It’s hard to grow up without knowing where half of you comes from.
I always lived with my dad and I had just always accepted that my mom wasn’t around and she never would be. I had two pictures of her that I kept hidden in the pages of my favorite book. They were pictures that were worn at the edges and yellowed on the back from age. She was pretty. Her hair was long and blond, with an eighties-style perm. I liked to think that I looked like her, but I was scared to ask; We didn’t talk about ‘my real mom’ at home.
There were always women in my life, but none could ever fill the ‘mom shoes.’ There were girlfriends and wives who were nice enough, but a little awkward trying to raise a geeky kid that didn’t biologically belong to them. My grandma and my aunts always made it a point to take me under their wing, but I never had mom’s cooking, mom’s hugs or mom’s time-outs.
Recently, while sitting in third block statistics, my phone buzzed. Facebook notification. It can wait, I thought. Later in the day I reviewed the friend request: John Fuqua. Fuqua… ‘That’s my mom’s last name,’ I thought to myself. My heart skipped a beat, but I reminded myself that I probably didn’t want to know my mom. She had left me, after all. She had abandoned me with my dad and his family, and had taken up a bad habit; Cocaine, heroine, Oxy. They were all more important to her than me.
With mixed emotions, I called my aunt. What do I do? What do I say? She assured me that this could be a turning point in my life. People can change. I wasn’t scared to talk to my mom or her family. I was scared to be disappointed. I had gotten along just fine without her, but deep down inside of me I knew I missed her. All I knew about her were those old pictures and of course the things people said about her.
With uneasy feelings, I pressed ‘accept’. Within five minutes, I received a message in my inbox. The first few words instantly cured my fear:
“You still have that gorgeous face and eyes that I met when you were a tiny little thing. Your mom loves you VERY much. It’s a long, not-so-pretty story but a VERY happy ending can be had.”
The pathways of communication were instantly opened. Facebook messages and emails flew from my laptop in Lancaster to my Papa’s old PC in Pensacola, Florida. It was exciting to know that my mom’s family still loved me, but there was still doubt in my mind; Did I want to know her?
With shaking hands, late on a Sunday afternoon, I picked up the phone to call the most important woman I had never met.
“Hi Mom, it’s me…”
By Lauren Ressler –
She instantly burst into tears. I remember the first words she said to me:
“Baby girl, I’ve missed you so much. I’m so sorry.”
After a good fifteen minutes of crying, I soon learned that this woman I was so scared to be disappointed in hadn’t abandoned me at all. We talked a little about the past, but focused mostly on the present and the future. That was refreshing; I didn’t need to hear about the past. It didn’t matter anymore why she wasn’t in my life for seventeen years, the fact was that she wasn’t there and now she was.
She told me her life had turned around. There were no more drugs, no more rough life. She explained to me that her mom had never been in her life either. When she was a teenager, she called her mom for the first time. Her mom was drunk in a bar and said ‘Carol, when you’re eighteen, call me. I’ll take you to Disney World.’ My mom was devastated. Years later, she received a phone call from her half sister who told her their mom had a month to live.
“I didn’t go,” my mom said to me about visiting her mother. “If I was dying in a hospital, the last thing I would want is my biggest regret staring me in the face.”
She told me I wasn’t a regret, and that she loved me very much. She didn’t want me to be disappointed in her like she was in her own mother.
That initial phone call gave me closure. It settled all of the tiny insecurities that had built up around not having a mother. My mom and I talk almost every day, now. I’m hoping to finally meet her again during graduation. I’m not disappointed at all. Our relationship isn’t awkward, or strained. In fact, rekindling my relationship with my mom has made me realize that real family will love and support you through every circumstance, even when they can’t be right there beside you.
I think more people in my grade know my brother than they do me. And considering my brother is six years older than me, I consider this clearly pathetic.
For as long as I can remember my brother and I have been polar opposites. Him, the outgoing one with a ton of friends, and me the shy one who prefers books to people. For a while this didn’t bother me, but eventually I got sick of, “Aren’t you Dan Richards’s sister?”
