On Behalf of Playing Outdoors

In the neighborhood in Marshfield where I grew up in the 1970s and 80s, the kids were allowed to roam the streets until dark -- and sometimes after. Mostly we played in each other’s yards, rode our bikes, or played kickball, baseball or other games in the big triangle where three streets came together. We were almost always outdoors – skating or sledding in the winter, swimming in the summer when a parents was around to supervise.

One of our favorite places to play was a vacant lot that we dubbed Kids’ Highway. It was only a half-acre, but it seemed much larger. It was thickly wooded, and older kids from the neighborhood had created a network of bike trails among the trees.

When I first learned to ride a bicycle and was allowed to pedal “around the block” with a friend, I was cautious about entering Kids’ Highway. It seemed mysterious -- a place more for older kids than an elementary-schooler like me. Its dense stand of pine and cedar trees didn’t let in much light, so it was always dark inside. Toward the back, in a spot where parents were least likely to see what was going on, there was a clearing where – the story was told – some of the boys had fist fights, or smoked cigarettes. Sometimes empty beer bottles could be found there too. (Back then, it was fun for us to collect all the different, colorful bottle caps, hoping for an unusual one.)

Once I overcame my fear of biking along the root-knotted trails through Kids’ Highway, I liked to race my friends to see who could pedal through the fastest, without “wiping out.” These were the days before mountain bikes, so there were plenty of falls.

At the far end of Kids’ Highway was a large pile of dirt – probably 15 feet high – that also had a path worn into it. The more adventurous boys would try to jump their bikes off of it, creating a ramp of compressed dirt at the bottom. I would sometimes run down it, but it took me years to work up the guts to hurtle my bike down that hill and “catch some air.”

One of the best features of Kids’ Highway was a tall tree – probably an oak -- with lots of strong branches – perfect for climbing. The tree was in the corner of the property, so once you got up into it, you could see far down three different streets. I wasn’t inclined to climb the tree (not higher than the first realm, anyway), but one of my friends was. One day we packed a picnic lunch and took our one-speeds (mine had a banana seat!) on a “bike hike.” We ate our sandwiches under the tree, and then my friend decided to climb. She got high enough to get scared -- and would not come down. I had to go all the way back to her house to find her father, whom I hurriedly led back to the tree, to help her.

Kids’ Highway was a magical place. You rarely saw an adult there. As the name implied, it belonged to the kids. So you can imagine our outrage when one day some workers came to cut down most of the trees. Before long, trucks dug a big hole, and more workers poured a foundation. In a matter of weeks, Kids’ Highway was gone – someone’s house was there instead.

People say that children don’t play outside anymore. I don’t think that’s true – I know plenty of kids who play outdoors – and enjoy it immensely. Perhaps what has changed is the roaming. The tree climber and I (still friends, yes, 30 years later), debate whether it’s safe for her eighth grader to ride his bike half a mile to the town center, when we ourselves did it in fifth grade, from farther away. We’ll think twice (or more) about letting the younger children stay outdoors – and more importantly out of earshot -- until dark.

Our generation of parents may be more cautious about letting our children roam free. Our towns – and streets -- are much more populated now, and in general, the times demand closer supervision. But it’s important that we not let go of the notion of playing outdoors, especially in areas that are not fenced it. There is so much to learn from pretending to be explorers in the woods, making discoveries absent from the purview of a parent. So much to learn in burying “secret treasures” in the forest peat and then trying to find them a week later. So much to learn from creating one’s own games – where the tools are forked sticks instead of joysticks – making one’s own entertainment rather than demanding to be entertained.

When my son and his friends are old enough, I want to be able to say, “Go out and play,” and not worry that I’m asking them to do something that’s just not done anymore. We have a nice, big wooded lot in our backyard – I hope my son will create his own Kids’ Highway there someday.

By Kezia Bacon-Bernstein, correspondent
December 2008

Kezia Bacon-Bernstein's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org.

