Beyond our back fence, under rambling, un-pruned limbs heavy with crab apples, there is a spot where four backyards meet, but it's forgotten and unused by all four families. That's right--it's not really there. It's off the map. It's uncharted territory. It belongs exclusively to about 8 or 9 neighborhood children who call it The Fort. I privately call it their very own Roxaboxen. In its current incarnation, it is a town, consisting of a circle of shops carefully constructed from low-hanging limbs, scrap lumber, and a couple of partially dismantled palates someone tossed back there long ago. And an old wagon. And fallen branches. Pine cones are their currency, and they sell art, crab apples, and a variety of weapons the nature of which I didn't quite follow. They were kind enough to explain all this to me when I wandered back for this photo. They politely invited me in, but I respectfully declined. That would just ruin everything, don't you think? There are only 4 kids in this snapshot, with The Fort behind them, but all day there have been many more. All day. Filthy and sweaty and glowingly happy.
I promised my children a trip today to a marvelous, fancy pool in the neighboring town we heard about, with two slides and water works, but they didn't want to leave The Fort. That absolutely thrills me, the joy they are creating for themselves, out of nothing. Out of everything.
Ever since I first found the book Roxaboxen, by Alice McLeron and illustrated by Barbara Cooney, I hoped that my children would have something like it for their own. We've got close before: the courtyard in Alabama, but it was out in the open and grown-ups barged through it all the time. Lacey Woods Park in Arlington, where another mom, a dear friend, and I would lurk around the edges and discuss how much freedom it made sense to give our small children in an urban park. The answer: not quite enough to make it a Roxaboxen. And just beyond our own fence, but a million miles away, here it is. Thank you, universe, for giving my children, and all these neighborhood children, this place.
I thought about getting Roxaboxen from the library--again--to share with Jacob and Leah. It's been a while since I checked it out last. But I don't think I will. To read about someone else's imaginings could influence yours too much, perhaps, when you're right in the middle of yours. It would give it a meta-fictional element--kids playing at playing, instead of playing. When you're writing a story, and someone tells you about another story on the same subject, you carefully avoid reading it just then. Maybe before, maybe after, but definitely not during the secret and delicate blooming of your own creation. Already I wonder how much they are thinking of Roxaboxen, and also the Shirley Hughes story in which Alfie and Annie Rose create a shop under a tree in their back garden. This one time, the literary references can wait.
You haven't come across Roxaboxen? You're assignment is to drop what you are doing and run out right now and procure yourself a copy. Why I haven't yet bought it is a mystery to me. I've checked it out dozens of times. It's a good one.
1 comment:
Launa, I read your post about Roxaboxen first with a shock of recognition, then with a sense of glee. I am *definitely* going to have to find this book and read it. As a child of the 60's, I was fortunate to have such a place in the very back of our 1.5 acre homeplace within the city limits of Atlanta. We thought we were *MILES* away from anyone, when, in fact, we were just over the hedge and through the woods. I can't *wait* to find this book. I think I'll head for Borders first thing in the morning. Thanks for sharing!
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