With his tall stature and lengthy body shape my brother is relatively average looking, yet there is something about him that seems to make you look twice. He’s always wearing his quirky smile that never fails to look 100 percent genuine and in his gray-blue eyes you can never catch a hint of judgment.
Even teachers ask me about him and he graduated five years ago. One day I was walking down the hall and I was stopped by a particular teacher, whom I had in ninth grade mind you. There was no, “Hi Lauren, how are you?” No, instead I was greeted with a, “How’s your brother doing?”
My brother didn’t just have a bunch of acquaintances, he had numerous genuine friends. I swear he had an average of five friends over each week, all on different days. And I could never keep up with all the girls. One day he’d be asking me for advice about the girl he brought over that night and I would try so hard to give him the best suggestions possible. The next day when I saw him, I would anxiously ask him if my advice worked, only to be told that he met another girl and she’d be over later.
Once he brought home an exchange student from the Middle East that he met in one of his classes, the next week he was a member of our household. Oh and for the record, a couple weeks later he was shipped back to whatever country he came from for searching how to make homemade bombs on the internet at school. Sometimes my brother was a little too open to new people and his ability to judge others wasn’t always on point.
I’ll admit that my brother has some traits that I wouldn’t want. For instance, his vulnerability, naivety and gullibility. To say that my brother is too trusting would be the understatement of the year. Also, I have some traits that I wouldn’t want to give up. For example, I am a much better student than my brother and I have had relatively the same small group of friends for my whole time in high school. But sometimes I do wish that I could walk into a room and talk to any random person or that when I walked down the hall I was bombarded with people saying hi and waving to me from all directions. It would also be nice to have something to do every single night and go to three proms like my brother did.
However, I’ve learned to accept the fact that I will never be like my brother. Though we’re linked by genetics, it seems like my brother and I have literally nothing else in common. In literary terms, we are foil characters. While one talks, the other listens. One is outgoing, the other shy. And one of us is book smart whereas the other one is more smart socially. I like to think of it though as us being complements of each other, we may be different but we go well together.
I’ve never seen my mom jump and grab hold of something so quick in my entire life.
That’s how she was when I was first learning how to drive. At every stop sign, every red light or any time I was beginning to brake, mom grabbed the door handle faster than she could drop a hot pan. I always thought she was slow too.
I guess sometimes she had her reasons for jumping, like when I almost did go off the road, or when I almost hit the other car. I guess that’s just all part of the learning experience though.
The worst part about learning how to drive wasn’t paying attention to the road, learning how to work all the gizmos and gadgets or just simply figuring out how to make the car do what you want it to do; it was learning how to drive stick.
When I first was learning how to drive, I was in my mom’s automatic SUV, but when I bought my first car it was stick or manual. I didn’t really know what I was getting into, I just thought that, “Oh, this will be easy.” But it wasn’t.
An animated picture of a student driver. Photo from wordpress.com
After trying to figure out how to make the car magically go forward for about an hour by using two pedals instead of one, mom was on the verge of blowing up. She showed me the hand motions one last time on how to let out the clutch as I was pushing the gas, and so I followed exactly as she explained and nothing. Still the same shuddering forward with your head flying back and forth almost giving you whiplash and then halt.
“I’m done! You’re never going to learn!”
Mom got out of the car, slammed the door, and walked inside the house.
She exploded.
During the whole operation of me trying to learn, my brother was watching in amusement, kind of hoping that the car would also blow up along with my mom. After he saw me attempt a couple of more times at trying to drive, he finally got up and came over and helped. He got in the driver’s seat and we drove down to a path of a back road. He then let me get in and showed me how to really drive stick.
After that day, I gradually learned more and more with my brother’s instructions always in the back of my mind. I don’t really know the difference between my brother’s or mom’s instructions, but for some reason his worked. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t on the edge of exploding and yelling at me every time I failed. Either way, sometimes mom isn’t always right and you need a brother for help.
