I grew up in the 70s and 80s, in a city that felt like it was still learning its own edges. Streets weren’t lined with development yet, and blank spaces—lots of dirt, weeds, and sun-baked patches of ground—were waiting for someone to claim them. We claimed them. We ran through them. We made trails, shortcuts, and little worlds of our own.

The days were long, the sun was generous, and we were allowed, somehow, to be exactly the kind of kids we wanted to be.

No schedule. Just sunlight.

There was a kind of freedom back then that didn’t need explaining. It just… was.

It lived in scraped knees you didn’t remember getting, in blisters you wore like trophies, in dirt permanently embedded under your fingernails like a badge of honor.

We didn’t “go outside.” We disappeared.

“Be back before it gets dark!”

That was the only rule. And even that… had some wiggle room.

Out there, time didn’t exist the same way. No notifications. No buzzing pockets. Just the occasional voice carried across the block: “Hey! Your mom’s looking for you!”

Which, depending on the tone, meant either you’re fine… or you better start running.

The city itself felt different then—less filled in… like someone had left blank spaces on purpose. And we took those spaces. Dirt lots, overgrown patches, forgotten stretches of land that didn’t belong to anyone… which meant they belonged to us.

We made trails through them. Not the kind you’d find on a map—the kind you earned.

“Follow me, I know a shortcut.”

“You said that last time.”

“No, this one’s real.”

Some trails were already there—faint paths left behind by dogs, kids, maybe someone just passing through. Others… we carved ourselves. Breaking branches, kicking rocks aside, pushing through weeds that scratched at your legs like they were trying to keep you out.

“Watch out—there’s thorns!”

“Too late.”

Sometimes the trail got you somewhere faster. From your house to mine. From the field to the canal. And sometimes… it didn’t go anywhere at all.

“What’s over there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s find out.”

Expeditions to nowhere. Or maybe… to somewhere you just hadn’t named yet.

Out there, you saw everything. Dogs that barked like they owned the land. Cats that watched like you didn’t belong—little mafia lookouts, just waiting for something to happen. Other kids, mapping their own worlds. And every now and then… someone unexpected. A man under a tree with a grocery cart. A couple that suddenly got very quiet when you walked by..

“Uh… let’s go this way.”

“Yeah… yeah, this way.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just remembered. Don’t go down that trail. Take the other one. But even then… curiosity usually won. Because the path kept going. And so did you.

And out there… you learned something else too—we weren’t the only ones living in those spaces. The trails, the fields, the canal edges… they belonged to other things.

Out there, the beasts in our world—outside of the occasional dog or somebody’s mean cat—were smaller. But sometimes… a whole lot more dangerous. And somehow… that didn’t scare us away. It just made everything feel bigger. Wilder. Like anything could happen. And usually did.

Snakes, for one. Gopher snakes, long and lazy, sliding through the brush like they had all the time in the world.

“Hey… don’t move.”

“Why?”

“…just don’t move.”

Water snakes near the canal, quick and twitchy, gone before you could decide if you were scared. Garden snakes—the harmless ones—which didn’t matter, because to us, a snake was a snake.

And every now and then…

“…that’s not a gopher snake.”

That low rattle—soft, but unmistakable. You froze.

“Back up.”

“I am backing up.”

“No, like… faster.”

Slow steps that turned into not-so-slow steps. And then, once you were far enough…

“Did you see how big it was?!”

“It was huge!”

“It was like this thick!”

“You’re lying.”

“I swear!”

It got bigger every time you told it.

Spiders too. Every kind imaginable—at least to us. Webs stretched across trails like traps you never saw until it was too late.

“Ahh! It’s on me!”

“Where?!”

“I don’t know—just get it off!”

That frantic swinging dance, while your friends laughed… until it was their turn. Because it was always someone’s turn.

And then the buzzing ones. Bees. Wasps. The real villains.

“Don’t mess with it.”

“I’m not messing with it!”

“You’re messing with it!”

“I’m just looking!”

That was always how it started. Then—

“Run!”

No strategy. No dignity. Just survival.

We played ball in empty lots that became everything—baseball field, soccer pitch, battlefield. Bases were whatever you could find: a rock, a shirt… your little brother if he stood still long enough.

“Safe!”

“I tagged you!”

“You didn’t even touch me!”

“I got you with the wind!”

And somehow… that counted.

We collected things too. Ladybugs, mostly. But every now and then, someone had a shoebox full of lizards like they were running a reptile empire.

“Don’t let ’em out!”

“I’m not!”

—lid pops open—

“Ahh man… my mom’s gonna kill me.”

Bikes weren’t transportation. They were freedom with handlebars. We rode for no reason—not to get somewhere… just to go.

“Watch this!”

“That’s not a ramp!”

“Yeah it is—kinda!”

It wasn’t.

And then there were the BB guns and homemade slingshots—held together by rubber bands and confidence.

“You think you can hit it?”

“Easy.”

Misses by ten feet.

“Wind.”

Everything was wind.

“Don’t hit the window!”

“I’m not gonna hit the—”

crack

Silence.

“…run.”

And we ran like Olympic athletes.

Then there was the canal. Not the part you were supposed to be near—the other part… under the overpass. The coolest spot in the neighborhood. You felt it before you saw it—that drop in temperature, that deep shade like stepping into another world.

“Let’s go under the bridge.”

“Yeah… it’s cooler there.”

Flat ground. Packed dirt. Close to the water… close to trouble.

“You think there’s fish in here?”

“There’s gotta be.”

