I was a free-range child. I grew up in a suburban neighborhood filled with free-range baby boomers like me. In the summer, our mothers said, “Go outside and play,” so we did. They yelled or rang bells to get us to come in for lunch. We organized softball games, hide and seek, and water balloon fights. We wandered fields. We chewed long shoots of tender grass, sucking out their sweetness. We jumped rope. Sometimes, we sat on the curb, young feet kicking pebbles. We had important conversations that I cannot remember. We pinched Snap Dragon blossoms between thumbs and forefingers to open and close their mouths. They were finger puppets to us. They said funny things that I do not remember. Some things escape me now, but I remember summers as a free-range child.