Play Areas

In the mall there is a crossroads, between Barnes & Noble and Scheel’s, and in this crossroads there is a great circle. The circle has but one opening, an ingress point at which stands Dr. Bear in all its loveable menace. The bear wears a doctor’s coat but not pants. Just inside the circle, on either side of the opening, there are cubby holes, ostensibly for the storage of children’s footwear, and a single hand-sanitizer dispenser. Padded benches line the circle’s low wall most of the way around. The carpet is spongy, but firm. Around a necessary structural pillar a padded mat has been attached like a bootie. And of course the playthings themselves: an ambulance, a thermometer, a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, a Band-aid, a building in the likeness of the Mankato Clinic, and a teddy bear the size of a great big fat man. The playthings are made of a pliable material both soft and firm. Everything in the circle rebounds, with the exception of the cubby holes and the structural pillar itself.

Watching a rampage of children play in the arms of the circle is like looking into a moshpit from balcony seats, except no one is smoking cigarettes or drinking beer or wearing earplugs. Adults behave no differently from children as far as I can tell. The distinction is that adults have learned how to control themselves to various extents. Among children, drama unfolds quickly, plays itself out, and soon evolves into another game. Adults squeeze drama out of drama, drama out of rocks, drama out of thin air. It is refreshing how quick children are to judge, like cats. How many times has the play area carpet been puked on? The absence of visible stains suggests that puking incidents are quickly cleaned up, rarely happen in the play area, or do not happen in the play area.

My sister would tell you a story about me, when I was seven years old. I had just eaten a bowl of cherry cordial ice cream. I shouted, "I’m a human vacuum cleaner!" and instantly fell on the carpet in complete imitation of the vacuum cleaner. In a matter of seconds I had inhaled something, a piece of fluff or fuzz, on which I choked. Coughing didn’t help much, not right away. The fluff or fuzz stuck long enough to teach me a lesson, and then I threw up all the ice cream I had just eaten, on the carpet I was attempting to clean. Why am I telling you this?