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Childhood playgrounds once felt like the closest thing to heaven. Even with a swing set and sandbox in my backyard, I preferred the public playground, where the swings soared higher and there were enough to ride beside a friend.

Getting maximum height took skill. The usual method was to lean back on the return and kick forward during the climb. More serious swingers stood on the seat and bent their knees to build momentum. Occasionally, I even shared a swing by standing behind a friend—a maneuver that seemed daring at the time.

The slides brought their own excitement. They were long, often with humps along the way, and a sheet of waxed paper made the ride much faster. On sweltering southern Indiana days, however, the wax could begin to melt.

The kid-powered merry-go-round was my favorite. It had no music or decorative horses, just a spinning platform whose speed depended on how hard we pushed against the ground. The boldest children jumped off before it stopped turning.

Teeter-totters were fun when both riders weighed about the same. An uneven pairing left one child planted on the ground and the other stranded in the air. There was also the risk that a mischievous partner would suddenly abandon the lower seat, sending the other rider crashing down.

The Jungle Gym was another matter. I was never much of a climber, and hanging upside down seemed better suited to possums. Girls wearing skirts faced an additional hazard: playground teasing if they climbed high enough to expose their underwear.

Many of those old attractions have since been judged unsafe, raising the possibility that younger generations will never experience the same mix of freedom, speed and risk. Perhaps a designer will recreate it all as a virtual playground, allowing children to play without leaving home.

My grandchildren would probably consider that progress. They already think I am hopelessly old school.