Easter, just one more holiday on the calendar and another family gathering. There’s plenty of candy, food, drinks and family gossip. The whole family just loves spending time with each other, especially when all everyone is trying to do is dress to impress and see who is the better family, but deep down I know it’s a more important event than just a family gathering.
It’s getting together to see my family friends who I don’t really talk to, but for some reason I always become best buds again with them when we see each other at our grandparents. It’s also a chance to meet all the new babies in the family that magically just appeared out of nowhere, but every time I see them it feels like they’ve grown up two feet and learned some new important life skill like walking, crawling or talking.
Easter always starts at grandma and grandpa’s house. Each family comes in happy carrying the meals they prepared for lunch or dinner. It’s all hugs and kisses around, but truthfully everyone is checking out to see what Aunt Suzie made or did Uncle Scott bring his special dessert and did anyone forget something so we can pick on them and make fun of them later.
After everyone says hello and makes their rounds, I head into the kitchen to see what grandma is making for the delicious main course. I walk into the kitchen and smell all the melted brown butter on the green peas and noodles, I look into the warm oven and see the best-tasting beef brisket that is always the most amazing thing in the world I have ever tasted. Suddenly, I walk into the other room and see all the platters laid out before me that contain all the delicious desserts, and no one is around. I carefully sneak one of those crunchy and sugary cookies that Uncle Scott makes every year and then place the plastic wrap back very carefully and sneak out and head towards the dinner table to claim my spot.
Once grandma finally sits down after placing the final dish on the table, grandpa begins his ten minute prayer. When that is over, the passing of the platters and dishes begins. I start to build up the mountain that contains everything from corn, to ham, to mashed potatoes, to stuffing and green peas. Once it is complete, I look at the mountain, satisfied that I’ve stuffed all I could possible on it and in it. Then I get the gravy and top it all off so that the mountain is exploding and lava is pouring down the sides. This is one of the best feelings and memories to have and grandma and grandpa’s house; always knowing that they will have food and comfort for you.
Easter eggs. Photo from vlp.net
I wonder one day if the same experience will be shared by my grand-kids. I hope that they can share the same memory that I had as a boy of building a mountain of food at your grandparents and then devouring it. I plan on keeping the tradition going of having everyone over for holidays or family occasions, but maybe my kids will all move away. I hope the memories that I’ve had can be recreated by grandchildren one day.
The first bite into the Easter meal is always the best because every bite after that you get more full and more full until you look at the plate with the last bit of food left and realize you just engulfed about five pounds of food that you know probably doesn’t mix well in the end, and you can’t eat a bite more. It’s a sad feeling after that because the dessert that was next in line is just denied entrance into your mouth because you can’t eat any more or else you will burst like a balloon.
That’s the classic Easter meal with our family, and mixed in during the meal is all the compliments to chef’s, and the complaints that something needs more salt or an ingredient was forgot. At the end of the meal though, everyone is too full with the food they ate to complain, and they all the feel the gravy that they placed on their mountains is about to come pouring out of them.
It’s going to be sad when my grandparents pass away, and once a holiday comes around I will realize that there will be no more memories at their house. The hugs and kisses that welcomed me at the door of their house on each holiday or just when I visited will no longer be there. I don’t plan on those days coming soon though, I don’t think anyone does.
After the meal and once the dishes are cleaned, and grandma is happy with where everything was placed, the choice is then for me to either stay and take a nap on the old pink couch with flower designs that they’ve had since before I was a toddler, spend more family time with everyone which ends up to be playing board games with lots gossip, or I can claim your dishes of left overs and head home after making sure to thank everyone, especially grandma and grandpa, for everything.
Easter meal isn’t just a family gathering, it’s a time for everyone to gather and say hello and bring back those connections between each other that seem to break after leaving a family gathering. I see now that grandma and grandpa have found out that getting everyone together for food keeps us all close like a family should be, and the hassle that goes into making all the food and figuring out a date on which everyone can attend and how to keep everyone happy in the end doesn’t matter. What matters is that we all see each other and that we still keep in touch with our family who will always be there for us.
