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In the days before jungle gyms and lunchboxes and math, I made bread with Mother. She possessed secrets of the sort only entrusted to Mothers and would add and mix and coax the flour and water and sugar and yeast into delightful doughy harmony. I was her capable assistant, grabbing and passing whatever my tiny arms could reach, or tramping around the kitchen when I got bored. Trust me, I was indispensable. When it came time to knead, two thumbprints formed eyes and a long fold formed a mouth, and the ball of dough became a friend. Tip-toed on a stool so I could peer above the floured counter, he and I bantered back and forth before he was rolled up, laid out, and reformed. I think his name was usually George. George was destined for a fiery end, but even at that young age my mind had enough foresight not to mourn his passing as he slid into the oven. He was meant for greater things, and he and I would meet again on another weekend afternoon. During his metamorphoses I built castles in the gravel of our driveway, fought orcs and goblins on the hill of our side yard, and sneakily scaled the side of our porch on secret missions with secret agendas, but I never strayed far from the kitchen door while the oven was on; wander away and the aroma would go woefully unappreciated. And when Mother finally called, I would run in for a slice of the nutty brown loaf, soft and warm and buttered. Ambrosia. ****************************** My dad plays golf sometimes. He’s no Phil Michelson, but he and his brothers and his dad head out to the range now and again for some father-son bonding. Come summer he’d tune the TV to the PGA Tour, which I found positively mind-numbing. On Father’s Day, my brothers and I took him out for putt-putt in childish imitation of his own practice. We had a small set of clubs sized for an eight-year old in the basement. I don’t remember where we got them. There was a putter and a couple irons and a driver and whatever else belongs in that kind of collection. Our backyard ran flat for a short jog before sloping down, and I would spend what seemed like hours (though 10 minutes is more realistic) teeing up, setting my swing, and sending balls flying off the hill, usually with a good-sized clod of dirt for company just in case any onlookers doubted my strength. I was gonna be a big man someday. ****************************** My First Joke Q: What’s the difference between the sink and the microwave? A: The toaster oven! As a young comic, I was heavily inspired by the geography of our kitchen appliances. I had a very niche audience. ****************************** I always loved the idea of sleeping in far more than the actual practice. It never paid serious dividends, but in the few years after talks with George gave way to white square tiles and basketball practice and grammar sheets I was still able to convince myself that staying in bed was a worthwhile endeavor on its own merits. Father disagreed. He’d let me indulge for a little while, but enough was eventually enough. The day was a-wastin’. So when my time was up, he’d thunder up the stairs into the room shared by my brothers and I, grip the edge of my topsheet, and he would whip it up and down and up and down and up and down, casting a chill wind over my pajama’d form. This archaic and denigrate torture was known as the Freezer Trick. Father shouted its name like a mantra over our protestations, and it was an exercise of love. I hated it at the time, but now it’s taken on a nostalgic patina, warm and smooth like aged brass. I hope my future children, should they ever arrive, will come to feel the same. ****************************** The drives back from Grandpa’s were always long and dark. Rural Kentucky is rather unilluminated, especially at night, so gazing out the window only shows blurry blackness. Without books as a recourse, those two hours seemed interminable every single time, a waking death for a young buck too buzzed to sleep. But like she always did, Mother had the solution.
Enter Teddy and Nixie. During these rides, Mother would regale us with tales of their adventures. Teddy was a little boy. He could have been me. Nixie was a pixie, and Teddy’s best friend. I had several Nixies of my own. I wish I remembered how the stories went, but I don’t. They’ve faded beyond discernment. To my knowledge, Mother didn’t write them beforehand; they were all spontaneous, which only enhanced their magic. These kinds of stories are best when seen on the insides of eyelids, and I would fight tooth and nail to experience her narrative tapestries in their choice environment as the gently rolling hills of the Pennyroyal tried to drag me into slumber. Father says she should publish them. Riffle through her mental Rolodex and see what remnants are still there, or just make up new ones. She did it once, and I know she could do it again. Her words would be loved by children all across the country, possibly across the world, I know it. But secretly I hate that idea, of broadcasting the stories meant for me and my kin. The certainty of their success only makes it worse. They’d drop copies from the sky, like leaflets during a war. Maybe that’s what the world needs, more stories to distract us from our inner demons. Maybe some future dictator would follow Teddy and Nixie through a tree and maybe they wouldn’t start the Third World War. I have no doubt that some ragged child would find respite from their dismal wallpaper and the rows in 2B and the grumbling in their stomach. But dammit, these stories were for me, and I fully intend to hoard them like so much Halloween candy. I might be going to hell.
2 Comments
Kelly Saderholm
9/3/2017 10:43:32 am
You are so not going to hell.
Reply
Ian
9/3/2017 02:40:55 pm
That, plus Terry Pratchett just steamrolled all his unpublished works from beyond the grave. I suppose I could be in worse company.
Reply
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