When the Lights Went Out

Posted on February 10, 2026 by hdh

The writing prompt was to create a title for my writing first, and then write a story based on that title.

When the Lights Went Out

It was late one night. I was sitting by myself at home. There was not much to watch on TV, so I cozied up on the couch and took out that mystery book that I was meaning to start. 

The book started with the crime. A local bookseller was reported missing. The only clue that was discovered at his bookstore was that the door had been forced open, and there were signs of blood near the cash register. 

It didn’t help that I was the owner of the local bookstore in my town, and couldn’t remember whether or not I had locked the door when I closed up at the end of the day. I was pretty sure that I had locked it, but before I could concentrate back on my book, the lights went out.

This wasn’t just a burned-out bulb lights-out event; it was all of the lights. Add to that, my house wasn’t the only one to lose power. As I looked out of my window, all the lights on Main Street were out. This was a cloudless night. Unfortunately, it was also a new moon, so it was pitch black outdoors. 

I tried using my cellphone to report the outage, but there was no signal. It wouldn’t have made a difference if there had been one, as the phone battery was dead. 

When you rely too much on technology, you forget to own old-fashioned accessories such as candles and matches. 

My friends have consistently told me I should always keep a battery-operated phone charger for situations like this, but I never thought I would need one.

So what was there to do? It didn’t help that the last thought that I had prior to the blackout was of a broken door and blood near a cash register. 

I considered going out to ask for help, but without a lighting source, I was too afraid of what might happen if I tripped and got hurt or got lost. So I decided to just sit tight and hope the power would come back soon. 

Having a manual cuckoo clock, the tick-tick-ticking began to grate on my nerves. As the wind blew through the trees outside, my imagination began to create scenarios of ill-doing. Instead of welcoming a knock at the door, I feared one. I tried not to recall any disgruntled customers that had been in my bookstore that day, but couldn’t help but see their images in my mind. 

There was the burly man who demanded the proprietor, yelling that the book his 13-year-old daughter had purchased there was nothing but pornography. I tried to explain that it was a very popular book in schools: Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. He’d have none of that. He not only wanted his money back, but also threatened both me and the store with termination.

Then there was the dark-haired woman who threw a book she had purchased at me, claiming that it was a false political statement that would never happen in our country. I tried to explain the origin of the book, 1984, and since it was published in 1949, it was not a recent publication. She, too, threatened me, and if I didn’t take it and any books like them off the shelves, my future health might be in danger. 

It was pitch black, both inside and outside the house. My eyes were not adjusting to it. Maybe I should find my way to my bedroom, lock myself in, bury myself under the covers, and just hope that sleep befalls me. 

My heart was racing. Thoughts of break-ins, houses burning, bodily injury, and more tortures filled my mind. I was a wreck. 

And then… the lights returned. Peace was restored. 

It took me a while for my heart rate to return to normal. I looked at the book I had started and decided that this probably wasn’t the book that I should be reading right now. 

There may not be much on TV, but I was sure there must be something better to take my mind off this evening’s events. PBS is showing an old movie – Rosemary’s Baby. That sounds sweet. What could go wrong watching a movie about a baby?

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Hermeneutics (the theory of interpretation)

Posted on February 6, 2026 by hdh

The writing spark for this piece was proverbs. We needed to use a proverb in our writing.

Hermeneutics (the theory of interpretation)

 

“A text without context is a pretext for a proof text.” -D. A. Carson (New Testament Scholar), or if you only take certain pieces of information from a text, you are liable to misinterpret its meaning.

 

There once was a man named Old Dan. He considered himself very learned. He would always use his knowledge to tell others how to make decisions. He was not very observant. When he read, he would skim quickly, picking out some words but not others. He only read the words that suited him in order to define their meaning. 

He might also have been a little dyslexic.

He said he loved reading historical documents and would use the knowledge they provided to pave his way in life. 

The reliance on his memory eventually created quite a conflict as he gained more power as the elder of his clan.

 

These are some of the tenets he gleaned from the Declaration of Independence:

 

  • We hold these truths to be self-evident that all white men are created equal. (He assumed a word that wasn’t in the original document.)

 

Then came the listing of gripes against the King of England in the Declaration, which he interpreted as qualities a leader should have.

