Last Saturday three of the neighborhood kids knocked on our door."We wanted to ask you permission to build a city at the end of your driveway. Would that be OK?"
I must of looked confused. The oldest explained that when it rained we would get a large puddle at the end of our driveway. When that happened they liked to build cities.
"Can you show me?" I said.
We walked down to the end of the driveway where Rebecca proceeded to explain that puddles formed when it rained because the road was high on one end of our driveway where the tree pushes up the asphalt. She and her bother, Kyle, from across the street, and Jake, from next door, would build cites out of bricks and other things. She was obviously the leader of this merry little band.
"No problem, so long as you clean it up when you're done."
This wasn't the first time they've done this. Edward has watched them a couple of other times. They would bring over sticks, bark, wood scraps and other building blocks. This time they had to supply their own water. It hadn't rained for a few days.
About 30 minutes later I wandered out to see how things were going. Rebecca, the mayor of Puddle City, gave me the grand tour.
"This is my house, and that's Jake's house. Kyle lives over there. That's the hospital, and the opera house. It has a stage where I play oboe." She looked at me. "I really play the oboe, too." The list went on...
"These are smaller houses. Over here I'm building a fire station."
Her brother piped up, "But we're on water..."
"Fine," she said, sounding annoyed, "It's a water station."
Edward and I fixed dinner while the kids continued to build there city. Jake lost a shoe, wandering around in one not-so-white-any-more sock. Cars and bikes passed by, their drivers rubbernecking to see what was so fascinating about a puddle and a small pile of scrap wood. The kids played contently, being careful not to wander into the road too far, and to hop over to the driveway whenever a car went by.
As we were finishing dinner, Kyle came back up to the door.
"Do you want to see it now?" Sure, give me five minutes and I'll be out. "She'll be out in 5 minutes," he shouted to his fellow engineers as he headed back to them.
Like any coastal community what started as a quaint village had become a city of high rises. They'd found some larger pieces of bark and created a number of larger structures. The opera had been the largest building on the water, but now it was only half the size of its neighbors. Most of the other building had been rebuilt or were gone all together. Small "boats" had been replaced by yachts. There was even a whale plying the waters.
I stood marveling at the construction at the end of my driveway. From a couple of buckets of water, and a pile of tree bark, a city had arisen, then grown. There were homes and hospitals, bridges and high rises, and a water department. It had kept these kids occupied from several hours.
Then they were done.
"We have to be home by 6:00."
It was 5:45. The deconstruction began. But it wasn't a hurricane that destroyed the city, but meteors from space. Loose pieces of wood began crashing into the builds. High rises tumbled into the water. Walls fell and boats sank. Then each bit of bark, wood and stone used in the city was gathered up in the big blue bucket they'd used for water. They had to return it to Mr. Joe, he wanted it back when they were done.
In these days of video games and hand held entertainment, three kids had created a city out of bits of junk. No flashy graphics, no sound cards, and no controllers. They had built it all from scrap, and when they were done, it was all gone, like so many electrons on a TV screen. And as I watched them from my front window, I remembered the days when I built imaginary cities, and I smiled. Sometimes the best entertainment is your own imagination.
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