Backyards At Night

As a kid, I couldn’t wait until Friday night. Without the spectre of another school day looming, my friends and I would play “jailbreak” for hours on end, losing time and making memories. The street on which I grew up, Princeton Road, was full of kids, fifteen to be exact, separated by five consecutive houses. Add to that our friends who would come from all over town to play in our weekly game, and we could easily be mistaken for the kids from Lord of the Flies, without all that pesky murder. 

For the uninitiated, the rules of jailbreak are simple. Two teams decide on a playing area, a grid, in which one can hide. Then, one team tries to capture the other and keep them in jail. Once all the members of that team are captured, the teams switch roles. However, despite being captured, that player can be freed by a teammate who approaches the jail, avoids the sentry on duty, and touches the jail while yelling, “Jailbreak!” The beauty of the game is that there are no winners and losers because it is just as fun to hide as it is to seek, so the game can go on for hours.

In our case, it went on for years. 

For me, the intrigue of jailbreak was in the darkness. Playing a game at night seemed somehow dangerous, somehow adult, like being in the very same yards in which we played wiffle ball during the day made us renegades. The darkness made what once was familiar an undiscovered frontier full of danger and wonder. Moreover, it’s not in my own yard I would prefer to hide. To do so would be commonplace, safe. 

As I hid from my captors, I remember tiptoeing around backyards just noticing things. 

The Thomases rarely used lights at night, so how did they see?

The O’Briens yard always had way more fallen branches and detritus than any other yard. 

The Johnsons, my yard, was the only one with a chain link fence surrounding it.

The Kramers yard had a majestic treehouse, which no one ever used. 

The Fishers yard, like the people inside, just seemed sad. 

This is what it’s like when you visit another teacher’s classroom. You know what to expect, you know how things are supposed to look, but somehow you know very little else. 

At first, a cursory glance around the room provides a backdrop for the class and teacher personality: walls adorned with content specific visuals, anchor charts, and character ed reminders; a desk with understated glimpses into the teacher’s personal and family life or a slew of yet-to-be-scored papers; desks in rows or pods; a box of tissues or band-aids. 

Then, watch that teacher in action and what once was dark is no longer.  Notice how she hops gracefully over a fallen branch over which you most certainly would have tripped. Notice the subtle adjustment she makes to avoid being captured. Notice how she leads her team in such a way as to minimize the possibility of getting caught. Notice as she approaches the jail noiselessly before yelling “jailbreak!” and freeing her team from captivity. 

There’s something special about a backyard at night. Whether you’re supposed to be there or not, the yard maintains its integrity, its personality. Ask yourself: what would someone notice about your backyard and is it time to visit someone else’s?