Innocence — one casualty of the pandemic

On one of the rare days in April when the sun deigned to make an appearance in St. John's, I was out for a walk when I heard a sound I could not quite place.

When I turned a corner, it all made sense. It was children's laughter, coming from a schoolyard — a heart-gladdening sound at any time, but more so during a pandemic when children have been stifled during lockdowns like the rest of us.

But as I got closer, the scene was not quite what I expected.

Rather than the ordinary hurly-burly of play, the unchoreographed mayhem of elementary school children let loose from the classroom, this was something different. Something more sobering. There was laughter, certainly; the children were obviously enjoying a fine day out of doors. But they were mostly moving in groups of two, wearing masks and engaged in a litter cleanup of the school grounds — a good thing, but a jarring sight, faintly reminiscent of Second World War photographs of British children wearing gas masks during the Blitz.

Childhood and mortality should never share such close quarters.

I was at a meeting last week when a question was posed: what is the thing you look forward to most when this pandemic is finally over?

I flashed back to a party we had four years ago, on an August day fine enough to have friends over and set up tables of food and drink outside.

“I'd like to have friends over for a party in the garden and be able to give them a hug,” I said.

The garden was in its glory then and it was wonderful to share the space with people we cared about.

But the more I thought about the question in the days afterwards, the more I kept thinking of the masked children picking up garbage in the schoolyard. It was in sharp contrast with scenes from my own less-complicated childhood.

The freshness of spring in late April, on a day when only remnants of snow lingered in shady corners.

A day when the school grounds — at last unfrozen

— were springy underfoot, smelling of earth and quick to turn to mud. A day when, released from class at last, for the first time that year someone yelled, “Anybody want a game of ball?”

And the old gnarly wooden bat was hauled out from wherever it spent the winter and a red, white and blue sponge ball was produced, and we tried to contain our anxieties as kids were picked for each team — names called out first according to their batting and catching and pitching prowess. Then going hand over hand up the bat, calloused with knots but smoothed out from years of use, to pick who was first up.

“Rounders,” I suppose the game was, or some bastardization of it. It had heroes, same as any other game, however rudimentary our equipment. Kids who might be falling behind in their schoolwork could be superstars on the field.

I remember the collective awe when one shy boy, who suffered badly in the classroom, hit the ball with perfect contact, sending it soaring up and up and out of our schoolyard, across the road and far into the woods past the Orange Lodge, never to be seen again.

Childhood should be full of such simple magic.

Today's kids have so many worries — climate crisis, cyberbullying, and now the pandemic.

So, I'm revisiting my answer to that question. What I want to see most — if there is an “after” to COVID-19 — is children playing together, maskless, hugs and high fives, chasing each other around, shrieking with joy.

Innocent, again.