It’s the middle of summer, it’s hot, it’s sunny, only one thing to do…head to the pool.
Millersville Lions Club Pool located on North Prince street right off of Millersville University’s campus was the place to be growing up. What’s better than jumping into the smooth, calm water of a swimming pool when the thermometer is hitting the 90’s?
From an early age my family was enthralled with the pool. My oldest brother and sister always played at the pool in their younger years. Naturally, my middle brother and I were dragged along.
But we always enjoyed it. Everything was so carefree, from waking up and knowing exactly where you were going to spend the better part of your day to the tiny knit bag our mother brought crackers and snacks for us in.
All of it was great, nothing beat the pool.
Every year kids would wonder if they would make any new friends or possibly meet up with the ones that were left behind last August when the pool closed.
Every year kids continued to come back, returning to the pool like a duckling to its mother.
Brandon McCormick
There was always something to do and someone to play with. Whether in the pool, going off the diving board, or playing base runner during the adult swims when they would kick us kids out of the pool for 15 minutes.
Remember base runner, the simplest yet most fun game ever? With a few friends, each kid would run from base to base (which normally were just the wet swim towels of the players) while trying to avoid being pegged with a dripping wet sponge-ball by the person that was “it”.
Even the embarrassing memories of getting yelled at for running on the cement deck by the pool lifeguards stand out in our heads. We all knew we shouldn’t run and the lifeguards had to yell at us, but we continued to ignore the rules of the pool thinking we owned the place.
Then as we continued to grow, splash parties became the next big craze. Splash parties ran from 6 to about 9:30 at night. A DJ was brought in and the lights on the pool were turned on. Everyone who was anyone went to the splash party!
We would go, swim, hangout with some friends and possibly try to create some mischief until the lifeguards caught on to our childish shenanigans.
Then, as we continued to grow and mature, suddenly the pool lost all its wonder. The magic of the pool disappeared.
Less and less people would be there every year. You would show up expecting to see your buddies and leave disappointed at the realization they probably won’t be coming back this summer.
Kids got jobs, found other friends and got other interests until just a small number of souls still remained at the Millersville Pool.
But what truly happened? Did the kids just lose their childhood innocence, thinking only dweebs go to the pool? I doubt it, I think it was the passing of the time. As kids grew so did their interests and they moved on to bigger and better things leaving the poor, lonely pool behind.
Yet for every generation that left, another stepped up in its place.
I’m a lifeguard at the pool now, and I spend the summer seeing the next generation of kids come to love the chilled water of the giant pool.
Though each generation may continue to grow and leave the pool, the good times, the hot days, and the cold water will always leave fond memories in minds of any attendee.
I’m Dessie’s little brother. That is how I am known to people I first meet. I am always in the giant shadow of my very small sister who is, and it pains me to say, “perfect.”
Good grades, musical talent, lead in the play, student council, prom queen, homecoming court and artist extraordinaire. Seemingly the perfect student, daughter, sister and classmate. I have never witnessed it, but there’s a good possibility that she can fly. How am I supposed to compete with Super Sister when there is only so much time in one day?
Jay Jackson. Photo credit by Blake Wales.
Walking into Marticville Middle for the first day of school, I immediately was asked by all seven of my teachers if I was “Dessie’s little brother.” Their faces crumbled as they all rambled on and on about how she is such a good kid and that I have expectations to live up to in their class. This problem haunts me to this day, being asked by my teachers, substitutes or random students in the hall if I am as “good” as Dessie.
She also knows everybody in Lancaster from all ages and cliques, it seems. Now she attends Temple to extend her shadow even further. There’s another place I can’t go unless I want to be compared to the “perfect one.” There is no end to her success no matter what she does.
But I am here to tell you that Dessie Jackson is not perfect.
She is terrible at math, a horrible morning person and most of all has an explosive anger, which she primarily takes out her little brother.