Here are a few of Old Dan’s interpretations about what leaders should have the ability to do – Feel free to check the Declaration of  Independence for accuracy

 

  • Refuse assent to laws, the most wholesome and necessary for public good.
  • Forbid … governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance…till his assent … be obtained.
  • Obstruct the administration of justice, by refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers
  • Make judges dependent on his will alone, for the tenure of their offices…
  • Endeavor to prevent the population of States…obstructing the Laws of Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others…and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands. 
  • Erect a multitude of New Offices, and send swarms of Officers to harass our people…
  • Render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power
  • Subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution
  • Cut off our trade with all parts of the world
  • Deprive us in many cases of the benefits of Trial by Jury
  • Take away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Government.
  • Excite domestic insurrections amongst us.

 

When it came to the U.S. Constitution, one dyslectic moment changed the opening line that guided him. “We the people of the United States, in order to form a more prefect Union.” (prefect, being defined as someone authorized to discipline others)

 

There were those who listened to Old Dan. His spoken words were forceful. People followed without taking the time to verify the texts he wrote and espoused. 

There were others who feared him. Afraid, based on his views and power, that disagreement would not be in their best interest. 

There were even those in power who feared losing that power if they did not kowtow to Old Dan.

In this way, Old Dan became the leader of all in his domain. 

 

“Don’t judge a book by its cover! The devil is in the details!” opponents shouted. 

“Read between the lines!” shouted others.

 

Many who followed Old Dan did not hear the words being shouted. 

 

As time went on, however, chinks in Old Dan’s armor began to fall off. Some even chose to stand against him. The key was the very documents that Old Dan had misinterpreted. Those documents were being read by others for clarity. 

“Seek and ye shall find.”

“All that glitters is not gold.”

 

“There is strength in numbers,” was called throughout the land. As was, “United we stand, divided we fall.”

 

Old Dan never realized the folly of his actions. He didn’t see that the discontent was of his own making, and neither did those who continued to follow him. 

 

Time has a way of healing wounds. Where there is life, there is hope. 

Old Dan is reaching the end of his time. 

May it be so.

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What’s Past, Not Passed

Posted on January 30, 2026 by hdh

The Story Spark for this piece was Family History. I took the prompt: “Choose an event from your family’s history and write an alternative ending to it.” 

 

What’s past not passed

Other than my parents and their siblings, I never knew any of my ancestors personally. They had all passed away before I was born. My parents, my uncles, and aunts all came from Germany in the 1920s and 1930s. 

DNA testing has identified that my heritage is 100% German/Jewish, based on what Ancestry.com can determine from a piece of spit. 

My parents must have endured a lot of hardship before emigrating to the United States, having lived in Germany just prior to WWII. They shared very little of that life with me. 

I would occasionally hear stories from my father about soccer feats he had accomplished, none of which, in my later years, I could verify. 

My mother shared some stories about being a tomboy when she was very young. 

When I was teaching in the 1980s and learning more about how to interview and ask good questions, I did manage to record an interview with my parents, but by that time, my father had had a stroke, and he had trouble sharing verbally. My mother helped at times, correcting his mistakes, but it didn’t give me much information. 

My father, being a German Jew, also made it difficult for my half-brother, Franz, from France. I only found and met Franz in 2013. He was 75 years old. My father had already sailed to the U.S. before he was born in 1938. His mother, who was not a Jew, when Franz was born in France, could not admit that she was an unwed mother of a German Jew’s child, for fear of what the Nazis would do to her or her child. 

So these stories about my parents’ lives became hidden away in their memories, not to be shared, unless asked. It never occurred to me, at least to ask, until all of those aunts and uncles were no longer around to answer the questions. 

All I have are pictures of people that my mother and father kept. Some I can identify, and others are just faces in unknown places. 

I have many letters written to my parents in America by people who were still living in Germany in the 1930s and 40s. Some of them I was able to get translated by my wife’s father, who was not only fluent in German but could also read Old German Script, a style of writing that no longer exists. I know people who were born and raised in Germany who live here now, and they can’t translate the letters. 

I even have one letter from someone in Argentina written to my dad, in German.

I’m sure that most of these letters are friendly, ‘’How are you doing?’’ letters; however, there must be some tidbits of history that are buried in their wording. Someday, when I have time, I will endeavor to unlock the mystery hidden in this correspondence.

For this writing piece, I was asked to choose an event from my family’s history and write an alternative ending to it. 

My alteration would be to my personal history. I would like to go back in time and ask my parents, uncles, and aunts the unanswered questions. You know, if you read any of my other writing, I love the idea of time travel, so I would even wish to go back before I was born and ask my grandparents and even older ancestors what life was like, what stories they have, and share with them which parts of their stories I have inherited. 

