There were evenings in summer, when we kids in the neighborhood, after supper, would gather in someone’s backyard to play kids’ games-Red Rover comes to mind. We stood in two teams, holding hands in a line opposite each other. In memory there must have been a dozen kids in each team facing. “Red Rover, Red Rover, send [someone called by name] right over!”
A war! The person called had to cross the distance between us and break the line of the other team holding hands. If the person called couldn’t, they became part of the team they tried to break. If they did break the line, the team holding had to surrender a team-member to the other side. It went back-and-forth, the calling, the holding. The break. Surrender sometimes. I could hold a hold even if it hurt.
As sun set and dusk ensued, there would come a loud thweet from our front porch, from Dad. An undeniable whistle piercing…what? The universe? My brother and I knew instantly we were called. We left the game where it stood. Going home with things unsettled, the war not won. Left to settle-up another day.
