Innocence Lost 

                                 On a recent Sunday afternoon I had occasion to drive through my old neighbourhood. The circumstances that brought me there are unimportant but the crisp air and bight sunshine was more than enough to lead me down an old side road and slow my vehicle to a crawl.

As I drove memories of my youth swept over me. I found myself picking out homes of old friends, wondering if they lived there now and how their lives had turned out.

My elementary school was still there, though it looked considerably less foreboding than I remembered. On this day it seemed ordinary and small, but I recalled a time when I couldn’t imagine setting foot in a building as large!

I remember walking to school, taking care to stay on the west side of the sidewalk, as the east side was the realm of the older boys. There were no written rules per se but once school started, you were soon informed that the east side was inhabited by all-powerful masters of the universe and therefore, not your dominion. Unless you wanted your books and school papers strewn over a city block, you were careful to know your place. Of course one day you'd be old enough to patrol the east side and vengeance would be yours!

There was Mr. Harridin's house. Dark, mysterious and completely cloaked in a shroud of huge evergreens, everyone knew this was no ordinary house. Any man who stayed home all day, as Mr. Harridin did, and never came out except to retrieve his mail and glare at us had to be a spy! Which country the old scoundrel represented was unclear but we were consistently careful to maintain absolute silence when we passed. World War II had been over for 15 years but the Cold War was very much alive and it was our patriotic duty to ensure we didn't divulge any national secrets.

On my way out of the neighbourhood I turned the corner to the north end of my elementary school. To my surprise I came upon a scene that caused many cherished memories to flood over me. I quickly parked the car, got out, leaned against the trunk and watched the proceedings in amazement.

In the small lot between the community skating rink and the school there were roughly a dozen boys between the ages of 10 and 13. They were playing field hockey. Using splintered hockey sticks and a tattered tennis ball, they raced up and down the field, pausing only to argue and gesture dramatically or to rescue the ball from under a car. Their faces were scarlet with exertion and rage and while many wore NHL jerseys and new hockey gloves, quite a few resembled my old gang, sporting their older siblings or parents oversized gear, their ragged sweatshirts hanging to the patched knees of their jeans.

It always seemed odd to me how we’d picked that particular spot to play field hockey. There were plenty of other areas we could have used, many of them schematically appropriate and closer to our homes. Yet because this place was adjacent to the actual community rink, it made perfect sense for us to play there, and only there, but what amazed me on this day was that these kids had continued the tradition! I was certain they’d not been instructed to go there but somehow, they’d followed our logic. I found the notion simultaneously amazing and comforting.

After watching for a few minutes I noticed a woman in her early 30s striding purposefully toward me. Her crossed arms and the angry set of her jaw told me she was not about to exchange pleasantries. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

I blurted out my story about having lived here as a child and explained how I’d stopped to watch the kids play hockey, just as I’d played as a boy. Even while speaking the words, I felt an internal easiness.

“Look, my son’s one of those boys and I don’t know you from Adam. You’d better leave before I call the police.”

My initial reaction was extreme outrage. My first thought was to lash out at her with the same venomous disgust she’d shown me but of course, I didn’t. Instead I said nothing, got back into my car and slowly drove away. She watched me until I was out of sight.

As I left from those grand old memories I was overcome by sadness. It wasn’t so much that one can never go home. Time and it’s inherent lessons have taught me that lesson. It wasn’t even the woman with her angry eyes and fiercely protective manner. Given the circumstances of the moment and the social climate of the day, I empathized with her position. I didn’t blame her.

That evening I sat in my chair and contemplated the events of the day. I realized the hollow sensation that caused my throat to constrict and my eyes to mist did not concern a specific person or thing. Rather, I found myself grieving for an innocent time lost, likely to never to be regained.