Of course, I would have to learn to speak German first. And trust me, that is not an easy task. Take it from one who has been trying to learn French since 2013.

 

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Reflections on a Snowflake

Posted on January 13, 2026 by hdh

The Story Spark this week was – Be the Thing.

We had to create a piece from the perspective of an inanimate object.

Reflections on a Snowflake

It is said that no two snowflakes are alike. That’s not true when we get started, but as we grow and become more complex, depending on the conditions, we are all different. We become the unique me.

Being a snowflake is exciting. As I grow, I can become anything I want to be. It’s unlikely you will get to see the real me. My kind always ends up with others, or comes into contact with something warm, and just turns back into the water vapor and dust that started us out. 

Being different is special. Some people enjoy the beauty of each of us as we fall from the sky. It makes me feel good to be appreciated for my uniqueness. 

We like working together even more. 

We can be a powerful force, if we want to. We can take on your world and destroy the things you hold dear – your houses, your roads, your way of life. In general, we do not like doing that, even though we know we can. We know that the aftermath of those actions is costly to you and makes our lives shorter as you rid yourself of each of us to rebuild.

What we prefer to do is to make this world beautiful. We gather together our unique selves and create snow-covered vistas of beauty. Who doesn’t like those wintery scenes of snow-laden trees, blanket-covered snow fields and streets, on a quiet moonlit evening?

Of course, there are those who disapprove of our beauty. Those who want to tarnish or destroy our image. Those who prefer to yellow our snow with their vile discharges. Those who, through the need to get to where they are going, spew out darkness and blacken our beauty with their vehicles’ exhaust. Those who feel it is more important to rid themselves of our collective work and throw dirt and salt on us, not only destroying us, but over time destroying their own roads and environment. 

On the bright side, there are those who use our strength to create artistic sculptures together – your snow people, your snow forts, even your snowballs that are used for play. There are those who use us as building blocks in cold climates to provide insulation and warmth.

We are much alike, you and I. We are all unique. We are willing to work together to make this world a better place. We are also capable of working against each other when we form groups that treat those who are different with anger, distrust, hatred, and violence. We have blizzards, and you have wars.

I know where I stand as I fall slowly toward your Earth and join up with my fellow snowflakes. I want us all to work as one to make my world a better place. I want acceptance, tolerance, and beauty to be my legacy as I honor the qualities I believe in and create the vistas and world I will live in, no matter how long my existence lasts. 

What about you? What kind of world do you want to exist in? And, how will you allow acceptance of differences, respect for each other, and the protection of your future guide you? 

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The Snowglobe

Posted on January 12, 2026 by hdh

The Story  Spark for this piece was Winter.

The writing prompt I took was “When she shook the snowglobe, suddenly…”

The Snowglobe


Why was this the present she got every year? Granted, her birthday was in January, but really, a snowglobe? Do they realize how many snowglobes she already has? 

Today was her 18th birthday. It should have been special. Maybe for once, she would not be given a snowglobe to honor her reaching this milestone. But no, here it was. And the worst thing about it was that there was no sign of who gave it to her, as usual.

The party had ended, and now she was left by herself to gather up her presents and put them away. She went up to her room and began the process. 

As she picked up the snowglobe, she noticed that the scene inside it looked different from when she first unboxed the package. “That’s odd,” she murmured. 

When she had opened it downstairs, it showed people milling about a snow-covered field. Not very interesting. Now up in her room, the scene still showed a snow-covered field, but this time all the people were gone. There was only one person standing in the field, and the person looked a lot like her.


When you have a snowglobe, you have two choices: shake it or invert it and return it to its normal position, to watch the snow fall over the scene. 

 She was angry at the person who had given this to her, so she shook it vigorously and then set it down. All of a sudden, the room grew much colder. As she looked out the window, a sudden snow squall was pummeling the ground. 

Looking back at the snow globe, she saw a similar scene of falling snow, only this time the person in the globe was building a fire in a stone fire pit in front of a rustic cabin. 

As the snow abated in the globe, so did the snow outside her window. 

What was going on? Was there a connection between the snowglobe and what was really happening?

She decided to test this theory out. She began to think of a pleasant snow scene. One in which she was sitting inside a cozy cabin by a roaring fire, looking out at a picturesque vista of snow-covered trees, chirping birds, and a light drifting of snow. 

As she thought this, she inverted her snowglobe and righted it. She watched the globe intensely as the scene morphed into exactly what she had imagined. 

