Down the street from my childhood house was what everyone called the Grass Field. It was a stretch of well, grass, between two houses that overlooked a canyon that bordered the community in which I grew up, Tierrasanta (“holy land”).
Neighborhood block parties took place at the Grass Field. Bicycle meet-ups happened there. Kids would venture into the canyon to explore. Not me though. I never climbed in the canyon — forever scared of getting hurt.
From the Grass Field, you can see a massive stretch of San Diego’s inland community. Admiral Baker Golf Course was so close you could see the golfers. Directly across the Grass Field is San Diego State University, the place my dad went to work every day and where I later went to college. From my childhood street, I could see the 11-story residence hall I lived in for three years.
As a kid, the Grass Field seemed so big, so immense. Running a “lap” on the grass felt like a mile (what a mile feels like to a kid). The hill felt so steep and daunting. In my mind, the Grass Field was huge!
Last month when I was visiting my childhood home, I took a few minutes to walk around at the Grass Field. And I was struck by how small it is. What I considered this huge space seemed tiny to my grown-up self. The hill that once felt like a mountain has barely an incline. … Did it all shrink in the years since I’ve been gone?
Looking at the Grass Field today, I’m reminded of the lyric from a Mary Chapin Carpenter song: “It’s funny how the world lives up to all your expectations …”
It’s funny how things seem so different from childhood to adulthood. As a child, the Grass Field felt like a massive sanctuary. Today, I see a small patch of grass with a view. How what I once considered immense now seems so underwhelming … how perception changes with time.