounding woods or the undeveloped sections of the subdivision. They knew they had to answer that walkie-talkie whenever one of us buzzed in for a checkup. My husband and I rarely had to jump in the truck to scout them out because the walkie-talkie stayed silent after check-in.
They’d return home hungry and exhausted with grand tales of their escapades. Dropping their bikes at the edge of the driveway, they’d rush into the house, out of breath and always dirty, that outdoor smell trailing after them from the garage to the bathroom to the kitchen. We’d listen wide-eyed, oohing and ahhing at the appropriate story points and laughing at their antics.
As the development grew, more kids could be seen riding their bikes on summer evenings or setting off with their sleds if winter brought snow. I love the nostalgic feeling I get when I watch a set of kids travel down the street. Their voices echo as they move past, sparking a melody of memories of my childhood adventures.
There was silence on the streets of my neighborhood during the pandemic. But the sound of kids out and about has returned. In my view, there’s nothing quite like it to remind us of how essential it is for kids to have that time outside on their own.
I watched a group of them sail past my porch the other evening, their faces to the wind, their phones nowhere in sight. I was reminded of the secret things they have to discuss that just can’t be done in the house – like whether those are muskrats, otters or nutrias in the nearest lake or if the fishing is better at the lakehouse pond or one further from home.
The author is a former Virginia Beach Planning Commissioner and college professor. Reach her at leejogger@gmail.com.
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