Isn’t it funny that our adult idea of mischief is dark and gruesome when compared to our childhood adventures? And yet that innocent mischief of yesteryear certainly leaves an impression deep enough to remember.
I have never forgotten the exciting, albeit absurd, week I had walking the kilometre or so home from school in Grade One. My two girlfriends and I would plan our attack with glee, and even though we repeated the same thing four days in a row, we didn’t tire of it.
The game plan! Sneak up to random house with front door open. Rattle letterbox noisily and call “post”. Hide behind tree and wait. Giggle uproariously if someone actually came to the door to look.
Did we convince ourselves that they came to the door because they really believed it was the mailman? I can’t be 100 per cent sure, but I actually think we did. I cringe at the stupidity, the simplicity, the unimaginativeness of our ploy. But I smile too. Because it is from a world I can never occupy again. It’s a headspace I can never resurrect. I can’t relate to the little girl who had such genuine fun, thinking she was oh so naughty and sneaky, rattling the letterbox to trick the homeowner. I think that’s why she is all the more special. She’s gone and ought to be remembered.
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