I was a kid in Minnesota in the 70s. We had an hour of recess every day, even when the temps were well below zero. There were two playground aides who would occasionally blow their whistle and yell at the rowdiest kids, but mostly we were totally free to range around and do whatever we wanted.
I was a kid in Minnesota in the 70s. We had an hour of recess every day, even when the temps were well below zero. There were two playground aides who would occasionally blow their whistle and yell at the rowdiest kids, but mostly we were totally free to range around and do whatever we wanted.
Besides the usual tag, jump rope, and playing on the playground equipment, we girls would play Four Square, where we’d stand in a grid. Someone would name a category (say, “horses,” or “dog breeds” or “tv shows”), and we would bounce the ball to each other. As you caught the ball, you said a name from the category. If you couldn’t think of a name, you were out. The game continued until there was one girl standing, and she got to announce the next category.
I also remember the occasional skinned knees and banged heads (I once knocked myself out running through a jungle gym and trying not to get tagged by the Pickle in the Middle). These minor injuries were a totally normal part of life and no big deal—and certainly not so bad as to justify a litany of safety rules!
I was a kid in Minnesota in the 70s. We had an hour of recess every day, even when the temps were well below zero. There were two playground aides who would occasionally blow their whistle and yell at the rowdiest kids, but mostly we were totally free to range around and do whatever we wanted.
Besides the usual tag, jump rope, and playing on the playground equipment, we girls would play Four Square, where we’d stand in a grid. Someone would name a category (say, “horses,” or “dog breeds” or “tv shows”), and we would bounce the ball to each other. As you caught the ball, you said a name from the category. If you couldn’t think of a name, you were out. The game continued until there was one girl standing, and she got to announce the next category.
I also remember the occasional skinned knees and banged heads (I once knocked myself out running through a jungle gym and trying not to get tagged by the Pickle in the Middle). These minor injuries were a totally normal part of life and no big deal—and certainly not so bad as to justify a litany of safety rules!