by Tanita Davis

Growing up the youngest of three sisters (in Martinez, California) meant being left out of the older
girls' games. To placate me, I was named Mom's "helper" and my playtimes combined chores and daydreaming. I would sit on the back porch and shuck corn from the garden, or weed the front yard - and then taking the silk from the corn, combine it with dirt and water, and make "pies" for the dog to eat (Our poor dog. She really did eat them.), or take the "milk" from the stems of the dandelions I was supposed to be eradicating from the front yard (after blowing all of the milkweed clocks and sufficiently re-seeding them throughout the lawn), and use it as glue to adhere dry weeds to the "head" of a cornhusk doll.

Because I was a quiet kid, I got away with a lot – climbing the tree next to my father's shed, and making a tree-house of sorts on the roof, complete with its own chamber pot  (Oh, I got in trouble when my mother found out about THAT) and store of slightly mildew books scavenged from a teacher's throw-away pile. One summer I played with the hose and made carefully dried adobe "moccasins" that were no more than ten or twelve layers of clay mud I wore on the bottom of my feet as shoes. They lasted for a surprisingly long time before they cracked. As the layers dried, I would lie on my back in the yard and listen to the drone of the planes going to and from the Air Force base, and imagine they were taking people to adventures, just like I would have someday.

Tanita Davis is the author of the young adult novels A La Carte and Mare's War. For more information, visit her website.
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by Alan Gratz

I have vivid memories of my mother turning me and my younger brother out of the house to "go play outside," though I can't imagine why we needed the prompting. It seemed as though we were always playing outside – pretending to be whatever new heroes we had seen at the movies, riding our bikes around the neighborhood, playing kickball in the cul-de-sac, building forts in the woods beyond our subdivision in Knoxville, Tennessee. I remember staying out as late as I could in the summer, until the dusk got so dark that the trees and houses were just vague black shapes to be navigated.

But the biggest, most enduring "game" we ever played was an ongoing fantasy world we created called West Columbia. My neighbor Donald and I dreamed it up when we were very young (first or second grade). West Columbia was our own country, and its territories were our yards. Later, we expanded our borders to the edge of the subdivision, then the neighboring forests, even the gas station two miles down the road. Donald and I named ourselves Vice-President and President, respectively, and wrote up a declaration of independence, drew maps, and handed out land and titles to the other kids on the street. We even made up our own money, but when a neighbor kid's dad found out we were getting his son to swap his American coins for West Columbian paper money, he put a stop to it. West Columbia endured though, and for years the fantasy expanded and grew as we added more territory, made more declarations, became a proper republic, and even weathered a minor war with a rival nation of kids down the street (South Washington!) who had the ultimate kid weapon in their arsenal: a high-powered BB gun.

I still have all our old West Columbia documents. I keep them in my file cabinet next to all the new fantasy worlds I'm inventing now as a professional writer.

Alan Gratz is the author of middle reader and young adult books, including Samurai Shortstop and Brooklyn Nine. For more information, read our interview with him and visit his website.
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by Mandana Sadat

Many of my memories of playing outdoors as a child seem to revolve around the theme of surviving alone on a desert island, à la Robinson Crusoe. In the garden of our house in Orsay (France), I used to build simple tree houses, or just ground ones whose rooms were outlined by branches and stones, and pretend I had to survive tempests and other trials. Later (a bit too late, maybe, I was already 12!) my father built me a little cabin made of wood and cement and with a real glass window. I was so happy! In it I continued playing as if I were 8 years old, living my adventurous life, surviving alone with and against nature, and being called upon to protect smaller creatures: insects, little rodents, birds… Mostly I was their savior, but occasionally, I have to admit, I would catch spiders to feed to the lizards living in the garden.

I was a half-witch, half-chemist, writing secret formulae and making magic potions  out of herbs, stones or seeds. When I realized that after a while all the potions turned the same kind of brown – stinky and not magic at all – I started creating colorful ones by soaking the dry felt stick of old markers in water. I kept all the transparent flacons on display in my cabin, and the effect on my friends was pure magic! For years, I kept the secret of how to make those potions to myself, relishing the occasions when I would present the latest potions to an enraptured group of friends in a very strange, crazy scientist-like voice!… Back then I also loved to prepare a survival kit and pretend to go by myself into the “deep and dangerous jungle” of my calm neighborhood. In those moments I was on a mission, and I took my job so seriously that once a police car stopped me to ask questions. They thought I was running away from home!

