Let monkeys be monkeys

 

One of the post-war wonders for kids in my home town was a municipal playground built in a large park surrounding a lake.  It had the usual swings; and the line of rings for swinging along like a monkey; and bars on which you could chin yourself or, for the more proficient, perform acrobatics.  These were all of minimal interest to me and to most of my peer group.

But there were three modalities that drew our attention:

Slides.  Very tall slides, especially when looking down from the top, as well as shorter slides for younger kids.  Slides that were straight, and slides with wave-like ramps.  You could climb ladders to the top, or -- if you were crazy -- you could shimmy up the supporting poles.

Merry-go-round.  Not the carnival ride with horses, but a circular platform, like on a phonograph, that the kids could make spin by pushing it faster and faster, and then jumping on board.  There was always the danger of spinning off, from centrifugal force, and the danger of  becoming so dizzy that you vomited the entire nickel coke you had just bought from the convenient coke machine and downed in one gulp.

Jungle gym.  This was the paramount attraction of the park.  Rather than try to describe it, I show a photograph above of one that in some ways resembled it.  Note the size relative to the kids playing on it.  Note the complexity of the intersections of horizontal and vertical bars.  I recall ours as being larger in horizonal area, but maybe we were just smaller back then.

The jungle gym came to mind because of a short article in this month's Smithsonian magazine.  The article notes that the first patent for a jungle gym was awarded in 1923.  Its creator gave it the name that stuck because it was fashioned like

a kind of forest top through which a troop of children may play in a manner somewhat similar to that of a troop of monkeys.

And we acted like a troop of moneys: climbing, swinging, perched at the top chattering at each other.

I remember it as a great individual and social experience.  Fun.  And scary.  It was a long way down.

A couple of decades later, I walked by the park to relive my memories of those days of preadolescent

danger and adventure.  I was dismayed to see that all three of my favorite devices had been either eliminated or shrunk, all metal surfaces being replaced by plastic, leaving a collection of brightly colored devices that would be attractive to six- and seven-year-olds -- but not to the older kids who had enjoyed the park in my day.  

Just now, looking for an illustrative photo -- which I found finally, and posted at the top of this page -- my search for photos of "jungle gyms" resulted almost entirely in such plastic travesties.  The few photos from the 1950s were invariably titled as "dangerous" jungle gyms from the distant past.

The Smithsonian article admits the potential dangers of the older, original jungle gyms, but contends:

Young primates have always invited serious injury by play-climbing and falling.  Primatologists view these behaviors as a critical means of fine-tuning fundamental motor skills.  And ... many developmental psychologists contend that risky play is essential for healthy growth and development in children, perhaps because risk-taking helps kids regulate their fears, providing a kind of blueprint for responding effectively to real-life danger.

Yeah!  I couldn't have said it better myself!