Mostly unwarranted, she screams, whines and even hits. People don’t know this, but she can be extremely difficult and just flat out mean. Maybe this is why I tell my mom lies about my sister in an attempt to bring her down even though they are not true.
Dessie Jackson, the super sister.
I tell my parents I suspect my sister is a drug dealer but my mom knows better than to believe such an outrageous accusation.
I may not be able to compete with super sister, but I can try to bring her down. Hopefully that will work.
And then someday, maybe, someone will ask her if she is Jay’s big sister.
It all started in eighth grade. Up until this point in my life, my only worries were playing soccer with my friends after school and making sure I didn’t wear the same underwear two days in a row.
On a cold winter afternoon I decided to stay after school with my friends to watch the girls basketball game. As I walked into the gym, I couldn’t miss her long brown hair and crystal blue eyes, she stuck out like a beautiful rose in a garden full of weeds.
Every time she passed and dribbled the ball, she reminded me of Michael Jordan. She did everything with perfection. After the game I couldn’t resist the urge to talk to her, but as I approached her my legs became weak and my mind went blank. As she walked out the door all I could muster was an awkward “hello.”
From that moment on I was on a mission. I needed to meet this fine specimen. At first, girls on the basketball team evaded my questions. Then, one day her friend came up to me, told me her name and gave me her phone number. Being 13 years old made communication difficult. My parents felt that texting was unnecessary and my younger sister had a bad habit of listening in on my phone calls. After weeks of persistent bothering and nagging, my parents finally gave in and bought me a cell phone. It was fully equipped with a measly 300 minutes a month and no texting.
Suddenly, girls basketball games were becoming a lot more interesting than they ever had. Every time I saw her my heart fluttered. My hands began to sweat. All I wanted to do was talk to her, but I couldn’t. Eventually I had to man up and do it. So at the boys basketball game I sat beside her. I was terrified and awkwardly sat there in silence. After a minute or two of speechlessness she finally broke the ice. ” So are you ever gonna call me?” she said. I sat there stunned but very relieved. We talked the rest of the night and the next night she called me after school.
It was love that helped me get over my fear of the female society. A few days later, I asked her to date me and obviously she said yes. I mean, look at me. I was the happiest guy in the world. The next six days were amazing. We talked every night and made plans to hang out. The seventh day, however, was not the same. I was supposed to meet her at the high school basketball game. I took a shower, put on way too much of my dad’s cologne and even combed my hair. I was lookin’ fresh when I walked into the gym that night. As I searched for my prize in the crowd, I felt like I was on top of the world, but then I saw her. She was sitting against the wall, seven rows up, holding hands with another guy. I was crushed. I went up and tried to talk to her about the situation, but nothing I said could cover up the truth. We were done. She found somebody else. I suspected right then that this was the start of a long, painful road.
My girl problems had began.
After surviving two hot, painful weeks of soccer tryouts, I was ready to let the world know I was a man. I’m not a kid anymore. Middle school is in my past and so is the dumb drama that comes with it. The first day of high school is a day I will never forget. As I walked in the doors I felt like I was dreaming. Beautiful women were all around me and I was on cloud nine. Then I was rudely awakened from my fantasy world by being slammed into the wall by a tall, muscular upperclassman.
But sports have a way of evening things out in high school. As the soccer season began, I was quite the chick magnet. I sat on the bench like a boss.
When I did get in, good things rarely happened. Like the time I missed a completely open net, five feet out. Or the time I was valiantly chasing the ball, trying to keep it in and fell over the bench. This added to the list of reasons why I began to call the bench “home.”
The only positive side of my misery was that I could check out girls in the stands every game. My bench mates and I would always try to find the prettiest girl at every game. We would always joke about talking to her when we found her, but none of us would be up to the challenge. From time to time, girls from the field hockey team would come watch our games. There was one girl that my teammates and I all agreed upon was the most beautiful girl that ever came to our games. Every so often I would see her at school and I actually had the confidence to say hi to her. We became good friends and I thought that she liked me a lot. I told all my friends about her and they convinced me into asking her to homecoming. The next day I was walking with her in the hall and decided to pop the question. As I stood beside her in wait of her response, it was obvious things were going to take a turn for the worst.