These are just some of the many, many games I used to play as a child... and in my house, now, I still keep some of the treasures I brought back from my adventures, as a reminder of those happy days.

Mandana Sadat is the author and illustrator of many picture books, including the wordless Mon Lion, and the bilingual (French/Persian) Le Jardin the Babai. She is the illustrator of Tarde de Inverno/Winter Afternoon. For more information, visit her website.
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By Jorge Argueta

On the windy days of October, in El Salvador, my friends and I, a patrol of carefree boys that played in the fields and under the mango trees, were happier because it was the time of the year when we could fly kites. The strong wind used to mess our hair, and the fine dust it blew made us look like white-haired boys…

Making and flying our kites was a magical experience. Cutting the thin colorful paper into triangles, preparing the thin sticks of bamboo, making the long tail out of newspaper … Putting all the parts together kept us busy and happy, but the best part, of course, was running in the fields pulling at the string, with the kites behind us. Little by little our kites would start to lift up off the ground, and soon they looked like tiny hearts in the sky.

Sometimes we would send messages into the blue skies. By pulling the string through which we had put a small piece of paper, our message would go up and up. Our soaring imagination knew no limits…

Poet and writer Jorge Arqueta is the author of several titles (most of them bilingual), including Talking to Mother Earth/ Hablando con Madre Tierra and Bean Soup/ Sopa de Frijoles. For more information, visit his website.
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By Neni Sta Romana Cruz

The summers of my childhood in the Philippines were especially magical. It meant no strict bedtime rules and all my waking hours totally devoted to where my imagination and the day’s inclination led me. Suddenly, there was time enough for everything pleasurable.

I felt I had conquered the world each time I succeeded in crawling through the window leading to the rooftop that led to the guava tree weighed down by its fruits, all ready for the picking. Sitting on the sturdiest branch, savoring the fruit, and being drenched by sunshine though sheltered by the leaves was a sensory delight. Other trees were easier to clamber on, like the kalachuchi(frangipani) trees whose branches were lower and even more welcoming.

Playing hopscotch, whether with a friend of by myself, was another favorite game. How I loved being at my cousin’s home, where a hopscotch had been permanently and neatly painted on the concrete driveway. But it was just as enjoyable drawing my hopscotch on the ground with a stick. I kept a precious collection of rocks and stones and bits and pieces of this and that to mark my space.

Summer also meant street games of tag which drove everyone breathless – patintero, which involved a lot of chasing, and tumbang preso, that was signaled by knocking down an empty metal can with a rock or slippers or whatever.

Quieter diversions were trapping spiders in match boxes; or watching with fascination processions of ants in long trails kissing each other in greeting; or getting ready for tea parties by setting up all the pieces of my tea set and slicing leaves and flowers to serve. And always, after the knees had been scraped, there was the quiet refuge of losing myself in my Nancy Drew or Judy Bolton books, or in my secret diary.

Children's book author, journalist and educator Neni Sta Romana Cruz is the author of several books for children, young adults and adults, including Why the Piña Has a Hundred Eyes.
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by Chris Cheng

Growing up, I lived in a suburb of Sydney, Australia, in a house with a large backyard with grass and trees and an outdoor rotary clothesline. Our backyard made for a wonderful playground!

One of the strongest memories from my childhood is of converting a tree – with its scraggily loose limbs that were very strong, and sometimes leafless – into a tree house of sorts. I didn't have walls in my tree house, but I hammered nails into planks of wood and made steps and landings all through the tree. I talked, tree house to tree house, with other kids. I could sit up there, above the fence line and the roofs (and, in my mind, way into the sky), and peer into my neighbors’ backyards. I would watch them tending their vegetable gardens, or hanging their washing to dry (including those big big white underpants, which always made me laugh)… I even remember seeing people kissing once – and they weren't any of the neighbours!!!

