As dusk fell across our suburban neighborhood in central New Jersey, I crept along a line of large pine trees toward my favorite hiding spot. Hide-and-seek was a team game, but the hiders were each on our own. I quietly climbed up the branches of a tree that almost formed a staircase for my 11-year-old body. As the seekers finished shouting their countdown, I had a great view to watch their failed efforts to find me, with my blind spot covered by a yard we had all deemed off-limits. This position had won me many games before, so I settled in, committed to wait until the other team gave up.
Few early memories feel as liberating as those evenings we spent running around my neighborhood as the sun set. Going out after dinner with the other kids on my block and playing night games, often variations on hide-and-seek, felt like a chance to be in charge. Six or seven of us would meet on Center Street in Hightstown every other night and improvise rules. We’d argue boundaries by block, which backyards were in or out, who was on which team and which team would hide first. The seekers would wait in a circle, eyes closed, until it was time to start the hunt.
I was never a fan of seeking; hiding was always my specialty, and I made a point to take it very seriously. “Perfect,” I thought, as the sun dropped behind the rows of houses, leaving the moon hidden by large passing clouds. Less visibility meant less chances to be seen through the foliage. After some time, I heard somebody yell. I expected to hear our code word for surrender, but they were yelling for us to come out. A thunderstorm was moving in fast and their parents had told them to get inside. But since it wasn’t the code word, I assumed it was just a trick. These sorts of ploys had been used before.Unless I saw an actual parent outside, I couldn’t trust it. So I waited. And waited. Nobody came to find me.
Instead, what I saw next was lightning, followed by a downpour. I jumped from the tree and ran home. By the time I reached my front porch, I was absolutely drenched. I sat there in my wet clothes, upset that my parents hadn’t come out to warn me. But looking back now, that was the whole point of these nights. They trusted me to go out without them and make decisions on my own. And it was my choice to ignore my friends, stay in the tree and get myself stuck. Lightning struck again, and thunder followed not a second after. Getting the chance to make mistakes and to feel their consequences made these nights some of the first times I felt the responsibility of freedom.
This story appears in the July/August 2024 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.