Sometimes playing on grass is illegal

A few years ago I gave my nieces a picture book called Beeju, by Alexis Deacon, and they gave it back to Wally last year. 

It’s about an alien who ends up on earth. She makes friends with a litter of puppies, but the mean guy at the shelter tosses her out. Then she makes friends with kids on the school yard, but the cranky teacher makes her leave. Finally, her parents find her and they beam back up to outer space. In the spaceship “Beeju told her parents all about life on earth. How Earth creatures were mostly big and unfriendly, but there were some small ones who seemed hopeful.”

Wally loves this book, and is always happy at the end when Beegu finds her mommy and daddy. We read it many nights.

During the day, lately, in the afternoons, we've been playing outside not on the playground as much but just on the grass near our house. We're lucky to have the nearby playgrounds, but they can be confining, overwhelming (full of teenagers), and aggravating (fights over plastic cars and tricycles). Plus there's just something great about free play outside with grass, dirt, trees, birds, and squirrels darting about. As Richard Louv points out in Last Child in the Woods, there's always enough nature to go around, whether it's sea shells, pebbles or pine combs, there are enough for everyone.

Wally and his friends in the neighborhood been playing so well together. Sharing, laughing, inventing little treasure hunts, collecting rocks,  throwing foam rockets, kicking balls, digging holes, searching for worms. All without any input or involvement from us (the parents). Exactly what you hope for. So natural and yet – in this city at least – such a rare sight. It's a dream. I'm out there thinking, this is so peaceful and what the hours after school should be like – quiet, no scheduled activities, no specific playdates to rush to, just meeting with neighbors outside, casually, whoever's around. No hovering. No torturous "watch me" from the monkey bars. No climbing backwards up the slide to the chagrin of other parents. No danger of running in front of the swings. Right here in the middle of Chelsea, a great scene of a fantasy American childhood...

Except – of course! – big loud except, because this is how the universe works – now that they are playing so well and easily and casually, running, hiding, wrestling, whispering secrets behind trees--neighbors are calling security on them. Why? Because the rule is, you have to stay on the little strip of sidewalk between the laundry room and the gate. You cannot walk on the grass. It is "ornamental". 

Even though there is this enormous, lovely yard just calling out to them. They are not picking flowers or littering or running with soccer cleats, they are just frolicking, and it baffles me that people would walk by or look out their windows and get so upset at the site of kids (there aren't many, no more than four at any given time) hopping and skipping outside. I never see kids hop and skip in the playground. I want to see kids frolic. To be carefree, joyful, uninhibited. But not everyone does.

So the kids come over to us, looking sheepish after the security guy says they have to get off the grass.We try to reassure them that they were not doing anything wrong, at all, that they were playing really nicely, but it's just a rule. Some people don't think kids should run and have fun on the grass. What can we say?

The security guys are really nice about it and feel bad, but they get complains  (tenants calling management on us) and they have to give us the old hook. So it's off to "watch me" on the playground, spotting on the monkey bars, pushing on the swings. The kids have a harder time playing together in small groups, since there are so many of them there, babies grabbing, older kids eye-rolling, helicopter moms negotiating. Lots of noise. Very little nature.

The other day we were in another little nearby yard. Wally's friend was sleeping after school, so he was playing by himself. A lady in her 90s was out on a bench. I thought she must be happy to have this little kid bouncing around nearby. Kids and old people both have time on their hands. They often co-exist in a peaceful place, in the moment, not worrying about what they have to do next. But the minute Wally hopped onto a dirt path she hollered at him: “That’s not funny. Get off!” Wally jumped, startled, and ran back to me, immediately.

"Beegu wasn't wanted there, it seemed."

Looking for seeds, bug hunting, collecting treasures, running free, skipping along a dirt path--all that would have to wait for a day when we can get to the park.

"That woman was just cranky," I told Wally, as we say goodbye to our friends. "Don't worry."

“There are a lot of cranky people around here,” he answered, walking back to our apartment.

“I know,” I said, feeling bad that my irritation with the neighbors (there are so many cranky people, it’s shocking, really truly bizarre) is going to transfer over to him because of these continued attempts to play on grass and dirt.

"There are a lot of cranky people," he said,  holding my hand. White petals were falling softly around us. Anyway, it had been a long day and it was time to go home and start making dinner. 

“But,” he continued as we strolled past a patch of yellow daffodils, “there are a lot of good ones, too.”