Over time, all is lost. Really it is.
Only the architecture remains, and often it is obscured or neutered by accumulations of greenery or possessions.
A new wave of small fry, flapping about on the wet sand, lucky if they can find a tidepool to await the next wave in, are in charge now. They are as seasoned as the tender green growth last year's twigs.
Yet, they are so young they have no idea how much they don't know. That is what make them dangerous. They believe the know-how they gained in the working world, before they became parents, will serve them well here in our shared courtyards. But none of the skills transfer. No one is in charge, here. No one is getting paid. No one leaves their problems at the door and uses their party manners at meetings. We don't all have the same education and methods of operating. And that is what makes them vulnerable.
Operators, that is what my dad's generation called them, fry people like them for breakfast every day of the week. And they have no idea. They think they are playing ping-pong, but their partners are gutter-ball champs.
Rocco, Macky, Sorie and Wizzy. All experts in the playground arts. You are buried six feet deep before you realize you arebnot on your feet anymore.
