Memories of Childhood
By Tim Benedict
1/26/04
This is dedicated to my wonderful Dad and Mom who have been the most influential people in all my life. I love you.
I remember getting up at 6 am on Saturday, climbing into bed to find my mom, telling her, "mom, I'm up. can I watch cartoons?" [I could only watch "the Muppet Babies" anyway] Like I knew the answer already, I asked and made my way to the TV, pressing all the right buttons. Usually nothing good was on, but by the time I figured that out, mom was up and breakfast was all I cared about. Wow, yesterday or 15 years ago, a smile returns and life does what it does best: remembers. I am not the typical guy who scorns the precious years of childhood and laughs at the sentimental value of a blanket that a mother used to wrap her tiny baby. (believe me, I still have mine) Memories are a sweet invitation to thankfulness towards an all-wise and all-loving God of yesterday, today and tomorrow. At life's most intimate moments, memories of childhood bring back a sacred joy and laughter many people almost choose to forget. And that, my friend, is where I enjoy being.
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Whether it was the long talks I had sitting on my mommy's lap, or the games of whiffle-ball and football mom and dad would play with me in the front yard, childhood was special. I enjoyed having so many "special" privileges back then, especially being the youngest of dad, mom, and two bigger sisters. As the little man of the house, it was my job to be the "hero"/protector from the monsters and big "tomadoes." But, that's only the surface of my job description. I did whole lots more. I don't mean to bore you, in fact it's your choice to read this. I want you to get to know me by understanding my childhood. I'll let the memories speak for themselves. I take pride and joy in every one of them, after all, I smile today because this was yesterday.
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Special days where I got to tag along with my dad at the school where he taught. I was too young to be in school, so this was the next best thing. I packed my legos and books and paper and markers to color with. Those were big days, let me tell you. I remember how those days seemed to last for hours and hours. My favorite thing to do there was make paper airplanes that barely flew and fly them around the room, that is when students weren't in there. I especially liked it when dad would make a special announcement to all those "big kids" about his little son tagging along in the back of the room. Man, now that I think about it, the girls must have definitely thought I was cute (yuck!). Back then, all I did was smile and, well, I was more interested in my toys and other gross things. Riding in the car with dad was the best part of the day, and going back home to tell mom about my day!
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What about the times when my sisters would dress me up as a little girl? As you can tell, they did well. Did I enjoy it? No comment. Good thing I wasn't old enough to speak for myself. The pictures however speak loud enough, and is that probably why some of my sister's Barbie doll's have medically altered heads? I mean, flying my huge C-130 cargo plane into Barbie Land to invade the "enemies" and sweep away the captive was a chore in itself. Who's right in whether it was a good memory or not carries no weight in my brain. The allied forces must do what they have to do. At least their causalities always were at the bare minimum.
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Well, something had to give. I mean, I was talking with a friend one night when I happened to remember the joys of baths! Ever since I was young, especially the days when mommy gave me a bath (I was 3 okay) My mom would put my jammies on, and smelling all clean and new, I remember how I would love the comfort of moist, clean skin and the feeling of the wetness of clean hair on my little head. So, 16 years later to this day, after showering before I go to bed at night, I barely dry off. Why? When I jump in bed and my pillow and bed gets all wet from my back and head, it smells like "clean" and herbal essences and--mmmmm--I fall asleep remembering my mom and the days of my little years. It makes for a pleasant sleep, and brings back wonderful memories all at the same time. Especially when you're 1287 miles from home, a little memory such as this one makes those miles a crack-in-the-sidewalk to jump over.
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How about sports? To be honest with you, and not to brag, I set my high school's all-time basketball scoring record because my mom showed me the greatest shot in basketball: the 3-pointer. My dad was an inspiring coach, and every time I walked onto the court as a youngster or big schooler, I never had to look far to see my dad. Reaching the 1000 point mark and stopping the game to give my mom and dad a big hug still holds such a special memory in my life. Burying a three-pointer to win a district play-off game was cool, but seeing the proud look of a loving father and the joy of my mother and the years of hard work they modeled to me remains the real reason I walked off the basketball court with my head held high. I remember watching my dad play basketball and telling myself that one day I'll be that good. Games of horse with mom and dad, and sisters. Games with my friends. Foul shots in hurricanes. Foul shots before and after school. Wow, childhood was productive, and it truly paid off.
The
kitchen floor was land, the carpet was ocean. Legos all over the
floor. The commander's fire-battle ship was at port and the amazing,
fierce fighter jet was probably still being built, but by chance of it being
saved from yesterday, it was on the runway. The small, insignificant boats
were in place also. All was calm in the scenic hero-ville, until the
rescue helicopter suddenly goes haywire and crashes into the sea. Sudden
emergency, lego-mobiles scrambling. Was it the bad guys? Send out
the fighter jet anyway. The intricate, "water-proof" huge rescue
boat (sometimes it was that too) takes to sea and the firemen rush to
their stations. Meanwhile, the woman-lego, usually named Lauren or
Elizabeth, waits at house or the dock for her lover, you know his name.
