The dictionary defines sidewalk as a paved path for pedestrians at the side of a road and to me that seems too simplistic. Where I grew up, tract houses neatly aligned in a perfect subdivision, the sidewalk lined every road. And in my world, a sidewalk was so much more than a paved path. For me, the sidewalk was not just the border, not just the blockade from the street where cars can run you over. No, for me the sidewalk was a place where my friends and I could explore, imagine, and experiment—a place where I could be a boy and play.
Sidewalk chalk comes to mind first. Not the big multi-color bucket of fat chalk, like you can buy now. No, back then we used thin chalkboard chalk swiped from our classrooms. If chalk was unavailable, we’d take the white quartz rock from the house landscaping and etch and grind it into the pavement to get faint white lines. It was real work.
Back then, when we were 6, 7, 8-years-old, sidewalk art was not a fad. While the girls used the chalk to draw out their hopscotch, us boys used it to mark lines for our plastic-guy army wars. “Your guy crossed the line. He is my prisoner.”
“No way, I killed your guy first,” Tommy argued.
“Your one guy can’t kill my whole army, and he is surrounded, so he is my prisoner.”
We used to take that quartz rock and build forts and barriers for our little green armies and when the street lights came on and we had to go in the house, we left the rocks on the sidewalk where pedestrians would kick them aside and into the grass so that my father could hit them with the lawn mower and get pissed.
As we grew, 8, 9, 10-years-old, we started to ride bikes, BMX bikes. We used our chalk to mark the distance our bikes traveled when jumping ramps, Evil Kenival style. First, you’d start four or five houses back, peddle as fast as your skinny little legs would go, aim your tires for the piece of plywood ramped on a brick and your bike would sail through the air, you pulling the handle bars up just enough so that you’d land (if you were lucky) back tire first. That landing was marked to see who could go further. The furthest. And the ramp grew taller by stacking bricks, one to two, two to three, three to four.
Four bricks put Davey in the hospital. He started seven houses down and raced his brand new Mongoose to the ramp. His front tire hit the way too tall, way too unstable ramp at such a speed that the brick crumbled beneath the weight of the rear tire mid-jump. Davey flew over the handlebars. A cracked rib, broken wrist, head concussion, and the loss of three lower teeth—permanent teeth—led to the abolition of ramp building on our sidewalk.
As 10 turned to 11 and 12-years-old, the sidewalk became a hangout—a place where the boys hung out and the girls walked by. At first, the girls made disparaging comments about the grass stains on our jeans, the mud on our sneakers, the dirt on our hands and face, or the uncombedness of our hair.
But then one day, it seems all of a sudden, they stopped being mean and started to flirt. Michelle whispered to Bobby that she thought Davey was cute. And Lisa told Davey that Tommy looked like Ricky Schroeder and Ricky was “totally hot.” And the boys slowly started to pair off with the girls.
And now, on our sidewalk, there were fights. Boys who were friends, now fighting with fists over girls. There was a fight because Davey liked Lisa and Lisa thought Tommy was “totally hot.” Because Davey wondered if Lisa would like him, and his missing bottom teeth when Tommy was made ugly by a broken nose. And there were the big brothers of these girls who would come by and throw punches because they were stronger and could hurt you more than you hurt them.
Oh, we can't forget, there was that thug who beat me down on the sidewalk. He was 15 and used a short tree branch the size of a billy-club, a throw-away-weapon that left massive contusions, purple and black, on my back, my arms, and my legs, a weapon that left me sick and wobbly for days after being slammed into my head.
We became teenagers, 13, 14, 15-years-old and the sidewalk was the path which lead us away from our houses. There were other blocks to explore. We discovered that one sidewalk connected to another, then another—and now there were new friends to hang out with. And there were new girls to meet, new hands to hold while walking down the sidewalk, to suddenly stop walking and to kiss her—in the shade of a forty-year old maple.
For most of our lives the sidewalk was our world, but we all turned 16 and the world grew beyond our imagination. We all bought cars and once again discovered a new set of paths that opened a huge world to us. Paths that led us to jobs, to universities, to new subdivisions—paths that all started where the sidewalk ends.
