"I'll Plaaaaay with You!"

As soldiers returned after World War II, housing for young families was in short supply, and my parents, like many, made do with what they could find. After starting out in a rented room in someone's home and then progressing to a three-room apartment, they were giddy with delight to become the proud owners of a five room ranch house in a new suburban neighborhood of "crackerbox" sized homes. Today I drive through the area from time to time and am amazed at the tiny houses, which held so much life 50+ years ago, set on large lots that would be the envy of many homeowners in modern developments today. When my parents bought their prize in 1957 there were cornfields at the end of the block, and few of the working class families in the new little houses had much beyond their homes, cars, and endless 1950s-variety optimism. Among the lacks were fences and fancy landscaping, needless extravagances both, and probably not even considered by many. For us children this was a boon, essentially turning block after block into an endless park, with the tiny houses little more than obstacles to be worked into the game of the moment, and the occasional tree or tool shed only loaded with potential for "Hide and Seek."

My mother used to tell of one Saturday morning shortly after we moved in. About four years old at the time and a friendless "new kid," I spied a group of children in a yard down the block and tore out the back door on a full gallop, screen door slamming behind me, and charged across the neighboring backyards calling, "I'll play with you! I'll plaaaaay with you!" Telling the story my mother would shake her head and smile at her younger self, describing how she stood in that doorway watching with the fierce intensity that only a mother has, thinking, "They better play with her!!"

I don't remember, but they probably did, as I don't seem to bear any psychic scars from youthful rejection, and do have many memories of charging across those lawns among an army of pint-sized fellow baby-boomers. But over the years, as I heard my mother recount that tale of our early days in the neighborhood, I came to wonder what happened to that little girl who never stopped to consider that perhaps those other children didn't want to play with her, perhaps she would be interrupting them, perhaps she wasn't good enough for them, maybe she didn't know the rules of their game, or if they might laugh at her or call her names, or if any one of countless other social disasters might occur. Instead, she saw children, wanted their friendship, and without a moment's hesitation took off with a big smile and bounding enthusiasm to offer nothing but her openness and companionship. I'd bet money it paid off . . . and more money that it still would, even now, whether the "children" in question be four years old, forty, or ninety-four.

Adolescent self-consciousness and self-doubt are unavoidable, I suppose, yet I know I was well past those years when I was still constrained by doubts that never entered the head of my four year-old self. And not the doubts born of the wisdom of age, either. Rather, baseless, exaggerated, self-centered, "what if" doubts, coupled with simple social carelessness, i.e., failure to realize that my presence is valuable and matters, that isolation is something one does to oneself, and that some of the niceties discarded in the rebellious 60s had merit beyond the obvious.

Until my early 40s I moved frequently, but only once did a neighbor welcome me with homemade cookies. And [gulp], only once have I done likewise. And I'm sure I would be embarrassed if I could remember how old I was before my mother's lessons sunk in; you know, the lessons about reciprocating invitations and gifts; about not rejecting others' overtures without a very good reason, and doing so graciously when necessary; about it being the duty of every guest at a party to be sure that every other guest has a good time; and about being sure to greet people on arriving and to seek them out to say good-bye on leaving any gathering. It's not about the gifts, invitations, or obligatory mingling; it's about having a framework for building social bridges and relationships in communities. The 1960s mantra "Do your own thing" shattered a lot of prejudices and stereotypes that needed to be gone, but it took with them some social conventions that are handy for making one's way in a community and for opening doors to potential friendships.

Or has friendship become passé? There are close family and more distant relatives, colleagues and co-workers, neighbors, employers and employees, clients and suppliers, fellow organization members, very full "schedules," . . . but, for many, an absence of companions and intimates chosen simply because they like one another, they enjoy each other's company, and their lives are mutually enriched by one another's presence. And those co-workers, neighbors, relatives, and others may occupy most of one's time . . . yet not be people one particularly likes or enjoys.

When I wasn't running across lawns around the little houses in my parents' 1950s and 1960s neighborhood, I tended to be at my grandmother's house, where on summer nights, over my whiny protests, she insisted that I carry the wicker chairs out to the front lawn. "But why do I have to take TWO for just YOU?" I complained, only to be admonished to do as I was told and be quick about it. Years later I got it: Grandma took her book out to one of those wicker chairs and sat reading, until a neighbor arrived to sit in the other chair and visit. Years later I wondered: "How did she know someone would come?" And years later I decided to replicate the experiment: In my 21st century neighborhood where no one sits in front of their houses, I set two chairs on the front lawn, parked my body and a book in one of them, and waited. And along came a neighbor to sit in the other. It's happened that way every time since.

Three months ago I left my position as a home health care executive and opened a small business that offers consulting and project management services in health care. The new hat I'm wearing gives me many opportunities to consider problems that affect health and what might be done about them. I can develop programs and write protocols, policies,and procedures; I can analyze and advise; I can evaluate and recommend; and I can - and particularly enjoy -roll up my sleeves and work alongside a client to achieve a goal or effect better outcomes. But as I look at more or less able-bodied seniors bored and lonely in their apartments; harried younger adults pressured by work, family, bills, and responsibilities; and children sequestered behind security fences and driven to play dates and other activities choreographed by adults, I wonder if one of the most health-promoting activities in which we all could engage might be running across a lawn, or taking a basket of muffins, or setting out an empty chair, all to say, "I'll play with you! I'm here, and I'd like to come to know you and be your friend. Won't you engage with me, and be authentic and open and your wonderful self? Won't you please?" Because if only you will,

I'll plaaaay with you!