She usually stays home because I didn't believe in feminism back then. The
incredibly accurate and amazing fighter pilot secures the airspace and
miraculously appears down at the crash sight to rescue the crew. The plane
returns to base, piloted by his trusty co-pilot, and the fighter pilot salvages
the crew, in his own little boat, bringing them back to the base to an amazing
dinner prepared by his lady-lego, Lauren. The commander's ship does the
investigation and clean-up while the group back home relaxes after a delicious
meal, usually impressed by the little lego hero and his amazing fighter
jet. (true story)
Something
about sprawling out on the couch (under the covers in the morning) or on the
floor turning on the TV or watching the one or two shows mom let me watch before
kicking me outside to play makes me want to do it all over again. Now most of
these I never got to watch a lot, my mom was a stickler on how much TV I saw,
you'll find the show followed by how old I was. Today's Special (2
to 3 years old--I remember!) Loony Toons (3-whenever) David the
Gnome (3-5 yrs), Bell and Sebastian (3-5 yrs), The
Sheri Show (come on, Lambchop? yeah you know it, but for some reason I only
got through the opening song--CLICK 3-4 yrs), Flipper
(5-10 yrs.), Lassie (4-10), Double Dare (5-10 yrs.), Hey Dude
(7-12), Rescue 911 (7 and up), Adventure of the Little Koala (4-9 yrs.)
remember The Raisins? (wasn't supposed to watch that one, 3-4
yrs), Muppet Babies anyone?, Rescue Rangers,
The Chipmunks,
only one or two episodes of the Reading Rainbow, Bill
Nye the Science Guy SPACE edition (or maybe that was the only video episode
I had), Gumby (until I was 12), Rocky and Bowinkle, or how about Tailspin,
Inspector Gadget, The Flinstones, Nick at Night stuff-- Get Smart, Mr. Ed, The
Munsters, Happy Days (retro) and well, TV wasn't everything to me, but boy
those shows bring back the great memories!
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The frontier, formally 10 feet outside my front door, was impenetrable--until I walked outside. Armed with a mock-Indian pouch, a compass that didn't work, a plastic knife, a baseball bat, rope, binoculars, a map of the yard, and a ball in case that's all I wanted to play with outside, the air was inviting and the world was mine for the conquering. To the east and west were the woods. To the north lied the cavern (the gully) and even farther north, across the great divide (the street) lied my secret rock mine! To the south was the backyard, a swingset and a safe place to be, where mom could always see me. Early in the morning, armed with my possessions, I had big decisions to make: what do I explore today? That usually depended on if I had any sidekicks, and sometimes it didn't matter because I was a bossy explorer. (sorry) The results were amazing: a clear cut pathway through the bushes (and it took a long time to gain access from the Queen of the-next-door-off-limits-bushes, mom), a large deep hole somewhere back there before some animal scared me away from finishing it, a smooth dirt pathway through the brush leading to a clearing I designed to use for observation, and nice fort in the bushes to the east. That only scratches the surface. I found some amazing rocks in my rock query, in fact I still have them. I chiseled my way through rock and soot to find them too. Oh that cavern in my front yard, I tunneled all the way through that: I had my firehat, a rain coat and a long rope. My friends watched me do it one day after I returned from Kindergarten--my Mom wasn't happy. It was an adventure. I did have some losses that still haunt me now and then. Like the Woody doll I buried a long time ago, I came across the map I made so I would know where I buried it, but I haven't found it yet. Maybe one day. I cut myself a couple times, scared myself, but every time my mom would rescue me and I would be just fine. Hey, I turned out great, maybe.
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It isn't much, or it's too much, but my memories do a lot of good in times of doubt or struggle. All of us have those memories we love to remember. So, think about when YOU were little. I love doing that! There's so much tightly jam-packed in a little story, but it's usually a story hidden, hidden by lots of little pains and nuances we so often can't look past. But, when we are successful, and we see our little selves and think the thoughts of yester-years, we get that familiar smile on our face and life seems to be genuine and carefree again, when all we knew was God and love and playtime, and of course, bedtime. It's when we do any of those four that our memories are most precious. All of them culminate in the most beautiful of all memories: a romance. It's a God-given dream. The dream of childhood: the dream of being somebody heroic, the dream of being a knight in shining armor, on a daring rescue mission, to capture the heart of the beautiful princess--every little boy's dream. I remember how I would love to cuddle on my mommy's lap, and innocently ask her, "Mommy, can I get married someday?" Little girls too so preciously dream about a wedding day, asking their mommies about wedding dresses and flowers. Ultimately, the child's heart knows no wrong, and freshly dreams about the romance God Himself desires with people. I hear it in the giggles of little children, I see it in the smiles of the people we love. With the memories we remember, we experience once again those moments of peace and happiness. Take time to reflect, to go back and revisit times past. It's the times like these that make us who we are today, when all we knew was God, love, playtime, and bedtime. Go, tell your stories and smile once more.
More pictures to come, enjoy.
Share your stories with me,
write timbenedict3@juno.com
© 2004 Tim Benedict (timbenedict.com)