If a kid is lucky, he comes across a park that he can come to call his own. A boy needs a park, a place he can escape and laugh and learn and be free.
I’ve been lucky in that pretty much everywhere I’ve ever lived there was within walking distance a park. In college the beautiful Harmon Park in Kearney, NE, was just a few blocks from our house, and it was a fantastic place to sneak away to. It came complete with a cool little stone castle, rock gardens, quality tennis courts, and plenty of room for Frisbee golf.
Straight out of college in North Platte, NE, I lived in a house that was directly across the street from a park that was surrounded on all sides in a circle by houses. Not only was it a nice neighborhood to live in, the nature of the circled houses kept the park fairly hidden and private. Better, it had a nice basketball hoop, which always scores points in my book.
When I moved to Lincoln, NE, just over the hill from the trailer (yes, trailer) that I lived in with a friend was an elementary school that, you guessed it, had a basketball court, plus some other goodies, including a bike path right off the edge of the property. Later, when I moved across town, the glorious Hazel Abel Park was within three blocks of my apartment, and I spent many afternoons there contemplating life.
The first house I lived in with my wife in west Lincoln was located a block away from an elementary school that had a ton of playground equipment for our kids to go crazy in. We often walked over and climbed the jungle gym and spent care-free hours that I still treasure.
When we moved to north Lincoln, there was a small park with a few toys, including a twisting jungle gym I’ve never seen since, barely a block away. There was another park just down the bike path that ran directly behind our house that was bigger and possessed one of the steepest slides I’ve ever witnessed.
When we moved to our current house even more north of Lincoln roughly 10 years ago, there wasn’t a park anywhere in the vicinity, but there was one that was promised to be built. Eventually, that park came to fruition and is just two blocks down the street tucked into the wetlands that surround the neighborhood. Although the park lacks a whole lot in the way of toys, there is a walking path that takes you nice and deep into the wetlands, and we’ve spent countless hours there with all our kids.
For me, though, the park I will always call my own is Wiggenhorn in Ashland, NE. That’s the park where I grew up. That’s where I learned to swim. That’s where I played baseball and football and basketball and tennis with my friends. That’s where the neighborhood kids would gather with their toys guns, swords, knives, and whatever other weapons they could pull out of their toy boxes and closets and proceed to divide into two teams and wage war in a long game of “army,” climbing trees and hiding in bushes waiting in ambush.
Wiggenhorn is where I won the Longest Snowball Throw contest during the Winter Carnival, and it’s where the other neighborhood kids and I would take our sleds in the winter and go down the hill next to the park, climb back up, and do it all over and over again. Wiggenhorn is where I hung out until the tennis court lights would automatically shut off at 11 p.m. and then longer. It’s where I learned about girls and later swung on the swings at night with girlfriends.
Wiggenhorn was the park where my 5th birthday party was held, and it’s where my extended family on my mom’s side would gather for Memorial Day and Labor Day and other holidays when I was young and play long games of softball.
Wiggenhorn is where my grade school classes would trek at the end of the school year for a picnic, bringing our own lunches and pop and playing games before we separated for the summer.
Wiggenhorn is where I heard my friend’s girlfriend say, “Ewww, that’s gross” from behind the bush next to the one I was in, making time stand still in uncomfortable silence until my girlfriend and I could no longer contain our laughter.
Wiggenhorn is the park where a 15-year-old girl slapped the holy hell out of me when I threw a firecracker too close to the kid she was babysitting. It’s the park where the game Tennisball—a combination of tennis and baseball played by two-man teams on one side of the courts and that outlawed home runs—was invited. It’s the park where my fellow track team members would venture to and play baseball with the local kids instead of running the miles we were supposed to.
Wiggenhorn was home to the baddest-ass rocking seesaw the world has ever known and the even more bass-ass four-seated merry-go-round that came with a push-pull handle that let you achieve unbelievable and incredibly dangerous speeds.
Wiggenhorn was the site where the Kendall Colts battled the El Rancho Raunchos in epic football games on Saturday afternoons, as well as against the boys from the East Side. It’s the place I ice skated for the first time, flew a kite, skateboarded, spent hours shooting baskets, and occasionally fell asleep at after stopping to take a breather during a late-night walk home from one party or another.
Wiggenhorn is the place I went down a tornado slide for the first time, and it’s where I snuck a kiss here and there.
Wiggenhorn will always be my park.
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