It was the best tree house any kid ever built! It made me feel like I was king of the world! I had many a lunchtime feast perched (precariously) on it. I even managed to add a lantern and reflector to it, in the hopes that my mum and dad would let me spend the night propped there, but, alas, they never did.

Chris Cheng is the author of midlle reader and picture books, including One Child and New Gold Mountain. For more information, visit his website.
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by Demi

I grew up in an old New England farmhouse that had a big barn. My mother's painting studio was on the second floor of the barn, and as soon as I could crawl, I crawled up there and tried out
all hers best paints on all her best papers, with all her best brushes!

There were magical places everywhere – a trap door in the barn, a giant swing outside, a tree house and a running stream. But the best days of all were when my magical grandfather appeared and sat my sister and me on his knees and began telling his non-ending story called "Zachariah and Mehitible", about two terrible children who mostly did dreadful things – though there was always a wise and judicious ending. But before he got to the end, he would suddenly stop, and my sister and I would have to make up the middle. I really think this is where my bookmaking began. He made storytelling magic!

My grandfather was Arthur Standwood Pie. He wrote many books, including a series of very successful children's books called The Boys of St. Timothy's, based on his years of teaching at St. Paul's School in Concord, New Hampshire.

Artist and author Demi has well over 100 books to her name, including Marco Polo and Su Dongpo: Chinese Genius. Read our interview with her and see a gallery of her work.
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by Larry Loyie
Adapted from his new book The Moon Speaks Cree (Tundra, 2010), based on his winter adventures growing up in the 1930s in a traditional Cree family.

"Can we go sliding?" I asked Mama. She was darning socks by lamplight while my older sister Elizabeth washed the dishes and younger sister Margaret dried and put them away. 

"You may, Lawrence. Your sisters can go with you. It's almost as bright as daylight out there," my Mama said.

When we were outside, I shared my secret. "I have an idea about our slider," I told my sisters. "Wait and see. I'm going to the shed to look around."

I soon came back carrying a scoop shovel and a piece of tin. Together we hauled my grandfather's old, broken down steamer trunk to Rabbit Hill. I set the scoop shovel under the front of the trunk and added the tin to cover its brass corners. "Let's try it," I said, more confidently than I felt.

My sisters stepped in and sat down. I ran behind them, pushing hard. The trunk began to move and I jumped in. The scoop shovel slid smoothly in the grooves of the logging trucks that traveled up and down Rabbit Hill every day. The wind blew cool and fresh in our faces as we flew down the snow-covered road. Our whoops echoed in the moonlight.

At the bottom of the hill, the trunk slowed to a stop. Margaret jumped up and down with joy. "Let's do it again," she yelled.

Pushing and shoving, we hauled the trunk, the shovel and the tin back up the hill. At the top, my older brother Robert was waiting with his fancy steel-runner sled.
 
"We have the fastest slider in the whole world," I couldn't resist boasting.
 
"Can I try it?" Robert asked.

I could hardly believe what I heard. My brother wanted to try my amazing slider.

Larry Loyie is the author of many young adult novels (many of them based on his own life), including Goodbye Buffalo Bay and As Long as the Rivers Flow. For more information, read our interview with him and visit his website.
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by Belle Yang

I was born on the subtropical island of Taiwan.  The front yard was the rice paddies, alive with tadpoles like music notes on sheet music.  The Sleeping Dragon Mountain, exploding with firecracker red azaleas, was my backyard.  Rivulets, home to small fish and crustaceans, came rushing down the hills.  My barefoot friends and I looked for tiny crabs as they crawled among the stones, dappled by sunlight and the motion of wind in the acacia.

We caught the crabs and tied white sewing thread to one of their many legs.  We took them for walks on the paved paths of the schoolyard, where my parents taught high school.  I was delighted with my pet that could only walk sideways.

Belle Yang is the author and illustrator, among other titles, of Hannah's is My Name and the new graphic memoir Forget Sorrow. See a sample of her work here and, for more information, visit her website.

Posted June 2010