Memories and Musings

by cunningstuff

It’s an old one, so sit back, eat a chocolate, have some pop, it is awful but it is entertaining.

This is another old piece, yes I am cheating today, I have an empty blank slate after a horrible day at work, and I had decided I would publish these two old pieces anyways. I do intend however, to have a memory bank or autobiography here, some thing I can work on from time to time, so I will start with this. This one is very curious to me, and maybe you will find it so too, because it is again, written before I decided to become a writer. It explains more than enough about me, and is a disclosure piece of sorts. I have no interest in writing like this again, but the flow is similar and it is interesting to look at it after writing like I have for the past month. Anyways, for your and my perusal, Memories and Musings, my two earliest memories.

My life so far…

To start. I am actually just going to do this in the new way. Fuck money, fuck your beliefs about it.

My earliest memories are washed in a darkening filmed haze. They even seem like the movies that were recorded back then, super 8 I think it was called, but maybe we just had plain old 8. That’s 8mm, which to a young texan boy, means fuck all. It was film, still pictures with no sound recorded so fast that basically, they project the idea of motion to anyone watching them. Of course you know this, but what is important is that there is no personal computer, no smart phone, shit no cell phones at all. Dad would be in charge of filming, because hey, who trusts women with technology? I remember watching these and wondering, what is the point? It all seems so boring. Sitting in a darkened room with an extra loud stereo turned off, right in the middle of the whole shebang.

So back to my earliest memories. My first real memory has to be the coke bottle cut.

I do not remember how old I was, maybe two and a half, maybe three. I remember thinking though, yay, mom and dad are back from the grocery store! That means coke, soda water, pop, what ever name you want to call it, in my house, it was coke. I looked through the grocery bags until I found my coke, a classic glass bottle coke, and it was a coka-cola, too. Now I knew, that coke had to be “opened.” This opening involves a complicated device mounted over the kitchen sink. I am not sure if I knew it was called a bottle opener then, but it was an honest to goodness old school cast iron bottle cap remover mounted to the cabinet.
Now here is the part where, well, I lose kinda what happened, and it was filled in with stories of other folks.
My memory jumps from me finding the coke to actually putting the bottle in the bottle opener. In the time between the two, well, I managed at three years of age to climb the unclimbable kitchen cabinets, kick stuff off the the counter, so I can get to the bottle opener. My mother actually finds me in the kitchen sink, knee deep in dirty dishes, about to try to open the bottle of coke. She laughs and here is where I am able to remember again.
My mother is giggling at the determined child getting at his coke. I put the bottle of coke in the bottle opener, and pull down with all my strength and weight. Now if you have ever used one of these old bottle openers, there is nowhere you put the bottle in. I am three though, and stick it in between the opening cavity and the cabinet, and basically, break the top off the bottle. The bottle really breaks too, large pieces flying everywhere, and I cut my finger on the glass shards I am holding. Not a wussy cut either, a life long scar from the age of three, one of “those” kinds of deals. Apparently, they thought I had cut my whole finger off. I was of course, screaming bloody murder and crying in between breaths. I just remember my mother holding me, and laughing at how scared I made myself, and them.
It one of my fondest memories of my mother, long before I came to not care about her. It makes me cry these days, knowing the antipathy I hold still, and the sadness of being alone in the world. Since this is the beginning, I will not rant to much on how things went bad for now, but instead cherish this moment, and if a few tears fall while I type, no one but me can see them.
Another early fond memory is the firetruck birthday cake. It really is the last cake I remember well, and it was the beginning of a lifelong love of firefighters and their Dudley Do-Right lives. I was given a birthday cake when I was three, and it had a toy firetruck on it. I was so inspired by it, and given over to the majesty of the machine. