The Hem of Adulthood’s Skirt Jennifer Marsh As C.S. Lewis puts it, “To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicious of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood…” By my estimate, the snow is three inches or more. Despite my belief that criminals wait till the sun goes down to plan anything nefarious, and that any small copse of trees is large enough to host a hungry and man-eating cougar, 11:30pm finds me running through the park at the edge of my college apartment. I’m 26, it’s 19 degrees out, and I’m flinging snow at my roommates. Central Washington University is named for its reputed spot at the center of the state. There’s a bit of bickering about where the actual spot is: many measurements put it about eleven miles southwest of Wenatchee, but a marker on University Way claims that Ellensburg holds the center. This is one of many simmering debates in Washington State, and like most of the fights, I didn’t know it existed until I moved to Ellensburg. Actually, I didn’t really know Ellensburg existed until I moved to Ellensburg, an offense the residents carry like family photos in the sun visor of their truck. Determined to have a proper fight, I kick the ground to send flurries of snow up at my roommate’s face. It’s too powdery to form snowballs, but if I kick it at the right angle, a dusting of snow rockets towards Hannah’s face and clings to her hair. She fights back just as furiously, both of us dodging and kicking in a graceless tango. It should be dark, but the snow reflects the light up at the sky and leaves the park bright enough to see silhouettes and dodge attacks. Behind Hannah, Kayla is swinging her scarf in wide arcs at the ground to sweep the powdery snow up in gusts at Brianna’s face. It’s not really working, but I don’t think they mind, either of them. It is late, final exams are over, and we live in the lap of winter. Eastern Washington does not match its other half. For one, it is flat flat flat. Beyond Ellensburg, hills rise up to the south and north, hinting at the mountain range that runs down the state like a spine, but the town proper—indeed, the entire county—lies on a plain smooth as a flower pressed in the family Bible. Second, somewhere in early history a bargain with the four winds was made, and now each side of the state only gets two seasons. The West splits its time between spring and fall, while summer and winter whip by fast enough that they’re rumored to skip out entirely. It rarely snows, and when it does, whole cities close down. It is a region that prides itself on love for the earth, a liberal leaning, and evergreens that coat the hillsides in improbable height and flourish. The East is not like this. The East is rural farming communities. The East is gun cabinets in the furniture aisle. The East has blistering summers, wind gusts strong enough to knock you over, snows so deep you can forget they ever end. For many centuries, playing in the snow with my roommates would have earned me the scorn of most of society. Play was considered a waste of time, even for children. Consider Fanny Newell, who, as Howard Chudacoff tells it, “recalled that in her late-eighteenth-century childhood she was haunted [End Page 105] by fears for her soul and disdained playing with other children lest she fall ‘deeper into sin.’ Her parents encouraged her instead to prefer ‘joys on high.’” Of course, today the fact that children should play is near indisputable. Not only is it a social standard—think of the scorn for a parent who refused their child any sort of free play—but it’s also a pillar of the economy. Children’s toys generated 19 billion dollars in revenue last year. That’s the 2013 federal...
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