Kids forfeit adventure
to modern-day dangers

The trip wasn't the folkloric snowy, miles-long trek of Abe Lincoln; just five or seven blocks, depending on which route we chose.

When it rained, our band of siblings and friends were supposed to take the longer circuit to bypass a ditch that channeled runoff in the days before sidewalks and storm drains were installed.

The ditch route was the one I preferred. For one thing, it cut a diagonal instead of conforming to the prevailing grid of the neighborhood, but more important -- at least from a kid's perspective -- it offered a suggestion of adventure.

Instead of a flat, gravelly surface, it was a tilted, swaying path edging along the ditch. It dipped under trees that dropped pods containing winged seeds that twirled through the air like helicopter blades. Roots surfaced and burrowed underground again, forming natural snares for toes of the unwary. Bushes held out tight, red blossoms begging to be picked for the sweet nectar, which we did in competition with bees and butterflies.

Dusty during dry weather, the clay-soil trail would turn slick when wet, which is why we were warned away. But that's when it was most fun.

Chocolate-brown water churned furiously through the ditch, snatching away whatever we could find to drop into the flow. Quickly fashioned folder-paper boats, leaves, potato bugs, twigs, sticks and branches swirled in eddies before being washed through the trough.

One particularly stormy morning, a neighbor's mom stood watch on the roadside, sheltered by an umbrella, to make sure we were headed toward the safe route. As soon as she turned away, we dodged back to the ditch, eager to check it out.

Of course, as fate would have it when parental directives are ignored, the youngest kid among our group slipped and fell into the ditch. The water, fortunately, wasn't too deep, nor too swift. He managed to climb out, uninjured except for dignity, but he was muddy and scared and crying.

His sister walked him back home and took most of the heat, but all of us got scoldings or disapproving looks when we next encountered his mother.

The ditch was the extent of danger we ran into on our walks to school. At the time, cars traveled more slowly because streets weren't engineered primarily for vehicular speed as they are now in newer subdivisions. There were probably pedophiles and other miscreants around, but the community was closer then. Neighbors knew neighbors and could spot an out-of-place face easily. People were more mindful of each other.

I was reminded of the difference the other day when I saw a girl, probably no more than eight or nine years old, walking alone a few blocks away from the elementary school. She plodded up the sidewalk, head down, back bowed by the heavy pack cinched to her thin torso.

Though some children still get to classroom on foot, judging from the traffic on school days, most are driven, or, in the case of older kids, drive themselves to their campuses.

The few who walk usually have an adult with them, but not this girl. I thought, "Where are her parents? Why is she by herself? Isn't there someone who's supposed to look after her?"

I was actually becoming frantic when I spotted a spry, elderly woman a block or so ahead. She confirmed her supervisory role when she turned around, tipped back the umbrella shading her from the sun, and waited patiently for the girl to catch up.

At first, I was relieved. The girl wasn't unaccompanied; all's right with the world. But it really wasn't. All would be right if she could have been by herself, without fear, without danger and with anticipation of a little adventure.