My eyes were fixated on the marks drawn in driveway near my home. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! It was a seven-block hopscotch game, outlined with the special chalk the children have now. Beanie bags were lying nearby, as if the game had been ongoing before the children were called to lunch. I was fascinated. I had not seen a hopscotch anywhere for many years. Often I had wondered if they still played it, and asking my sisters always developed into a conversation about our hopscotch days growing up around Newfoundland.

"Go outside. You’re not hanging around here on a day like this!" our Mothers would all say as if they had a mantra they practiced. We were sure all our Mothers had some secret fraternity that made them all act the same way and enforce the same rules.

So out we would go. It was better to be out exploring and playing and getting into mischief than being home helping fold diapers, iron clothes or wash dishes anyway. The unspoken rule was "if you are hanging around doing nothing, I’ll find something for you to do!" Another of our Mothers’ criterion that was widespread.

Just as you headed out the door you would hear another command such as "And take your sister and brother with you."

"Why do they have to come with me?" I would ask.

"Because I said so, that’s why!" was the prompt answer.

And another day of activities would begin. Hopscotch was one of the most popular games. We didn’t have chalk. Our lines were drawn in the mud or gravel with a stick, common stones were our markers, no beanie bags were around in those days. We knew nothing of the fact that hopscotch began in ancient Britain during the early Roman empire and that some hopscotch courts were more than 100 feet long. But we knew that we became more skilled the more we played and winning the next round was a victory. Our canvas sneakers would be scuffed and ready to disintegrate after many games of hopscotch, and there was always someone who wanted to start a game.

A few years ago I lived in a neighborhood for months and never realized there were many children living in the area. I only realized when school started and the brightly clad students stood at the bus stop that there were many children around. They have so many things to do inside now. So much technology, too many movies, and a stack of video games have taken over from the games of our childhood years. I still wonder why they never seem to be ‘berry picking’, something that was a joy for us as children, going home with blue or red mouths and a belly full of any kind of berry that was ripe.

In one day four or five, if not more, of us children would play hopscotch until we were exhausted, climb the huge rocks looking for a spot out of the wind to sit in the warm sun and tell stories, play games of ball with the red, white and blue rubber ball that sent you running forever as it bounced down the gravel road. Most of the time it would end up in the water, and so would the outfielder.

Everyone had their skipping rope tied around the handlebars of their basic, no gear, bicycles which we rode for miles, and if the urge to jump rope for an hour overtook us, then we would stop and do just that.

"Let’s go fishin’!" someone would suggest after lunch (dinner we called it then). Then out would come the long bamboo fishing rods, lines and hooks, a few worms would be dug, and we would head for the pond. Usually our younger charges would be napping at home by then and we were free.

The fishing would soon get boring, the best part was the preparing and getting to the pond, so another plan would be hatched. That could be anything from having a fire on the beach, building a ‘camp’ in the woods, to tying string on an old wallet and placing it in the middle of the road for the sole purpose of yanking it away when the unsuspecting adult would bend to pick it up. We would run like heck toward our bicycles.

By days’ end we would be scratched, cut, covered in fly bites, our hands filthy, our feet even filthier, but there would always be energy left for another game of hopscotch. Our legs would be so tired, our stomachs growling, but we kept going until the call came to come home. There was no issue of childhood obesity, we were as fit as the best of the triathalon athletes. And probably would never be as fit again in our lives. Our bodies got a cardiovascular workout every single day.

Going home, putting your bike away, and entering the house was an interesting exercise in itself.

"Before you come in take the clothes off the line for me," Mother would dictate.

The clothes would be reeled in, the reels squeaking all over the cove as every Mother, as usual, had their routine plot well rehearsed. Then Mother would notice just how dirty and dusty we were.

The usual "Wait ‘til your father gets home!" was said but unheard. For us it was really was no threat as Father would just smile and ask what we did all day.

"Nothin’! Played hopscotch."

"Where did you go?" he would press.

"Nowhere." the common answer.

"Who were you playing with?" Father kept pressing.

"Same crowd." another pat answer.

Than Mother would declare that "tomorrow you aren’t getting outside the door to come home in that state. What in the world is wrong with you that causes you to roll around in mud?"

That was totally ignored because we knew where there was a great hopscotch drawn, and we had our special rock, and after an hour of our antics the next morning Mother would be mesmerized and disgusted.

And it would start all over again.

"Go outside and play. You’re not hanging around me all day! And take your brother and sister with you!"

We were ready, and right on cue the gang would meet at the hopscotch on our bicycles, anxious to start the game. Just as sure as it was used as fitness drills for Roman soldiers, it was our drill. Our younger siblings watched and learned.

Yes, hopscotch by gosh. We would jump, run and skip our way through the day, probably do a little berry pickin’ or fishin’ too, then get in a punt if we could get one and row around for a while. It was nonstop activity in those tender, fuzzy memory-making days.

It was a magical time in our lives. Carefree childhood days in a ‘Hopscotch by Gosh’ continual tournament. Hopscotch kept us fit, taught us teamwork, helped us learn to accept victory and defeat, and to move on.

I would not trade one moment of it, because I know of nothing that can come close in value to such a lighthearted childhood and the ‘hopscotch days’, and all that the game taught us.

Yes, the hopscotch drawn in chalk tells me it is still a game being played by the children. I wonder if they would play a game with a Nanny? I have my marker rock all ready just in case. . . .

Bonnie Jarvis-Lowe

"Who has not courage needs legs." Italian Proverb

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