As you know, I had a serious crush on you when I was a kid. Everything about you made me happy.
Seeing you again last weekend, after such a long time, made me fall in love all over again. Since
leaving DC in 1975, I admit that I have had good relationships with other playgrounds, but mostly
through my children. I’ve never felt for another playground what I felt—and still feel—for you.

Although you haven’t shrunk an inch, you are smaller seen through the lens (Varilux) of adulthood—
but you are no less adorable. Your beautifully landscaped quadrant has only become more appealing
with age. I can still feel the crunch of grit in my chaw of Bazooka—still see gnats swarming overhead
when a fly ball sent me tumbling backwards down the slope into the Newcomb net.  

I need to tell you how I still feel some 46 years later. You provided a safe place to experiment and
grow and I’ll always love you for that. You also gave this tom-girl a chance to compete with boys on a
level playing field. Well, except for that damn slope. If I had a nickel for every time my mother said that
I should have been a boy, I would have had own my own Good Humor truck by my seventh birthday.

I never told you how proud I was to wear your t-shirt when competing against other playgrounds.
Remember when we went to a quoits tournament having never heard of the game before? We won and
celebrated with a Creamsicle (smiley face).

But I didn’t just love you for the athletics. You also introduced me to games like hopitaw, carrom, and
Rook. You stoked my creative side with art projects and activities like a decorate-your-big-toe-contest.
Which I won. 

I saw what you did for other kids, too, but that’s just so you. You didn’t mind my tentative expressions
of puppy love with a boy who had just slapped a ping pong ball at my head. Because I won. You provided
the intimacy of a bamboo grove behind your back fence for a chaste kiss. 

Speaking of excitement, remember your Coke machine? My heart still races at the memory of sending
precious nickels into the coin slot and then—the anticipation. Would a little paper cup descend? Would
it do so in advance of the cola syrup and seltzer spewing from tubes? Like veteran gamblers, we took
our chances and hoped that the vending machine gods were smiling. (I’ve never seen a machine like it;
you can tell me now if we were lab rats for a soda dispenser industry study.) 

I recently came across that ring I bought at Sullivan’s that no longer fits because my finger joints are
still swollen from bruising balls hurled in my direction. “Think fast!” gleefully shouted at me as my brain
tried to telegraph the news to my hand. But no matter. Your tokens of affection (jammed fingers, chipped
teeth, and scarred knees) carry happy memories tattooed on my heart.

It was my fault that we grew apart. I drifted to other playgrounds, trading in PF Flyers for Tretorns. But it
was only for their tennis courts, I swear.  If it means anything, I’m just into yoga now.

Looking back, I realize that my crush continued for decades and has deepened into true love, appreciation,
and respect. A little secret that I hope will please you: I use variations of Macomb as a password
sometimes. I do! You will always be my specialist of places.

xoxo,
Libby Mark
Macomb kid from the 1960s