It is great to read that there are kids being kids, and having a ball doing it. Even better, there are parents prepared to let them, no cotton wool, just a scrape here or there.
Have got a hill any where close?. Those barels, or a tractor sized tyre would roll down a hill well.
Any old prams?and a plank of woid, a couple of nails, instant cart, usually with lots of crashes
Thanks Len! I always tell people that my helicopter is broken when it comes to my kids. I tend to their needs, but the highest form of compliment around here is being told that one is competent. My kids drive tractors, lawn mowers, and farm trucks, shoot firearms competitively, and even run things like chainsaws. We are not unsafe about it in anyway, but would rather have them learn how to do the dangerous stuff while with us instead of all at once or not at all as adults.
Play time, however is no holds bar, mom's not watching (so they think;), go for broke insanity! We do have a pretty big hill in the back, although there is a 90 degree turn at the bottom, but I think they would totally enjoy a cart week! I'll pass your thoughts along!
Hope you are having a lovely day!!
It is so good to read of kids growing up the same as in the old days.
If you can stand the mess, pour lots of water down a narrow track down the hill, will need a safe landing at the bottom, the kids slide down the hill in the same track, before long you will have a smooth rut that they can build up speed on. Then in pairs etc.
The neighbours kids were into w w 1, they dug deep trenches in one paddock, covered them with planks of wood and the dirt and the grass that was there.
It was strong enough to drive a tractor over. They slept, eat, and lived down there in the holidays
Ha ha ha! Mess! That word isn't in my vocabulary! If we get around to building that track I will post some pictures just for you!
LOL! I had quite a giggle as I read over the WW1 neighbor kid extravaganza, for there might be similar bunkers in the woods around here and at my friend's house. One of my favorite childhood stories that my dad told me was he and his uncles buried an outhouse on it's side on the edge of a strawberry field (My grandma and aunt hoed strawberries long ago), and they would lob dirt clod mortars when they opened the door toward the sky. I think that phase ended when they hit my Aunt Barb in the head.....