“Ew, are you serious?” she said with a disgusted look on her face. I felt like the biggest loser in the world that day. After school, all of my friends at soccer were waiting to hear the news. The reaction of my fellow athletes almost brought tears to my eyes. Everybody was on my case about it and it made me feel horrible.
The next year when homecoming came around, I didn’t even think about asking anybody to go. I went almost my whole sophomore year without being really interested in girls at all. I found out, however, that when spring is in the air, love is there as well.
Bryan Buckius is hoping for many of these moments in the future. Photo by Blake Wales
It was mid-April and volleyball season was in full swing. Most Saturdays meant practice early in the morning, and then the rest of the day I would usually go fishing with my best friend. This Saturday, however, was not like the others. Practice was canceled for that morning and my friend said he couldn’t go fishing. Going a day without my best friend was too much for me to handle, so after a lot of bribing and convincing, his mom said I could go to the family reunion with them. Like any other reunion, there was a lot of food, but at this one there were also some pretty good looking girls. One of these goddesses was obviously staring at me while I was swimming in the pool. I wanted to get to know her better but based on my past experiences with girls I didn’t feel like being hurt again. My friend told me she was different and got her number for me. I texted her for about a week and we both wanted to hang out, so I asked her if she wanted to go with me to the Spring Fling at Penn Manor.
We met after school on that Friday and from the start we hit it off. As we walked together I manned up and held her hand. All night we held hands and then the moment of truth came. Every year the fireworks show is also a time to find somebody to make out with. As the fireworks went off I became increasingly nervous. I tried not to make eye contact, but it was obvious she was giving me the look. For those of you who have gotten the look sometime in your life, it’s obvious what I’m talking about. Up until this moment, I had never kissed a girl before and I wasn’t sure what to do. I looked at her and leaned in, but as I puckered up I almost missed her face completely. It was a complete failure. I was so worried and embarrassed about what had just happened, but she still had a smile on her face. I proceeded to ask her out that night and then I went home and made it Facebook official.
We dated for nine months and for the first five it was amazing. Throughout the summer we hung out everyday and when school came around things seemed to be going very well. I felt I would at least have a date for homecoming. Once again, things didn’t go as planned. It was about two weeks before homecoming and I was so excited to go with her to the dance. My friend was having people over to her house for dinner and pictures before the dance and I asked my girlfriend if she wanted to go. She said it would be no problem so I had my friend pencil us in for dinner. The next week went on without any major dilemmas and everything seemed alright, but then my girlfriend called and said she was going to another friends house instead. I was beyond angry. When I asked her about getting our pictures taken, she said that she didn’t want her pictures taken with me and that she would meet me at the dance. We got into a huge fight and broke up two days before homecoming. My girl problems were continuing to worsen.
It was awkward at homecoming when she asked me to dance. I felt obligated to show her my moves on the dance floor. We talked and decided that we would take a break for a few weeks and start dating again. When those three weeks of freedom were finally done, my fun was gone as well. Every aspect of my life was controlled. From who I hang out with to who I sat with I lunch, I was being monitored like a convict. I put up with this for about two months until I found out a hidden secret. My “better half” was talking to quite a few other men and I was clueless. When she left her phone at my house, I didn’t intend to be nosy, but the constant vibrating made me curious. It was other guys asking her to hang out. As hard as it was for me to do, I had to end the relationship for good.
Homecoming came around again in my senior year and I got ditched by my date the week before. With all the beautiful girls taken I didn’t know what to do. My friend from work hooked me up with her friend and we had a great time. With blond hair and beautiful blue eyes, she was definitely my type. Being the gentleman that I am, I took her out to lunch a week or so after our love was first sparked. Chili’s was the restaurant of choice on this sunny Sunday afternoon and everything was going great. The food was amazing and we held a quality conversation the whole time we were together. After I paid the bill, the dark side of my beautiful date was quickly revealed. I really liked her a lot and I thought she liked me too. I thought wrong.
