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There comes a time
in a Man’s life where he begins to look backwards. He unrolls the old burlap
cloth that covers the chest of past memories and slowly, almost reverently,
undoes the lock and opens the lid. His breath is slow but excited as he runs
his hands over long forgotten memories, chuckling a little at his former
escapades and narratives.
But as he
continues, his hands find more and more things that make him crinkle his brow
and flare his nostrils slightly. After about five more minutes of rummaging
through this treasure chest that is his past, he remembers the reason why he
locked, covered, and hid this box somewhere deep in his subconscious garden
shed.
It contains the
most comprehensive compilation of evidence that points to his all-encompassing
moronity. The lock is quickly snapped shut, the covering duct taped on, and a
hasty expedition into the mental everglades is undertaken in the tradition of
the age old pastime of Floridian crime lords wanting to dispose of “evidence”.
I’m
guessing that the average age of this is mid 30’s or so. But whether due to my
unexplainable hunch that I’ll die young or the shoddy lock-smithing on my
memory-box that allows my meddling imagination to find and break into the chest
like an elementary school kid trying to find knives in his dad’s closet, I have
reached this stage in my life prematurely.
Regardless
of how this point has been reached, I have recently been finding the stories
from all of my 20-some years on this earth rushing into my mind. They come at
whatever time they please, sometimes causing me to chuckle to myself as I walk
to my college classes (Which sometimes catches some interesting looks from
passer-bys) or causes me to cringe in embarrassment. For sake of entertainment, the latter will probably be the
most prolific of the narratives told in these pages.
Through
most of my elementary and middle school education, I was taught at home. My
mother had been an English teacher at a few different venues, and my Father had
done his fair share of teaching as well. This made for an excellent learning
environment that my brother and I both flourished in.
Learning from classical novels,
streamlining mathematics in order to reach the higher levels in a shorter
period of time, being able to visit writing workshops and field trips to
whatever we pleased, and all before lunchtime. I give a good deal of credit for the way I am today to the
way that I was taught at home. And therein lies the problem.
I was socially
backward. This might be an understatement, if you ask anyone who knows me. But
the combined forces of home schooled sheltering and that lack of ability to
adapt socially to a culture (which stemmed from our military family having
moved 14 times before I turned 14) caused me to be unbearably shy,
imaginatively obtuse, and generally awkward.
In my mind, the
defining story of my entire home school experience began one autumn in the
sleepy, bedroom community of Eagle River, Alaska. I was approximately 11, and I
had recently become aware that children were sent AWAY from their homes to
receive instruction. Apparently, a few blocks down the street, there was a
mysterious building where children congregated each day in order to receive
government issued knowledge in a place that they called “Alpenglow Elementary
School”.
I was fascinated
by the idea. The children spoke of things such as “cafeteria” and “Recess” and
“School Plays” which in my mind were interpreted respectively as “word
associated with processed foodstuffs”, “Time where one either plays games or
gets shoved in the mud”, and “Something I hope my dad will show up to this
time”. Now the logical reader will
begin to wonder how I even heard these words mentioned, as I have already
mentioned that I was hermit-like and had little to no contact with normal
children. The answer still makes me cringe slightly.
In my backyard
there was a tree. This tree had been planted around the same time that the
house had been constructed, and had survived the harsh winters and short
summers of Alaska enough times to have grown branches that overhung the fence.
The other side of this fence shared a strip of grass with a neighborhood road.
And that strip of grass was daily used by the kids coming home from Alpenglow
Elementary School. If that tree had contained any form of intelligence, I doubt
it would have conceded to the purpose for which I used it.
I would sit in its
branches and spy on the normal kids. Hidden in its thick leaves, I would peer
down upon the upstanding children of suburbia and marvel at them. The peculiar
plastic boxes with superheroes or princesses pictured on the side, the oddly
shaped duffel bags that housed secret Alpenglow Elementary School documents
that were carried on their backs (I saw one dropped and it’s precious secrets
spilled on the ground once. I felt like a secret agent that day). Everything
about them was foreign, mystical, almost as if I were an alien sent to observe
a different species.
This is how I
learned about the café of processed meats, and this is where I gathered my
information on the social nuances of the human race. But unfortunately, my
research was cut short.
One fall day, I
was laying in my usual tree branch. Mind rehearsing the colloquialisms that I
had learned from the previous week (things such as “Jump-rope”, “I got an F”,
and “Lunch money”) when I saw the first group of the kids round the corner
about a hundred yards from my position.
I repositioned
myself, grasping a branch with my left hand in order to allow me to lean
farther down and be able to pick up the quieter conversations that I had
previously been missing out on. The children were closing the distance now.
Only 15 meters left. I twisted my hips a little more, reaching with my ears,
waiting to begin my daily research. They had just come under the shade of my
tree.
I remember a
popping sound, then an acceleration registered in my intestines, followed by a
sudden stop coupled with a heavy and painful blow to the back of my ribcage and
spine. The wind immediately rushed from my lungs and my brain scrambled to
piece together what malfunction had just occurred.
I was lying on my
back. I could see the branch that I had been perched on about 10 feet above me.
I could feel the now-broken branch still clutched in my left hand, and I was
making sounds similar to an ostrich that had a dozen golf balls stuck in its
throat. And then I realized where I was.
I was at the feet
of about sixteen of my research subjects. They were in a stunned silence with
their mouths hanging slightly open and looks of complete confusion in their
eyes. Being the suave young man that I was, I lurched to my knees and attempted
to begin my explanation of myself. Only to find that I was still making the
ostrich noises.
In hindsight, they
may have been able to at least pity me, if they weren’t so frightened by the
Hannibal Lecter-esque headgear that a local sadist with an orthodontic practice
had insisted I wear for the duration of my elementary mental development.
Coincidentally, I’m sure that I stunted or horribly disfigured the natural
mental development of some of those in the impromptu audience gathered around.
I decided that the
best course of action was to stumble to my feet and sprint in a dizzy path
towards the nearby gate to my backyard, where I fumbled the lock open and fell
upon my knees in the brittle, but safe, grass of my backyard. I pulled the door
shut behind me, but not before I heard intermittent sobs of shock and several
voices mumbling concern for the poor mute “whatever-that-was” that had fallen
into their lives moments ago.
I discontinued my
research, claiming that I had a much more important study in my basement
concerning the native pill bugs of that region. This project seemed so much
safer, both physically and psychologically.
I left that story
behind me, letting catfish and alligator eggs accumulate on its waterlogged covering
for almost a decade now. When one opens the box of memories past, only the
blandest among us has nothing to be embarrassed of.
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Whoa. That was a nice and easy Copy-Paste adventure. Hope Ya'll enjoyed it.
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