Her room became cozily warm. Taking her eyes off the globe, but still holding it in her hand, she turned to see the scene around her. It too had changed. For this time, it mirrored the scene she had seen in the globe. As she looked up to where the sky should have been, she saw what appeared to be a glass dome. 

As the snow began to peter out, she let go of the snowglobe. No sooner had she done that, she found herself back in her room, but the scene stayed the same in the globe. 

When she touched the globe, nothing changed, but when she shook it or inverted it, the scene she imagined would change. Maintaining contact with the globe brought her into the scene itself. 

The day after her birthday, that magic snowglobe stopped allowing her to create images and stories to share.

She thought, “So maybe getting a snowglobe every year isn’t such a bad gift. With all the snowglobes I own, all of different scenes, I could create my own stories to share, and none of them have to be the same.

And that’s exactly what she did.

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Ode to a Contronym

Posted on January 7, 2026 by hdh

Ode to a Contronym*

 

Silence is a special word; its meaning is unclear.

It calms the nerves and lets us think of things that we hold dear.

But there are times when making noise is just the way to go

Remaining silent and not speak out, will only aid your foe

 

The noise of summer, I can’t stand, lawn crews drive me insane

When power tools and grinding trucks do naught but fill my brain.

Where tinnitus has staked a claim and leaves its constant hiss

There is no silence I’d refuse, just for a moment’s bliss

 

And then there’s news for me to view that always floods the air.

Where truth evades, and falsehoods reign, the blathering is there

How I could wish for silence, and have all those fools clam up

Is that too hard? Just pull the plug, put sleep drugs in their cup.

 

For silence is the very thing that lets us live each day

Let’s have it now and live in peace. That’s what the people say

 

—————

 

What’s that, I’m wrong, we must make noise, you think we must speak out

Do not shut up, but state our thoughts, it’s this we all should tout?

 

A baby’s coo, a gentle rain, are sounds that can abound

It’s quiet noise, that makes us smile, that kind should stick around

A great applause for some great feat, to someone who achieved

And one who fought for what was right, for those who still believed

 

For silence can mean we give up, or maybe we don’t care.

Of things that others do to us, we know that aren’t fair

Things will not change if we don’t share our thoughts when things are wrong

Our silence lets the ones in charge believe we go along

——–

Oh, “silence” word, how can you be so strong and yet so meek

To let the world not know what’s right to speak or not to speak

Perhaps it’s we who must decide when time is right for noise

Or when the time’s appropriate to demonstrate some poise

 

If it’s too loud, and floods the air with noise so you can’t think.

Then find a way to mute its force, so you’re not on the brink.

But if there’s wrong, and you don’t fight, your silence leads the way

For those who are in power now, to claim another day.

 

You must decide which way to go; the choice is yours to make.

Silence or make noise, just get it right for heaven’s sake!

* A contronym is a single word that has two opposite meanings, such as dust or left.

 

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Community

Posted on December 27, 2025 by hdh

This week’s writing prompt was – Community. 

Community

Everyone belongs to a community. Most of us belong to several communities. What communities do you belong to?

Thinking about the communities you belong to:

Is your community one that strives to work together as one, or is it one that emphasizes self as the focus of being?

Is it one that strives for openness and independent thinking, or does it believe in the dogma that you were told to think without exception?

Does your community embrace acceptance and understanding, or does it deny diversity and look down on those who are different?

Is your community small and close-knit, or expansive and inclusive of others globally?

Does your community have a physical presence, or does it connect with others virtually?

Is your community real, or is it tethered to some virtual reality, such as a video game or AI?

Are you a leader in your community, or a follower? How do you participate?

Communities change over time. What was once a community of common characteristics and thought can, as it grows, bring in shape changers. Those who wish to alter the tenets of the original intent and redesign its meaning.

“Times change. Needs change. Interactions change. We must change!” is their call.

When I was young, our way of seeing the world was through TV, radio, newspapers, and the postal service’s delivery of mail. Some events didn’t unfold for days after they had already happened.

Nowadays, there is no delay in finding out anything. Your knowledge is increased by the touch of a finger. And that knowledge is not necessarily accurate. Too many people look only for others who support their opinions, rather than for facts that prove their opinions are correct.

That in itself affects multiple communities.

Everyone should adapt to an ever-changing world. We can hold on to beliefs, but we must find an alternative to adherence to dogma that does not promote a better world, and focus instead on life as a whole, goodwill toward others, caring for all those around us, and acceptance of diversity.

The term ‘People of progressive faith’, with love at the center of an interconnected web, was mentioned at a recent service I attended.

