In a small town, every playground is a theme park — no matter how pathetic, no matter how old. It’s a substitute for the real thing, like watered down drinks or canned laughter. It’s better than nothing.
Growing up we memorized their locations. Our knees itched when we passed by. We’d scoot to the edge of our seats to see who had talked their parents into stopping. Who’s the clever kid who convinced them that shopping or golfing or praying could wait?
We each had our favorites. Slides and merry-go-rounds. Monkey bars. Animals on springs. 20-foot swings.
Mine? The seesaw at Yellowstone and Lincoln.
High into the air and then back down on my ass. A prediction of things to come. Teaching me early that I’m always getting over and always getting excited about something new.