Also see: Op-Ed: Preserve Local Parks
Grants, adapted from this essay
Like many in my parents' generation, my Gen-X childhood was spent outside
whenever possible, with the freedom to roam the neighborhood and explore the
vestiges of "the wild" wherever they could be found. In southern Missouri, that
meant playing in small valleys, not fit for home construction, that still teemed
with minnows, crawdads, and the occasional alligator snapping turtle. Even the
backyard offered something wild: instead of a fence separating us from our
neighbors, we had an old farm tree line; some of the larger horse apple trees
still had bits of barb wire encased in their bark. The trees sheltered squirrels
and chipmunks, birds and bats.
Small ledge and spring, along a minor brook emptying into Lake
Springfield, Missouri
And then we moved to the Dallas area, in the middle of 7th grade. Again our home
was on old farmland, but there were no vestiges other than the flatness of
tilled cropland. White Rock Creek was perhaps a mile away, but there was no
access without obviously trespassing — and it wasn't compelling enough to
risk getting in trouble. I turned inward and focused on my studies; perhaps that
was for the best. But I felt lost. A part of me was missing.
