ABSTRACT

I was a free-range kid. I grew up in an era, and place, where my brothers and sisters and I would head out of the house on a weekend morning to play with friends, explore the woods behind our home, catch tadpoles in the pond, and only return home for lunch. Our good old “Leaking Lena” conjures up particularly fond memories. It was a makeshift raft we fashioned from a large, battered plywood board that we scavenged from somewhere. Two or three of us could fit on it and we floated along the creek using a long stick as a pole to maneuver. We spent hours and hours at the creek, returning home with wet, muddy clothes.