Kylie Orr
When I was a kid, I have fond but probably completely inaccurate memories of playing on our residential street for HOURS. Riding bikes up and down like helmet-less superheros, climbing trees that belonged on the neighbour’s property, playing elastics with other children and drawing hopscotch on the asphalt surface. We’d stay out until late – so late the crickets became ear-piercing and the sun dipped just enough for us to hide and seek our shadows. Parents didn’t exist in those hours. You only remembered who they were when the familiar call for dinner was heard echoing through the street.
My children don’t know what playing in the street is. They are not permitted past our driveway. Although not a main road, our street is used as a thoroughfare and despite speed humps, we still attract bogan hoons on the odd occasion. Not odd enough to let me relax my parental leash.
I feel despondent about this. They were some of my greatest times, out there on the road. I could be whoever I wanted to be - a fairy, a queen, a rockstar, or a tiny ladybird. No one was monitoring us, checking if we were playing nicely or using manners. We weren't aware but we were developing imagination, community building through gossip and innuendo, honing coordination skills by skipping and performing BMX Bandit-inspired jumps on our bikes.
So, as a small token to reinventing my childhood for my own children, I organised a street party. It was a perfect excuse to get to know who are the people in the neighbourhood (cue Sesame Street background music) and to create a safe place for the kids to play.
We have lived in the area for seven years and barely know a soul. This has its benefits. No one sending their kid over to play and conveniently leaving them here for hours on end. No one asking me to feed their dog or pat their cat or check for dead goldfish while they are away. On the downside, there are no friendly faces or welcoming waves as we pass in the street. No one to keep an eye on our place should a random passerby decide to help themselves to our belongings. There is no real sense of neighbourhood.
So, for three hours on a sunny Friday evening we blocked off our road for the distance of about ten houses. The kids were bursting out of their school shorts knowing they would be able to ride on the street! Imagine that. Being allowed to take your bike on the road - where cars go - and ride freely. We duly advised the residents and gave them opportunity to object. We had only positive responses and excited replies. Until the big day.
One burly bloke came striding up full of purpose, accompanied by a child on a bike. I thought, “isn’t this lovely, our first neighbours!” No, he was not lovely nor was he a neighbour. It was the brother of scrooge, the king of all party poopers and the father of misery. “You know what you’re doing here is illegal!” he shouted before we’d had a chance to say hello. He didn’t question what the event was, nor attempt to make any general conversation. Accusations were flying left, right and through the street blockage about how dangerous it was to cordon off the street. He hadn’t actually enquired as to whether we had a council permit before he started his rant. I offered to move my car but given he was on foot, I didn’t see how it actually affected him.
I asked which street number he lived at and explained we had distributed invitations and residents had the option to reject a road blockage. He said where he lived was not relevant. That’s because it was in a completely different street! Why oh why would someone get on such a high and angry horse about something that had absolutely no impact on their life? Did it bring home to him just what a grumpy turd he was and perhaps highlight his social inadequacies that prevent him from receiving such an invitation to join in festivities? Maybe he missed out on riding his own bike in the street as a kid and was punishing all future generations for his deprivation. I made a suggestion that he “get happy”. It was Christmas after all.
We attracted quite a few friendly residents who all agreed it was a great idea and how fun for the kids to play on the street like we used to. The wee ones rode their bikes up and down until the sun set and the mozzies feasted on bare legs. Just like the olden days.
So, now my six year old thinks riding on the street is the bee’s knees and asks me multiple times a day if he can be allowed out “just one more time”. I think it will have to be a fond and distant memory until this year’s annual street party.
And as for grumpy guts round the corner – I await the formal complaint letter from the council about how we dared block off a residential street for the purpose of a party.
What memories from your childhood would you love to reinvent for your children? Can it be done (without grumpy opposers and council permits!)? Comment on Kylie Orr's blog.