To survive in these times, our global community must not give up on hope and faith. Let that progressive faith bring us together so that we can build our better world.

That is the community I want to belong to.

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The Parade Takeover

Posted on December 19, 2025 by hdh

The Story Spark for this was Holiday Hijinks. The writing prompt I chose was Penguin Takeover. We had 20 minutes to write.

The Parade Takeover

You’ve heard of the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade, where all the floats and marching bands march down the streets of NYC. Crowds of people line the streets awaiting that last big flotilla that includes Santa riding down the street, wishing everyone a Ho! Ho! Ho! Christmas.

We were going to have a similar parade down Main Street in my hometown of Etisoppo. Everyone was excited about it, but no one knew what to expect. We lined the streets, hopeful of a great event.

We looked down the street and saw a marching band of people all dressed in tuxedos. Something was different, though. It was a strange kind of waddle, not a march. 

As this group came closer, it became clear that these were not people at all. They were Adélie penguins.

To add to the confusion, as the first float rounded the corner, it was of a large Weddell seal.  

This was followed by a march of Chinstrap penguins.

Next came a float with different kinds of Petrels. Some snow petrels and a giant petrel. 

As they passed us, the marching male penguins honked and brayed. 

We could hear some squawking and barking behind us. Turning around, we could see what I can only describe as female penguins making noises in response to the male penguin marchers’ sounds.

This continued throughout the parade. There were floats of other seals, cormorants, Albatrosses, and even some whales. Blue whales are pretty big; they’re even bigger in the air as a float. 

Everything culminated with an Emperor Penguin riding on an Orca whale, tossing krill, baby jellyfish, and sea stars to the crowds. 

I think I can speak for all my neighbors: though this looks very impressive, it is not a very celebratory event for humans. 

In fact, I was a bit intimidated by it all and couldn’t wait to go back to my house and have lunch. Trust me, it won’t be a tuna fish sandwich for a very long time.

From now on, when it comes to outdoor parades. I’ll stick with watching them on YouTube, where I can choose the events I know about. 

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Amusing Grace

Posted on December 14, 2025 by hdh

In this writing group, we meditate for a minute before we are given the writing prompts. In this meditation, we were to visualize our mirror writing selves and discuss our writing intentions. In that moment, my mirror self suggested the title for this piece. Afterwards, seeing the prompt Holiday Hijinks, and an unwanted gift, the title fit my story to a T.

Amusing Grace

Grace wasn’t a happy person. Nothing pleased her. No matter what you tried to do or say, she just frowned. 

Her parents were distraught. The holidays were coming up, and they had no gift to give her. Every year, it was the same thing. They would find a toy, or a game, or a book that they thought she would like, and when it was opened, Grace would just look at it, throw it down, and say, “I hate it!”

They had taken her to see a therapist, but they just didn’t click. “I hate her!” she would say when she came home. Or, “He’s such a jerk!” when she came back from a meeting with the school counselor.

Forget getting someone to sit with her when they wanted to go out. Whoever it was, they only lasted for one sitting. Most of the sitters asked for double the pay. Grace’s parents reluctantly paid them, but the sitters never came back.

Her parents were getting desperate. They decided to put an ad in the local paper, promising a reward to anyone who could make Grace smile. 

They wrote up the ad. It read: “Anyone who can make our daughter, Grace, happy will receive a brand-new iPhone.” They figured that would be enough incentive for someone to come and maybe solve Grace’s problem. 

Having written the ad, Grace’s dad was about to call it in to the paper when there was a knock at the door. 

Grace’s mom opened the door, and there stood a boy of about Grace’s age, dressed in very comfortable jeans, an old sweatshirt, well-worn sneakers, and he had a folded newspaper under his arm.

“Can I help you?” Grace’s mother said to the boy.

“My name’s Jack,” he said. “I’ve come to help with your daughter.”

Grace’s father overheard the conversation and came to the door and said, “How did you know about us needing someone. I haven’t even placed the ad?”

Jack held up a copy of the local newspaper, and sure enough, there was the ad as clear as day.

Grace’s parents were confused.

Grace, who was standing nearby and knew of her parents’ plan to get some stupid person to make her smile, stepped forward. “I don’t need no dumb boy to change my behavior. Go back to whatever rat hole you came from.”

“Ah,”  Jack said, “The rats don’t want me there anymore, they say that I’m too much of a sad person. They told me to find someone as grumpy as me.”

Grace was going to say something, but then stopped herself, for that was not the response that she was expecting.

