Gardens of Guns and Roses

There’s a family living on our block in a tiny home that’s dwarfed by the McMansions around it.  The backyard – much of which is visible from the street - features a huge shady gum tree and a vegetable patch.

In this house lives a family whose lifestyle seems a little trapped in the past.  The parents have a nice hippie vibe about them, and their two pre-schoolers are almost always playing in the yard.  By ‘playing’ I mean running, skipping, ball games, and games of ‘pretend.’  Elsewhere in my neighbourhood, children do exist but are rarely seen playing in their yards or driveways, let alone on a daily basis.

The appeal of these two children is how happy and friendly they are – and how quietly they play.  Their shout of “Hello!” as I pass by on my daily walk, is as loud as they get.  It takes me back to the 60s and 70s, when children seemed capable of playing games that didn’t involve screeching.  I’m not against noise per se, but against the growing trend for screaming as an integral part of physical play.  There are parents who'll argue it’s not only normal for kids to scream a lot, but somehow necessary.

Make no mistake, I grew up in a regular suburb filled with regular young families, but it was understood that screams were a sign of genuine distress, not something you did for fun. The only game that elicited screams was Kiss Chasey, and under threat of Boy Germs or Girl Germs, screams were entirely justified.  
 

Certainly we ramped the noise levels during games of ‘Cops and Robbers’ or ‘Cowboys and Indians’ but it still fell short of screamy.  We’d shout warnings or instructions, but screaming was seen as sissy – even for girls!   Am I wrong in thinking a lot of screaming these days, is screaming for the sake of it?   Or a form of expression or release, for kids who haven’t been taught better ways? 

This could easily spin into the much-discussed issue of children using toy weapons and pretending to kill, but I’m not going there. (But if you'd like to, I've provided a link below). 

Suffice to say, the violence of childhood play in the 1960s and 70s was far tamer, more camp, than what you see today.  And while the current generation of kids play these games and see being ‘killed’ as a dealbreaker (“What, everybody’s not a winner?”) we saw a performance opportunity for an elaborate death.

As for that “70s family” living nearby, my pastel fantasy is that the children have never touched an iPad, never used a laptop, rarely watch television.  For all I know, beyond the charming leadlight front door of their modest home, rooms may be filled with screens and hi-tech gadgetry, but I get the feeling this is a family with a low-tier internet bundle.   

I hope those children don’t change too much when they start school.  Will their old-fashioned enjoyment of life be appreciated or quashed?  Will the other kids laugh at their gentle ways; create peer pressure to move most of their play indoors? 

When the inevitable happens, I hope they at least continue to use their imaginations, and perhaps convert some of their viewing, into outdoor play.  After all, some of my finest memories of being 8 years old involve the enormous honour of the neighbourhood kids casting me as Dick Tracy (see, it wasn’t all gender stereotypes back then), and spying on the ‘baddies’ from my vantage point in the low branches of a willow tree, waiting for Joe Jitsu to contact me on my wristwatch radio. 

                               “Six-two and even, over and out!” 

Further reading:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2289552/Primary-school-bans-Cops-Robbers-harmful-effects-imaginary-weapons-young-minds.html

That's What Friends Are For

I’m captivated by the Channel 10 series Puberty Blues. There are many reasons -  most based on nostalgia - but especially because the friendship between the two main characters reminds me so very much of the friendships of my teen years, particularly the one formed with my first high school ‘bestie.’  The hair styles and wardrobe matches are scarily close:  Staggers jeans, snug little "Tommy" (the rock opera) tee shirt, Converse hi-tops and Sportsgirl tote, anyone?

Teen friendship is in a class of its own.  ("Puberty Blues" Photo courtesy Network 10)

Lesley and I began secondary school in the same class, still ‘hanging’ with girls we knew from our previous schools.  Yet just a week into Year 8, following a series of exchanged glances and smiles, we claimed a double desk for ourselves, and sat together in class for the next three years (not including the brief teacher-enforced separations familiar to any such twosome).

Our homes were several kilometres apart, in opposite directions, so sometimes when we arrived home, we’d phone each other (back in the days when nobody had a mobile, let alone Facebook) to continue a chat we began at the school gates.  Our mothers muttered in the background “You were with her all day! Whatever do you find to talk about?” 

These were our 'text messages,' kiddies.

It’s intriguing how an earlier generation forgets the depth of a teen girl friendship – unless perhaps, such attachments weren’t as deep in ‘their day?’  Yet literature from earlier eras suggests that teen years friendships are perennially meaningful; their depth seems almost a rite of passage

In truth, we always had something to talk about: everything and nothing.  Even in class, matters that couldn’t wait until lunchtime, would be dealt with via Secret Notes. 

 
In an all-girls school, friendships were probably less complicated, since there were no boys to distract or divide us.  Others may argue the all-female hormonal vibe was gossip fuel in itself.  A fond memory is the simple pleasure of sitting on the school oval at recess or lunch time, uniforms tucked into our knickers as we slathered baby oil on our legs and tried to get a tan happening.  (Side note: The 1970s was pre-sun awareness, a time when radio stations sent dune buggies to beaches to provide free sprays of coconut oil for sunbathers.  On hot days, they'd helpfully broadcast half-hourly reminders to ‘turn over’ to ensure you got an even tan.)

NOT on my turntable. *adds horns*.

Our shared love of music also began as a thing of joy.  In the end, it drove a wedge between us.  The specific culprit, in my eyes, was 1970s popstar John Paul Young.  To quote a lyric from his 1976 hit song I Hate The Music - “the music tore us apart.”

Lesley liked Donny Osmond; my heart belonged to David Cassidy.  She was into Sonny & Cher; I preferred the Jackson Five.  That was fine for a long time, because we both loved Sherbet.   By age 15, when I was into Glam Rock, Lesley became obsessed with John Paul Young - deeply obsessed, for several years to come.  At times, my observations on her fandom were  undiplomatic.  I wondered how anyone could compare “Squeak” (as JPY was known) to Queen, T-Rex, The Sweet or Elton John.

I know ... I know ... but I was 13

Recognise my rage?

  

  

Our music tastes became disparate.  Neither of us cared for the other’s opinion, so of course, began spending more time with friends who had similar musical leanings.  There was no explosive moment and we remained on speaking terms, but I sometimes felt sad that things were never the same, because we had some wonderful times and a lot of great laughs.
 

Perhaps music was simply an allegory for other wants and needs in our lives.

Other friendships come and go, and if you’re lucky, you find even stronger ones as life goes on.  Yet there’s something about the teen years – perhaps puberty combined with the ‘hothouse’ of the classroom and schoolyard – that burns those friendships into your memory.
                                                           

Sherbet .. well, "Garth" as I called it.  Guys with girl hair