Mr. Write's Page

Here in Jefferson, one of the local landmarks is a sliding board that looms over the playground at Jefferson Elementary School. It’s a massive blue and yellow plastic thing about 10 feet tall, held up by a metal frame.

The sliding board was here when I moved to Jefferson in 2006. You can’t help but notice it. It faces one of the town’s busiest thoroughfares, standing 20 yards from the pavement, looking at you.

I say looking at you because the sliding board is constructed in the form of a large blue — well, let me back up and explain this properly.

The first time I drove past the playground and saw the sliding board, I said to myself, gracious sakes, it’s a giant blue alligator! A happy, child-friendly alligator, to be sure, but how odd — why did they make it blue?

Seeing the blue alligator became a part of my regular routine, and I passed it often. Each time I drove by the school, the term “blue alligator” materialized in my head.

Inevitably, that thought was followed by the nagging questions: why is the alligator blue? Why not green? Who decided? Was it done in a burst of whimsy?

Admittedly, playground equipment is not the sort of thing a person dwells upon for long. After I passed the school and the playground was behind me, all thoughts of blue alligators evaporated from my consciousness. My brain moved on to address more important matters, such as picking up my laundry.

Nor is playground equipment the sort of thing a person discusses with family and friends. How lame would it be to interrupt a family dinner by asking, “Hey, guys, that big alligator at the elementary school playground — why is it blue?”

So, the months went by, and the blue alligator stood vigil at the playground, and I saw it regularly. I would ponder the matter for a few seconds, then drive on, the “blue” question unanswered.

Unanswered until the day I put the question to my granddaughter Maddie.

Maddie was two years old when I moved to Jefferson. Early on, we discovered that she is whip-smart, very advanced for her age. This is a kid who thinks like an adult.

I mean that literally. Maddie is a genuine brainiac. You are obliged to relate to her as a small adult, not as a child. Do otherwise, and you make yourself look foolish.

Sometime in 2008 or 2009, when Maddie was four or five, she and I were en route to the city park, and we drove past the elementary school. Maddie was strapped in her booster chair in the back seat, passenger side.

“Hey, Maddie,” I said, looking at her in the rear-view mirror, “Help me solve a puzzle. This has been bugging me for a long time.”

She glanced up at me in the mirror. “What puzzle?” she asked.

“That alligator over there, the sliding board alligator, why is it blue and not green? A blue alligator doesn’t make sense.”

“That isn’t an alligator,” she replied. “It’s a dragon.”

“A dragon? Look at the snout on that thing! The eyes! It’s an alligator!”

“No, it’s a dragon. Trust me.”

I drifted into the right-turn lane, stopped opposite the playground, and looked over toward the blue… whatever.

“Sure looks like an alligator to me,” I said.

“Rocky, I’m telling you, it’s a dragon. I know it is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the Jefferson mascot is a dragon. We’re the ‘Jefferson Dragons.’ You must know that. The school colors are blue and red. The sliding board is meant to be a blue Jefferson dragon.”

Oh.

Abashed to the point of humiliation, I drove on in silence toward the park.

After a time, without making eye contact in the rear-view mirror, I muttered weakly, “Well, I still think it looks like an alligator.”