38

It is the anniversary of my 38th year on this planet and there are a few things that I feel a compulsion to share.  One is my own mortality.  Without consulting any type of directory or scientific manual, I am certain that my life is, at least statistically speaking, nearly half over (although I have always felt that the title of octogenarian was well within my reach).  And since the baby boomers have successfully marketed 70 as the new 40, I feel confident that I will be spared any mention of being "over the hill" and the ridiculous amount of black crepe paper decorations that use to accompany such a transition.  However, being on the earth for this many spins has afforded a certain amount of perspective.  A quick note:  I have an overwhelming feeling that this piece may ramble (if you are easily nauseated, it may be time to exit this ride now) but a bit of rambling, I might tell you, I feel entitled to at the moment.  So, instead of conjuring some comprehensive listing of "What I Have Learned in My 38 Years", I will simply describe some parts of my life and let that be that, by which I mean, politely draw your own conclusions.

It should be noted that for a great deal of my life I have had a hard time going to sleep - the truth being that it was a wrestling match between my restless brain and the inevitability of repose.  Over the years I have hosted a number of worrisome soirees in my head at bedtime, the guest list including money, women, family, career, etc..  Now, as a result of having and raising a child, I can sleep at almost any moment, anywhere - I could sleep right now (some of you who are reading this may feel the same).  When I wake, either day or night, I am greeted by the my son's voice.  After several minutes of singing he begins to talk.  At nearly 14 months his vocabulary is limited, but not necessarily unsophisticated.  He greets the birds in the morning, "Hi, birds."  He cannot see a bird from his crib as the curtains are drawn, so my feeble brain deduces that he is imagining them, which is not altogether different from seeing them in the first place, and to his world, perhaps no different at all.  After his vocal gymnastics, he joins us in our bed where he wiggles around like a worm whose tail has been dipped in hot sauce and attempts by any means necessary to make us laugh (which he does with great acumen, as he is quite adept and we are of course, a very willing audience).

It is at these times that I wonder what his life will be like, and abstract thoughts of my own childhood will launch themselves into the movie projector in my head:  The times I spent in a treehouse my father made for me (several graying, splintery planks lodged in the crotch of an elm) and the sounds the leaves made as they were rough-housed by the wind.  The feeling of sunburned thighs and feet after a day at the lake.  Deconstructing an oversized model of the human eye in my father's office, gripping and twisting the optic nerve like the throttle of an imaginary motorcycle.  The sound of 52 children bouncing 13 basketballs in a YMCA gymnasium, the acoustics of that room affording each bounce a volume at least three times louder than it deserved.  My grandmother's embrace and how she held me longer than I liked at the time.  Removing my socks and shoes that were soaked with dew and seeing my feet wrinkled up and white like the flesh of a fish fillet.  Laying on my stomach and face on the hot cement to warm my body after jumping into a cold, chlorine scented swimming pool.  My mother's cologne - earthy and rich, hanging heavy in the air.  The juxtaposition of the terra cotta flowerpots beneath the reddish-pink geraniums I planted on my mother's porch and the way those colors irritated my sensibilities as the temples of my eyeglasses now irritate the area behind my right ear, with a slight pressure.  I remember family trips, singing along with the car stereo and being fascinated with the leather appointments near the car's gear shift.  I can feel cold winds that made me believe that the bones in my face might shatter like a rubber ball dipped in liquid nitrogen, some sort of junior high science experiment.  The smell of the Carnegie Library and its dark mustiness.  I can taste the charred remains of the hamburgers that my grandfather used to press and handle until they achieved the form and resilience of a charcoal briquette.  I recall the church bulletins with line drawings on thin paper the color of vanilla ice cream.  Sweat running down my spine and into the pants of my polyester little-league baseball uniform.  The smell of a freshly opened can of tennis balls.  The complicated feelings of being attracted to girls who were older and much more developed than I was.  Bloody noses and lips from fist fights with best friends.  Hydrogen peroxide poured into scrapes on various parts of my body.  Bunk beds and themed comforter sets belonging to my brother and me.  Creaky would floors and airplane plants that hung in front of streaky windows in beaded macrame hammocks.  The weight and heft of glass pop bottles and the beautiful sound of glass on metal as you removed them from the collars in the skinny vertical door of a coin operated cooler.  Fireworks lit by my grandfather's cigarette.  Fireflies in a mason jar with holes poked in the top by a rusty screwdriver.

After 38 years, these are the things that I remember from my childhood.  I can be prodded to remember other events if someone will set the scene for me, but for the most part, I tend to recall the small things:  The stains of mulberries from a neighboring yard or watching my math teacher get into her imported car at the grocery store and imagining she and her husband moving off to a more cosmopolitan city.  I have always been lost in these thoughts, in their detail.  In any classroom, church service, vacation motel, family visit, car ride, or sporting event, I have found time to focus on something in the periphery for far too long.  I used to fight it, but now I realize it is just a part of who I am.  Take me to a musical and I might spend a serious amount of time wondering about the life of the elderly usher, constructing a history for him, his deceased wife, and the persian cats that he shares his modest ranch home with now.  At a baseball game my attention will be focused on a child with gum stuck to her shoe or a particular favorite, the hot dog vendor.  No matter what the scenario, I will be present for only a short amount of time before I become fascinated with another person and check out momentarily.

My mother has always said that you can never tell if I have enjoyed myself until months or even years after an event has occurred.  In many respects, she is right.  These things take time.  My life has taken time, as all lives tend to do, and I can honestly say to you now, dear reader - I am glad to have had the time to take.