“Thanks for paying for lunch, but I only like you as a friend,” she said. These words hit me like a gunshot. I was crushed as she drove away in her green mini van. How do I always get played like this? I was hoping things would soon change.
Prom was the next big social event on my calender and I wanted to make sure I had a date way in advance. Being the romantic young man that I am, I felt obligated to do something creative for the girl lucky enough to join me at prom. I picked one out of the herd and spoke with the school police to set up a time to ask her. The next morning he called her down to the office and made it seem like she was in trouble. As she sat there with tears welling up in her eyes and a million thoughts going through her mind, I walked in with six beautiful, red roses and asked her to go with me to prom. She said yes and I was free of the stress of finding a date.
The way everything was happening was like reading a fairy tale, but at the end of most fairy tales there is a tragedy. This tragedy came in the form of a jealous ex boyfriend who wanted her back. They began to talk and she put me on the back burner for quite some time. The fact that a ticket to prom cost $35 dollars meant nothing to her, but to me it was a big deal. I didn’t want to waste my hard-earned money on somebody who doesn’t even talk to me. Prom was off and I was dateless. As I searched for another girl, I became very stressed. I did however realize that a good friend of mine was without a date. I asked her if she wanted to go with me and she said yes.
Is this the end of my disappointment or just another chapter in my book full of broken hearts? Hopefully things will work out as planned and my streak of bad luck will be over. If not, I have a box of tissues ready to wipe away my tears.
I get very jealous when I see young kids running around, no responsibilities, no worries. I want to be one of those kids again, just for one more day. Playing in the warm mud, eating wet, dirty worms, the boy stuff that older guys wish they could still do.
It’s probably going to be some of the best memories when you get old to take you back to that one not-so-sturdy tree fort you built with your best friend.
When you get older you lose that sense of adventure. You get other things on your mind such as work, school, cars, girls.
When I actually have free time on a nice afternoon I want to spend my time in the shining sun laying on the staining, wet grass. Even if I attempt to go and play on the squeaky swing set, the one with the rusty swings and the splintery play-house. I never get around to it because I end up being inside working on other things.
I got my first job in eighth grade and that’s when I think, although I did not know it yet, I lost my child hood. I’m glad I got that job in eighth grade so I can have a car now, but when I look back, it wasted a lot of times where I could have made memories.
He knocked my tooth out while playing freeze tag, that’s how I met my first best friend.He couldn’t even pronounce my name right, but we connected instantly. I first invited him to come and play Hot Wheels with me. That became our daily job when we were home schooled together in the second grade. Putting together those bright neon green tracks, with the unrealistic super cars they just appealed to us like cake appeals to fat kids.
We also grew up at this church camp together with little white cabins and Sunday school services. As kids we hated going to services, but we put up with them so we could go in the poison ivy-filled woods to build our forts. Now these were not just any forts, these were state-of-the-art. Filled with booby-traps and wooden stick swords so we could defend it. No lie, but we actually had to defend them. You see, other kids at this camp loved destroying other forts so they could be the “king of the jungle,” which in boys’ logic, naturally led to war.
For the most part this war was mellow. But as we grew up, it kept getting more dangerous, with kids ending up in the hospital. Toward the end of war days the opponents focused on recruiting new soldiers instead of building a fort.
When my friend and I started being lower on the food chain we decided to rebel and start our own army. We kind of added to the problem but boys gotta do what they gotta do. We ended up winning the last battle and claiming the title of champion. Sometimes I see these “soldiers” and all I can say is we changed a lot.
We reminisce on those days now that we’re grown up with sports and jobs and cars and dates.
But all we really want is one more day to be a kid.
I could hear my parents talking as I’m getting ready.
