My children’s childhood summers of the 1980s and 1990s were remarkably similar to mine in the 1960s and 1970s, long, unstructured days spent outdoors. My summers were spent with very little adult supervision, I rode my bike to one of the pools, to a friend’s house, and to one of the many playgrounds. I probably trekked several miles each day walking or riding my bike from one adventure to the next without giving the distance a second thought.
When we moved to Cambridge in 1987, I was delighted to see children riding their bikes to the pool and the tennis courts, a reassuring sign that childhood still looked much the way I remembered it.
My own children spent at least 80 percent of their waking hours outside. They wandered to friends’ houses, played in the yard, rode their bikes, and made their own fun. California and Hawaii seemed made for childhood, especially with their beaches and year-round sunshine. Living in Naval Officer housing, with Marine guards at every entrance, meant there was little concern about “stranger danger.” The neighborhood itself felt like an extended family.
Maryland summers can be more challenging. The heat and humidity often make it difficult to spend hours outdoors, and it sometimes feels as though children retreat inside far sooner than previous generations did.
Last Thursday, my three grandchildren and I made it our mission to spend almost the entire day outside. We began at the little park in Trappe, then headed to Sailwinds, and finally to Great Marsh in Cambridge.
As we drove through town, we noticed several children riding scooters. I casually wondered aloud where their helmets were, and all three of my grandchildren reacted with surprise that the children were outside without parents watching them. Their response reminded me how dramatically childhood expectations have changed in just a generation.
At Great Marsh, we made our way to the small beach and immediately began wading into the Choptank River, grateful to find it free of sea nettles. Before leaving home, I had checked the local water quality report, and the bacteria levels were excellent, so I knew it was safe for us to play.
As we were dipping our legs in the water, we spotted two little girls carefully picking their way across the riprap that surrounds the cove. They suddenly jumped into the water and began making their way toward us. For one brief moment, I wondered if I was about to spend my afternoon rescuing two adventurous children. Instead, they turned out to be experienced swimmers who were delightful and friendly.
We exchanged names and ages; they were ten and eight years old. We learned they had ridden a single bicycle together from their house several blocks away. Without hesitation, all five children slipped into that timeless rhythm of childhood. They splashed, explored, invented games, and laughed together as though they had known one another forever.
For nearly an hour, there were no phones, no organized activities, no hovering adults directing every moment. Just children playing in the water, discovering the world together.
Watching them, I felt as though I had stepped into a scene from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. For a little while, it seemed that the carefree summers of my own childhood and those of my children’s had returned. It gave me hope that perhaps the spirit of independent childhood hasn’t disappeared after all. Sometimes, it simply needs the right place, the right day, and the freedom to unfold.