North River Men of Times Past

I found the following article on microfilm at the Ventress Memorial Library in Marshfield. Back in the 1970s, Walter E. Crossley of Pembroke wrote a column entitled “As I Remember,” which was a series of remembrances, mostly about the North River. This one appeared in the Marshfield Mariner on June 15, 1972.

What strikes me most about the subject of this article, a man named Nat Magoon, is that he was able, more or less, to live off the land, even through the winter, right here on the South Shore. I doubt that there is anyone who would be willing to do such a thing nowadays.

Such reminders of times gone by make me thankful for modern conveniences – but also curious about how to make do with less.

OLD MEN ON THE NORTH RIVER
My choice of the old river man falls on Nathaniel Magoon, better known as Nat.

If someone had addressed him as Mr. Magoon, he would have looked about in surprise to see who was being spoken to. He lived in a small house, inherited from his parents, for practically his entire lifetime. This was located squarely in the middle of the present 139 route at the Water St. intersection.

A LEISURELY GENT
Nat (I still think of him by that name) was a leisurely moving, rather stout man. I have heard my mother say that when Nat went to the one room school with her, he spent most of his time asleep. If called on by the teacher, however, the proper answer was immediately given. I imagine his formal schooling ended early. For Nat’s way of life, anything beyond the three R’s was wasted.

He was pretty much self sufficient. He acquired the few dollars of cash he needed by trapping in the cold winter and, on occasion, he did odd jobs. If he had an unlucky winter, he worked for a few weeks on the town highways in the spring.

Nat could make a split oak basket strong enough to stand on or he could shape an ax handle, if need be. When he needed a boat, he built one. His dory may have been a bit rough by present standards, but it served him for forty years.

Can we say as much for one of our modern fibre glass or plastic boats?

The trapping and hunting season started with the first. The came the muskrat up until spring. The furs brought cash, the bodies food. An occasional duck, partridge or rabbit furnished variety. Potatoes and other winter vegetables came from his own garden and were stored in the cellar.

Eels were speared all winter. And with the coming of spring, Nat looked forward to the herring run. Fresh and salted, they were on the menu for a long time.

HIS SPECIALTY
He had one specialty. A scoop or two of flour, a few other ingredients were stirred together and baked in the oven and, in a short time, produced biscuits that made the local housewives green with envy.

By the time the herring run had ended, summer had arrived and there were garden vegetables, fish, clams and a turtle now and then. They did nicely until fall when the round started over.

On a nice day with a fair tide, Nat could be found down on the river, sometimes with Mr. Simeon Phipps, but more often alone. His trips on the river were leisurely voyages. He started from what is now the Pembroke Marine and Route 139 and rowed just enough to keep off the bank. A couple of buckets of clams and a goodly catch of flounder were his reward. There was peace and quiet on these trips and plenty of time to observe nature. There was never any hurry.

This was Nat’s way of life. It was as he wanted and it sufficed him for many years.

He was held up to us boys as a bad example – no job, a lazy good-for-nothing. He envied no one and was free from the hurry and strain of our present competitive existence. I sometimes wonder if he had something that is largely lost today.

There were many others of that era. Some I knew personally, some by hearsay. They, no doubt, varied as to appearance and habits but the basic pattern was the same.

There were the Hendersons and Pratts from Norwell, the Flahertys of Third Cliff, Phillips and Rogers of Marshfield, William Cann, Melvin Ewell, several Damons and many others. I do not attempt to remember them all. The hurry and stress of our modern era has about, if not quite, done away with their mode of living. I doubt it will ever return.
By Kezia Bacon-Bernstein, correspondent
November 2008

Kezia Bacon-Bernstein's articles appear courtesy of the North and South Rivers Watershed Association, a local non-profit organization devoted to the preservation, restoration, maintenance and conservation of the North and South Rivers and their watershed. For membership information and a copy of their latest newsletter, contact NSRWA at (781) 659-8168 or visit www.nsrwa.org. Visit http://keziabaconbernstein.blogspot.com for an archive of the last 12 years of Kezia’s articles.