I arrive home and the Boy is in the backyard with Babcia, and he absolutely, positively doesn’t want to come in. He’s rediscovered the simplest toy, a found toy: a big pile of dirt. Add a couple of sticks, and he’s positively in a daze of joy.

He digs a little hole, moves to a new spot, digs a little hole, moves to a new spot, digs, moves, digs, moves, digs — a circle that seems endless.

Soon L stops illustrating the driveway with chalk sketches abstract and traditional and joins us in our digging. Soon, she has an idea: a stick forest.

E and I head deeper into the wild of the backyard to find more sticks. He tugs at exposed roots, drags sticks until something else attracts his attention, looks up trees until he loses his balance, picks up rocks and tosses them, and together, the three of us spend almost an hour together laughing, exploring, and playing completely toy-free.

The common regret of modern life: we’re so spoiled that we’re ruining ourselves. Imagination in kids today sometimes seems to be as illusive as quicksilver, but hopefully not in our children, and today, some evidence.

A stick forest.

Not a bad idea. Progress.