In the early sixties, getting off the bus every day, the neighborhood kids changed out of school clothes to head up to the park where we worked on our water project. We propped open the bubbler water fountain with a forked stick. The water flowed down into lakes and canals behind dams of bricks, stones, and clay. We built, dug, rebuilt, and re-dug to expand the project down into the gulley. We got muddy and happy every day after school. One late spring day, two men drove up in a red panel truck with Municipal Utilities printed on the door. The driver, in khaki pants and gray jacket, put the propping stick in his pocket. The younger guy, in blue jeans and plaid shirt, pulled out a wrench and removed the fountain bubbler, then screwed a silver cap onto the pipe. They drove off without a word to us silently watching and some were crying. In those days, children didn’t challenge adults; the adults didn’t think they needed to explain themselves to kids.

Most families in the neighborhood lived paycheck to paycheck and some feared eviction. A mother left one night for her shift at the Rawlings plant and never returned; her daughter designed the layout of the water project and each expansion. A father laid off from the iron mines got drunk every night and would beat his wife; his son dug the canals deeper than anybody. One boy lost family members in a collision with a delivery truck on the highway; he figured out how to make a lock and dam work for toy boats. The kid next door could not play sports because he had heart problems from rheumatic fever; he monitored water flow and pulled leaves from the canals.

With all that going on in the neighborhood and more, the water project in the park had been our refuge, the one thing we constantly talked about and looked forward to doing every day, more so than anything else like riding bikes or playing football.

I drove by the old neighborhood after my mom’s funeral 60 years later. That water pipe is standing there at the top of the park and silver-capped just as it was that late spring day. Of course, all the kids are gone from that time, grown and moved away. Some did become civil engineers and construction managers; I became a psychologist.

Michael C. Roberts is a mostly retired pediatric psychologist. He now hikes in the Sonoran Desert with his dog, cleverly named “Buddy.” He tried painting inspirational rocks during the pandemic, but he cannot paint with any artistry, so maybe they were not very inspirational. He returned to photography. Several of his photographs have been published in literary magazines and on journal covers. A book is available on Amazon: “Imaging the World with Plastic Cameras: Diana and Holga.”

A Facebook friend recently suffered an unspeakable family tragedy. Just as today’s news travels, news of that event was posted instantly, then rehashed and commented upon for days. Although I didn’t post any comments myself, I was drawn like a moth to flame to the online comments. Each poster professed “insight.” It became insidious, this “insight” offered. Then there was the one-upmanship played as commenters tried to establish themselves as owning superior knowledge regarding this tragic event.

Soon, as I scrolled and devoured, I began to feel something akin to voyeurism, peeking shamelessly into this family’s darkest nightmare and unspeakable grief. And, soon after, I began to feel something more profound: a deep sadness that our society has devolved into one in which every emotion and every action is fodder for the gristmill known as social media. I recognized that valuing privacy has been replaced by coveting notoriety as an admirable quality.

I took stock of my motivation for participating in social media platforms (keeping up with my grandkids’ activities, living vicariously through friend’s travels and adventures, researching what is “best” for my dog, knowing where/when my pickleball buddies were playing, and maintaining connections with distant friends and relatives). I was forced to acknowledge that my rationalization was failing miserably, ultimately admitting that I really didn’t need social media. In a moment of clarity, I closed my social media accounts and removed myself from the endless chatter and blather that I thought I needed.

According to a June 2024 article in Psychology Today, there are pros and cons of exiting the world of social media. Psychologists cited in the article state there are immediate benefits which include a newfound “sense of freedom” from constant monitoring. Further, they posit, mental health improves as anxiety and depression associated with online competition and comparison diminishes.

It’s been seven months, and I don’t miss social media at all! Instead of endless scrolling through misinformation, mean-spirited gossip and outright bullying, I FaceTime and talk more frequently with my children and grandchildren, our conversations closing the miles between us. I read more, including local online content that keeps me informed about what’s happening in my community. I personally connect with my friends through shared experiences. I sleep better and I feel more empowered and less at the mercy of forces beyond my control. Life free of social media is a full life for me.

LuAnn Winkle lives in Hilton Head, NC

When we were really desperate to drive somewhere, anywhere, we would pry out the back seat of the Mercury to look for loose change. In the bowels of the strange brown matting beneath the seat we would find nickels, dimes, pennies, and every now and then, a precious quarter. It may not sound like much now, but gas was 32 cents a gallon in those days, so 50 cents bought us some quality time on the back roads of New England.

We could take the MGA out by the reservoir and watch the beams of light from the headlights bounce off the rows and rows of pine trees that made up the watershed. After midnight, with the top down, all we could hear was the roar of the wind and the purr of the motor. Long straight roads were our late night entertainment as we pushed the MG to see just how fast it could go. The speedometer hit sixty, seventy, eighty, and sometimes ninety before the lights of an oncoming car would force us to click off the high-beams and ease off the accelerator.

Other teenagers parked at “the plaza” and went from car to car, making up lies about who was having sex and who wasn’t, which “good girls” really weren’t good girls, and countless other topics of absolutely no importance that whiled away their time. We, on the other hand, had to be on the move. The whole point of having a car was to be in it, to be one with it, and to always, always keep moving. Could we make it to the border of the next state and back on less than half a tank of gas? It’s not as hard as it sounds in a region of small states, but it was about the adventure. We tested our driving skill and teenage luck.

In hindsight, it’s easy to see how invulnerable we thought we were. It never occurred to us that you might lose control of an Oldsmobile Starfire doing 110 m.p.h. out on the interstate. All we knew back then was that our instincts were telling us to get out on the highway and drive (Steppenwolf “Looking for Adventure” anyone?).

Whatever happened to driving nowhere? Four dollar per gallon gas in the 70s and three dollar gas today would be answers, but maybe computers and video games provide a vicarious (and safer) sense of escapism. Besides, cars have become so complex that we no longer understand how they operate, and where’s the romance in that?

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.