Remember being a kid when all we thought about was getting older? Being an adult, how wonderful it must be not to be bossed around, to make our own decisions, to be able to do our own thing. Then we get older and realize “do your own thing” actually means working most of the time and trying to stay one step ahead of the bills.
Some people think I have a photographic memory. If that’s true, some of my films have been lost or damaged. A friend recently reminded me of a trip to Six Flags, and I don’t have one single memory of that event, which is crazy considering I have only been there three times, and that’s counting the time I can’t remember. But the memories I do have are vivid where I can recall not only actions but conversations and thoughts.
I remember my first root beer. I was five years old, and Mom and I had been to the laundromat in Fort Payne. She bought me an IBC root beer, which came in a dark bottle, just like real beer. I folded down the armrest that used to be in the middle of bench seats in older cars and sat on it. I sat up high and held that “beer” out so people walking on the sidewalks could see me. I asked Mom, “How big does your belly have to be to be a grownup?” (Note: I don’t ask that anymore.)
Dad smoked Camel cigarettes with no filters, so naturally, I associated that with being a man. When I was six, he caught me picking up one of his discarded butts and puffing away. I thought I was in for a beating, but he didn’t even seem angry. He told me I didn’t have to sneak around, and he handed me a full cigarette and lit it for me. I thought I was a big shot smoking with my old man. Until… “You’re doing it wrong,” he said. “You have to inhale.”
I watched and saw him take a big drag and suck the smoke down his windpipe and blow it out. How had I never noticed that before? Being a man now, I wanted to do it correctly. I mimicked him and thought I was going to die. On the plus side, I’ve never touched cigarettes again.
At 16, I remember taking some of Mom’s eyeliner to darken the little peach fuzz above my upper lip. It did not look like a real mustache; it looked like an idiot had put eyeliner on his face.
All that wasted time wanting to be older, and now I’d give anything to be a kid again.
Neal Wooten is a columnist in the Mountain Valley News and North Jackson Press newspapers. He can be reached at [email protected].