“Drive her to the middle school parking lot. Explain all of the gizmos and gadgets in the car. Then have her try it,” Mama instructed Papa.
“Yes, dear,” he tentatively replied.
“But not if there’s anyone else there. Then find somewhere else.”
“Of course, dear.”
“And don’t let her go to fast. Remind her of her speed constantly.”
“Of course. Anything else, dear?”
“No.”
“Hey, Kiddo, it’s time to go,” Papa yelled up the stairs to me.
I ran down the stairs, kissed Mama on the cheek, and was out the door with my papa in no time.
When Papa and I got to Mama’s tiny Mazda 3 at the end of the seemingly long driveway, Papa stopped, handed me the keys, and told me to get in the car. I looked back at the house hoping Mama wasn’t watching.
I opened the driver-side door, ducked my head down as low as I could, and climbed inside. I stretched my legs out, not even reaching the gas nor the brake pedal. I moved the seat up an inch.
Nothing.
Another inch.
Still nothing.
I slid the seat all the way forward until it wouldn’t move anymore. I was practically hugging the steering wheel.
But finally, my feet reached the pedals.
I looked at Papa. He was chuckling because I have such short legs. It made me laugh, too.
“Now what?” I asked, waiting for him to explain every fine detail of driving and all the little “possible dangers” that he tells me when I start any new “possibly dangerous” activity.
“Drive to Gram’s house,” he said, buckling his seat belt.
“Um… okay. But just one question.”
“Yeah?”
“How do I start the car?”
After he stopped laughing hysterically, and after his face went back to white from the firetruck red it had become, he told me to just turn the key until it started.
And we were off. I was driving down all the back roads with potholes to China.
But I was driving.
And I was between the white lines.
So I was doing well.
I pulled into Gram’s driveway, put it in park, and turned off the car.
“Papa, Mama was so uptight about you letting me drive. How did you stay so calm? I mean it was like you didn’t even notice I was driving,” I commented.
I mean, his confidence in me was a tad unusual.
“Oh, this was your first time behind the wheel?” he asked, but didn’t seem to actually care about the answer. “I don’t know. Sometimes being a relaxed person just come naturally.”
When I was learning to drive, I had to choose which one of my parents I wanted to teach me. I knew my mom would be a nervous wreck behind the wheel, and that every five minutes I would hear some form of “I can’t believe my little boy is growing up.” My dad on the other hand, is a very calm person and I knew that he would be quiet and let me learn things on my own as I went. By the time I got my permit, it was an easy decision as to who would be my driving instructor – my dad.
As soon as I got my permit, my dad took me to a back road to practice. My dad gave me the breakdown of what I needed to do, and how to do it. I was driving stick, so I needed a little bit more practice time than I would had I decided to take the easy way out and drive automatic. Once I thought I had mastered the art of driving, I make the decision to drive home. Throughout this time my dad remained quiet, giving me some advice now and then.
Bryan Hess. Photo by Corbin Gillichbauer.
Driving was going smoothly until I encountered my first hill. I stalled the car, and I was completely embarrassed. I panicked and had no idea what to do. It was the first time my dad had gotten upset. I lost my cool and we got into a little argument. As the typical teenager, I blamed him for not properly preparing me. After I got the car going and drove for a little bit, he smiled and said “I bet you’ll never stall again.”
My dad was right. He knew that by making a fool out of myself that I would learn to never make that particular mistake again. Throughout my six months of driving, I had to learn the hard way that parents are almost always right. My dad has been driving for many more years than I have, and there would be times where I would try to go against his teachings, but I ended up being wrong every time.
And this doesn’t just relate to driving. If my dad ever gives me advice about anything anymore I listen to him without contest, most of the time. I’ll still have my disputes with him, just as any kid does with his parents. But throughout learning to drive, I learned that not only does my dad know a lot about driving, he knows a lot about everything. Parents always tell their kids that “they’ve been through it before” and that’s why we should listen to them. And just as every other kid, I ignored that and tried to tell them they don’t know anything.
