Telling my grandson about hopscotch, skipping and Cat’s Cradle did wonders for my memory – and my husband’s fitnessCelia Krampien/The Globe and Mail
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The voice on the phone is definitely our eight-year-old – and youngest – grandchild. He is Australian, the accent highly recognizable.
I always try to make sure I am speaking clearly, since he explained about a year ago that he has trouble with my accent. I want to tell him that I'm Canadian and that we don't have an accent, but he disagrees and I already know that.
He's calling me because he wants to know what games I used to play at recess when I was young. He needs to know for a school project. Just to establish that I know exactly what he wants, I ask: "How young?"
There is hesitation and then he says, "Like me, Grandma." He sounds doubtful, as if he isn't sure that I ever was. My mind promptly goes blank.
The only game I can remember is Red Rover. I tell him, and I can hear his pencil scribbling it down. Evidently, he remembers the game from his last visit, so I don't have to lay out the rules.
He waits. I can hear him breathing.
I try to remember recess when I was 8 or 9, some 73 years ago, but my mind remains a void.
We used to skip, I say, trying to buy time. Mostly the girls skipped, and we had rhymes that went with it.
"Uh-huh!" he says. Then, "What rhymes?"
I've no idea. But then I think, it may be 73 years since I was on a playground, but it's only been 40 years since my youngest was skipping – surely I can remember something. The games my youngest played were the same as my earlier ones.
Out of the darkness of my brain, a light appears. A vision and a voice in my head chanting:
Down in the valley
Where the green grass grows
Janie and Johnny
Sitting in a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
First comes love,
Then comes marriage
Then comes Janie
With a baby carriage.
How many kisses did
She get this week?"
The rope has been swinging back and forth, I explain, but now it starts going overhead and you are really skipping as they count the kisses – one, two, three – until you trip.
He giggles in surprise. I've giggled, too, but mostly because I'm embarrassed that, even at that age, I could have chanted something so banal.
I remember another banality, and then another, and my brain is dragging them out of some unlimited space and into view.
"Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear," I chant with appropriate actions, which I describe. Then one or two more come popping to the surface and we decide that that's enough for skipping. He's busy scribbling. I can hear the pencil against the page.
We bounced a ball, too, I remember, and try to drag the rhymes up from some dark storage area in my brain. I chant a few, and then hopscotch pops into my mind. I haven't seen anybody "hopping" on the street, or in the neighbourhood where I live, although there are lots of young children in the street.
Roman soldiers played hopscotch when they were occupying ancient Britain, I seem to remember. I tell my grandson because I think he would like that part. I wonder why I haven't seen the familiar chalk rectangles anywhere in recent years.
He's delighted, especially about the Roman soldier part, although as I remember it was only the girls who played hopscotch when I was growing up. I have a feeling his report is going to emphasize the soldiers no matter what I say.
I find myself telling him about Cat's Cradle, and promise to draw the one I think I can remember, gambling that I will, and say I'll e-mail it to him.
I leave the playground to explain about candles and shadows on a wall – any wall would do as long as you had a candle and could cast shadows. Rabbit ears that moved and a wiggly nose coloured pink, at least in my memory, was the only one I could repeat with no errors, but some of my friends could do wonders. I promise to e-mail my grandson a description of how to play this shadow game.
He says he thinks he has enough information, and we say goodbye. I have asked what he plays at recess, but he replies that it's mostly cricket or soccer, depending on the season. I wonder what the girls play. Perhaps the same thing.
Maybe these old, old games, played for centuries, that helped encourage flexible fingers, fitness and fun, have faded into the distant past. Now, it seems it's just skateboards and …
When I looked over at my 86-year-old husband, he is holding an imaginary jump rope, skipping and swinging awkwardly. His eyes have a faraway look, and I have a feeling that for a few seconds he is young again, flexible and getting fit for rugby season.
It's amazing what a phone call from a grandchild can do for your memory – and your fitness.
Margaret Jean Benitz lives in Toronto.