I present to you: Timmie and his outdoor playthings, some summers ago. Locked inside the fenced-in yard wasn’t my favorite, because I preferred to roam the surrounding farm fields and woods.
But inside that wire prison, my parents had provided me with all the backyard prosperity of the baby-boomer 1950s: a sandbox, swingset, and a tall sliding board that could cook your hiney, but which was made all the faster by sitting on a sheet of waxpaper.
Despite the attractions, I sought freedom in other ways. I once found expression by wearing just my birthday suit and hat in the sandbox (my other apparel I thoughtfully hung on the fence). And I was always up for a ride in the red wagon my Pappy built for me. Judging by the wash on the line in this snapshot, it was a Monday.
A year or two later I began coasting down the unfettered hill in our front yard with my little brother Brian, which inevitably spilled us onto the ground after a sharp curve at the bottom near the springhouse. And, along with our dog, Sparky, we took to the woods and fields, whose airy adventures have always beckoned me.