Fall Rains on Walkway
Many fond and vivid memories are linked to my childhood in the small town of Socorro, New Mexico. One particularly clear memory is that of the warm, fall afternoon rains on Walkway Street. Cars seldom passed down this tattered street. The ground was three feet higher than the asphalt which was cracked and filled with potholes. This street was more gully than walkway. There were no sidewalks in this upper, lower-class neighborhood. Every modest home had at least three children and a pet or two. The landscaping on the dirt and rock banks included every weed imaginable and occasional pet turds.
In mid August, the fall rains began. Along with the rain, came the anticipation and excitement for the activities that lay ahead. My sister and I would sit in front of the sliding glass door listening to the rain beating down on the slab of cement just outside. We would watch and wait for the rain to subside so we could go out and play in the streams the rain had left behind. We dressed in our well-loved bathing suits, faded and tattered with holes in the rear and stomach. Once the rain had stopped, we dashed out the door to the street, or rather gully, which by then was transformed into a rushing stream. There we met our friends and other neighborhood children who were equally as anxious for the festivities and were dressed much the same as we. Children and dogs littered the street. We would run and kick the water, splashing not only ourselves but anyone or anything in our path. Squeals of laughter and howls of delight, from kids and dogs alike, could be heard throughout the neighborhood.
We adored floating styrofoam boats cut from garbage treasures or leaves from our father's fruit trees found in our own backyard. Small pieces of wood were transformed into the Love Boat booked with red ant passengers and cockroach crew. It's a heady thing in a child's mind to condemn unworthy bugs and red ants to certain death, sailing to a watery grave. Anything that would float was fair game. Mother's iris, four o'clocks, and german daisies were torn from their unsuspecting beds were not spared from the savagery. Remnants of this days activity could be found up and down Walkway Street long after the stream was gone. Just visualize the debris.
Our favorite activity was lying in the center of the road where the water ran the deepest. Our human dams diverted the water to new paths creating mud holes to die for, an activity for another day and time. As the warm water flowed over our small frames, our suits were filled with mud and debris which settled in the cracks and crevices of our bodies and went virtually unnoticed until bath time. Still, we were enveloped with pleasure. We were absolutely oblivious to the busy world around us. The world was Walkway Street. It never occurred to us, or any of the neighborhood gang, we could be killed or seriously maimed by a passing car.
I wish that I would have more fully appreciated those days of childhood, when my greatest concerns were so simple. Looking back, life was so effortless, so sweet. Wouldn't it be a wonderful world if it were possible to live simply. Wouldn't it be cool to leave work after a tedious day and float ants with friends in the neighborhood, and not feel particularly concerned about the holes in our suits or the location.
When did life become so complex?
