Latchkey Kids

My mom taught me the proper way to flip creek rocks to search for salamanders. Pulling the flat semi-aquatic stones towards my school-aged body, I waited with impatient zeal as the turbid water cleared. Once my eyes adjusted to the silty creek bottom, living treasures abounded. I didn’t stand a chance. Wonder enraptured me from an early age. My sister says we may have been poor early on, but I’m not so sure. You can’t buy awe, and I’m glad my mother bestowed that richness on my siblings and me.

The joke about us being poor came up recently when my sister and I were talking about riding our bikes to elementary school. We laughed at the freedoms we had in those feral days of the early nineties. She drove by our old neighborhood to map the distance from home to school. We pedaled somewhere right under a mile each way. My brother, sister, and I were terrors on two wheels. We felt invincible together, the three of us against the world.

When my sister saw our old house, she was taken aback by how old it looked compared to the rest of the neighborhood. We always joked that the road one street over was the poor part of town. Reflecting on that during our call, we both laughed at that childish idea. Perhaps if the “poor part of town” were within walking distance, we might also be within those bounds. The thing is, we never felt poor. We had it better than many kids. Our situation was a night and day difference from the poverty our mom and uncles experienced growing up. Mom provided all of our needs, and we never wanted for anything.

We were lower middle class, and maybe had we been wealthier, we wouldn’t have found such joy in the simple pleasures of getting lost in the woods. Mom took us hiking, caught snakes, played with toads, and always valued time in the dirt. Mostly, she gave us the autonomy to explore the world around us. In many ways, the pockets of undisturbed suburban wilderness were our babysitters. We epitomized the moniker of latchkey kids. Wild places watched over us while Mom was at one of her multiple jobs. Again, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. We were raised with grit, thankfully.

Sometimes, while chasing my passions, I can get a bit off course. Usually, I’m not as far from my destination as my panicked mind would like me to believe. I’m typically relieved to discover that I’m still in the woods and usually not far from where I ought to be. Childhood taught me that when I’m feeling lost, I need to look for the trail and see who’s standing with me. If there’s not a clear-cut path, make one.

Inversely, getting lost is often the best part of the adventure. That’s where the learning takes place. It’s where the story gets its flavor. Wandering off trail in search of amazement has taught me things I couldn’t have learned any other way. There’s no such thing as a perfectly manicured path to whatever success is. Growing up muddied by creeks with my siblings taught me that.