Bent hooks. Tangled line. No patience.

“Shhh… you’re gonna scare ’em.”

“You’re the one talking!”

Half the time we weren’t even fishing.

“Bet you won’t touch the water.”

“I already did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Watch.”

That slow lean… that stretch…

“Don’t fall—”

Too late.

A splash. Then laughter echoing off the concrete like a stadium. Wet shoes. Muddy jeans. Already building the story.

“I slipped.”

“Where?”

“…nowhere.”

And the trees. Every neighborhood had that one tree—the one you weren’t supposed to climb. Which made it perfect.

“Think you can make it to the top?”

“Easy.”

It was never easy. Rough bark scraping your arms, ants deciding you were their problem, branches that lied about how strong they were.

“Don’t look down!”

“I already did!”

But once you were up there… everything changed. Quieter. Smaller. Yours.

“I can see your house from here!”

“No you can’t!”

“I swear!”

You stayed longer than you needed to—just to prove you could. Getting down was a different story.

“Okay… now what?”

“Just jump.”

“I’m not jumping!”

You always jumped.

Home was just a pit stop. A place for water from the hose—warm, metallic, perfect.

“You’ve been outside all day?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you eat?”

“…yeah.”

That answer covered a lot.

And then… the snacks. Every day’s adventure demanded them, and every pocket held their weight in gold—because no adventure ever happened on an empty stomach. Especially on those long, sun-heavy days, when time stretched out and refused to end.

You didn’t pack snacks the way people do now. No containers. No planning. You snuck them.

A burrito, wrapped in a paper towel—made from a homemade tortilla, still soft, still warm if you timed it right, filled with whatever was left over from the night before. Beans. Maybe some rice. If you were lucky… a little bit of meat.

“Don’t take too much!”

“I’m not!”

You were. Fold it tight. Tuck it under your arm or slide it into a pocket you hoped wouldn’t betray you. That was gold.

Then came the real stash. Sugar Babies. Sticky, stubborn, guaranteed to last longer than they should. Tootsie Rolls—because you could fit a handful in your pocket and still have room for rocks, string, or whatever else you thought you needed.

“Let me get one.”

“No, these are mine.”

“You have like twenty!”

“…okay, but just one.”

Gum too—always gum. Half the time it lost its flavor in about thirty seconds, but that didn’t matter. You chewed it anyway. Kept it. Re-chewed it like it had something left to give.

And soda. Always soda. Warm by the time you opened it, fizz hitting harder than it should. You’d pass it around like it was something rare.

“Don’t drink it all!”

“I’m not!”

“You just took a big gulp!”

“I was thirsty!”

No one cared where it came from. No one cared if it was flat. It was cold enough. Sweet enough. Good enough. And somehow… it tasted better out there.

Sitting on a curb, under a tree, or in the shade of the overpass—dust on your shoes, sweat on your forehead, laughing about something that probably wasn’t that funny. Because it wasn’t just the snacks. It was where you were when you ate them. Halfway through something. In between one story and the next. Fueling up… not to go home—but to keep going.

And if you stayed out long enough… somebody always had a radio. A small transistor radio, usually scratched up, powered by a single nine-volt battery that somehow lasted forever. 

You’d hear it before you saw it—that faint crackle, music drifting in and out depending on how you held it. Sometimes music. Sometimes a game. Sometimes just voices talking about things that felt a million miles away from where you were. Didn’t matter. It made the world feel bigger.

And just about everyone—or at least someone in the group—had a pocket knife. Not for anything specific. For everything. Cutting string. Sharpening sticks. Carving your name into something that didn’t belong to you.

“Let me see it.”

“Be careful.”

“I am being careful.”

You weren’t. You’d flip it open like you knew what you were doing, hold it a little too confidently, pass it around like it was some kind of tool of importance. Because it was. Not dangerous in the way people think now—just… necessary.

Part of the gear. Like the burrito. Like the candy. Like the radio. Like the stories you were already halfway into. Little things you carried in your pockets that somehow made the day feel complete.

And your parents would nod, half-listening, half-smiling—because they knew. They knew you were out there doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing. 

Living.

There was no audience. No one documenting it. No one judging it. Just you and your friends… figuring things out in real time. The world didn’t flood you all day. You waited for the evening news without even realizing it. Life came in moments… not headlines.

And your best friend? You didn’t text them. You waited.

“Can I go?”

“Did you finish your chores?”

“…almost.”

“Then no.”

“…fine.”

Five minutes later:

“Okay, I’m done!”

You weren’t fooling anyone. But somehow… it worked. It wasn’t a schedule. Not really. Just a rhythm. Daylight meant go. Dark meant come home. Everything in between? That was yours.

And maybe that’s what made it so special. We weren’t performing. We weren’t curating anything.

We were just kids… given the space, the silence, the shade under overpasses, the tops of trees, the hidden trails through nowhere, the snacks stuffed in our pockets, the radios crackling faintly, the knives tucked safely at our sides, and the long stretch of sunlight in between…

To be kids.

And somewhere along the way… without realizing it… we mapped a whole world that doesn’t exist the same way anymore—not on paper, not on a screen… but still there. In the shortcuts we remember. In the dust we can almost feel. In the laughter we can still hear echoing down streets that are now lined with houses, shops, and parking lots.

And maybe that’s the point: the world didn’t need to be captured, measured, or explained. It was ours, fleeting and golden, stretched between sunrise and sunset. 

No schedule. Just sunlight and shortcuts to nowhere.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.