Stream of consciousness is a strange thing. I was told a story last week about a seemingly homeless man who died with several thousand dollars in his pockets. My mind began to wonder…as it often does, when someone other than myself is talking. I suddenly remembered an elderly old man, with an even older truck, who used to deliver sand every summer for my sandbox.
We all thought the old guy was “dirt poor” but when the he died years later we discovered that he had been quite wealthy…which was a complete shock to everyone who knew him.
Anyway, thinking of the masquerade of wealth, reminded me of that old guy which reminded me of the sand…which reminded me of my childhood sandbox. Our sandbox must have been rather large, since the swing set sat within the confines of the box. All in all it was a pretty nifty contraption: the swing set had a basketball hoop on one end, a slide on the other, and the whole thing sat inside the sandbox.
On really hot days, Mom would let me take the water hose into the sandbox so I could make sand castles…which my brother would quickly destroy. (Please note here that I’m attempting to control my stream of consciousness…lest I begin a tirade about being the second sibling.)
Needless to say, I’ve got good memories of my sandbox. So now, I’m forced to ponder, why didn’t I provide my children with sandboxes of their own? Was I too lazy to build the box, too cheap to purchase the sand…or was I more concerned with raising grass than with raising children?
Why is it that nobody has sandboxes anymore?
