Published: May 29, 2009 11:02 pm      

Vacant playground swings contain a fountain of youth

HANNIBAL, Mo. — I came to Riverview Park to see the last statue of Mark Twain in his hometown. For the record, Hannibal has more statues of Mark Twain per capita than West Virginia does of Robert C. Byrd.

This statue, high along the banks of the Mississippi River, shows Twain in his later years keeping watch over the river and his hometown. I looked long at it, trying to read Twain’s expression. Hannibal was his boyhood home, and I’d been surrounded by stories and characters from his youth during my short time here.

The park is on the National Register of Historic Places and its more than 400 acres were interesting exploration. As I drove around the last loop before following signs toward the exit, I noticed a children’s playground where young people were playing. A little farther up the loop was an uninhabited swing set.

I parked the Jeep, walked to the swings, found one that I thought would hold me and shoved off. A cool breeze blew through the canopy of green trees and a perfect blue sky shone above. It really felt like the outdoor cathedral that one of Twain’s contemporaries, Stephen Crane, described in his novel “The Red Badge of Courage.”

Thoughts of my childhood quickly crowded the ones of Twain that were replaying in my brain. For four years of my education, I attended Forest Hill School with about 100 students and split-grade classrooms.

We didn’t have much in the way of school or playground supplies, but, like Twain and his friends who would become his legendary characters, we made our own fun and our own learning.

Ah, the swings. The students went through the phase of tying adjoining swings together so friends could swing in tandem. It sounded good in theory. Rhonda and I tied our swings together with one of our long-sleeve shirts. We were having a lovely time until we got out of sync. I was thrown backward from the swing and landed on the hard, rocky dirt. That ended that phase.

Despite the shortage of equipment, we had land, and we used it. Volleyball, horseshoes and softball were staples of recess time for the older students. In those days, recess was prized.

We got Friday afternoons out of class to play outside. Nobody sat around, and I don’t recall any fat students. We headed outside and immediately began choosing teams.

Mr. Smith was the anchor server for both sides in volleyball. If we were playing softball, he was the umpire. He was a teacher who joined in play with the students, something I do today with mine.

The home run fence was literally a fence. Anybody who knocked the softball into Mrs. Shumate’s pasture was the big man of the diamond. We all fought for the privilege of climbing the fence and searching for the ball.

Mrs. Shumate played another key role in the community, that of postmistress. I had special permission each day to walk to the post office, which had also been the community store, during our afternoon recess break to get the mail.

She told stories of Forest Hill past, and I saw photos of my grandparents when they were young in the scrapbooks she displayed in the former candy cases. The post office was a mini museum, and I loved to look around.

On days when the weather didn’t cooperate, we had Friday afternoon assemblies. Ms. Humphreys played the piano and we sang hymns or Christmas carols. Each class took turns putting on programs, plays and skits.

I was the farmer’s wife when our class dramatized the fable of the goose that laid the golden egg. A friend who would become my sister-in-law was the goose. In the story, the farmer’s wife catches the goose. Wearing one of Mom’s long dresses, I not only caught the goose, I tackled her. We hit the plank floor hard. When I got to my feet, I saw our teacher, Mrs. Mitchell, laughing so hard I thought she would hyperventilate.

Every teacher knew every student and vice versa. We had community.

The swing chains began biting into my hands. I couldn’t remember how long I had swung, but I had other sites to see. I left with a smile on my face and intense gratitude to God, my parents and those teachers for my four years of education in a country school.

— Young is a Register-Herald columnist. E-mail: ynerissa@verizon.net.

© 2009 by Nerissa Young