Jack continued, “But you, my dear, do not fit that description; you are way more pleasing than I could ever be.”

Now, Grace was getting more confused. “Someone more displeasing than me! Poppycock!”

Jack replied, “Doodle Squat.”

Grace took that as a challenge, “Pig’s snout!”

“Turtle boogers!” Jack said.

The corners of Grace’s lips began to curve in an upward direction. 

You can bet that caught the eyes of her parents.

 

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These Games They are a Changin’

Posted on December 9, 2025 by hdh

The writing prompt for this piece was “Fun and Games”-we had no time limit to write it.

These Games They are a Changin’

I grew up in the Bronx at a time when there were fewer restrictions on safety. We rode our bikes without helmets. We played in the streets. We could go out to play on our own throughout the neighborhood without supervision, and we didn’t have to have an adult organize an activity all the time.

 Nowadays, it seems you can’t go out without someone else being there with you, if you are allowed to go outside at all. You must always have a location device or a mobile phone on hand so that you can contact anyone, whether it is necessary or not. Organized play is the norm if you want to play any kind of team or group sport/game.

Of course, there are a lot more dangers now than there were when I was a kid – Faster drivers with little care for anyone in the road, diseases that one can get by being in the same air space as someone else, bad people that are reported in the news that raise heightened parental awareness everywhere, safety issues (not all of which are followed) with regards to bike riding, driving cars, and distractions. Add to that laws that didn’t exist back in the day, that restrict activities and require many more pieces of safety equipment, licenses, and have age restrictions.

When I was young, for the most part, we were in charge of the fun and games we got to play. 

Here are a few. Those of you old enough, see how many you remember. 

Our main form of ball play involved a small pink ball called a spaldeen. It really was named Spalding after the company that produced it, but anyone who grew up in the city called them spaldeens. I still own one from when I taught street games as a mini-course. It doesn’t have that new spaldeen feel, but it still bounces pretty high. 

Add a broomstick handle to your repertoire, and you are all set for stickball. A game similar to baseball, usually played somewhere where there was a concrete side of a building or garage (where I usually played, see the picture below) to act as your backstop. 

If you didn’t have a stick available, then all you needed was the spaldeen and your fist. The game, Punchball, didn’t need a pitcher. 

Given a concrete sidewalk and a wall, you could play King ball, which required multiple players, each standing just outside a defined box, to bounce the spaldeen once before it hit the wall and try to make it land in someone else’s box, where they had to do the same thing. If you missed a box, or the ball didn’t land in a box, or you hit the wall without a bounce, you then lost your position and had to move to the last box, and everyone moved up.

If you didn’t have a wall, then you just needed a popsicle stick in the middle between two players facing each other, two squares apart, and you each tried to hit the stick, which would start in the middle between the two players, with the spaldeen to get a point.

If you had no wall, but had a 2X2 square of sidewalk (you could also use chalk to make this), you could be playing box baseball. Four people play, each person is in charge of one square, you had to slap the ball into someone else’s square, and then they had to slap it into another square without it bouncing more than once. You weren’t allowed to step into your square either. 

There were a lot more street games and outdoor activities we played as kids. We made the rules and didn’t need someone to supervise us.

Without boring you with any more details, here are a few more street games that I remember (not all of them involved any equipment):

 

Hounds and Hares (all you needed was chalk)

Stoop Ball

Red Rover (all you needed was wide flat surface, like a playing field, a park, or gym)

Errors

 

Those were the days. I wonder what today’s kids would be like if they didn’t have all that technology to look at all of the time. I guess we’ll never know.  

 

I leave you with a poem I wrote in the Summer of 1991:

Ah…To Be Then Again

by Harvey Heilbrun


A large cement wall, 25 to 30 feet high.
A chalked square to play stickball,
punchball.
Hounds and Hare on warm summer nights.
A dusty old park by my house,
Sidewalks transformed into boxball courts,
Steps to Stoop Ball fields.
A sandbox becomes second base;
A tree first, a rock third.
What nature did not intend,
Our imaginations created.
I’ve gone back to where I grew up.
I can feel the places of my youth
But the scenes are not the same:
There’s a fence and a lock,
Another fence, a driveway, a blocked stoop,
A new park,
Benches,
Grass,
Pond,
Where old people sit and talk.
But there’s no sandbox, no rock –
The part we created is gone.
The imagination of it all.
No more bats of broom handles.
No more fun.
The beauty of the chalked square on the wall.
The vacant lot.
Those summer nights together with friends.
A memory

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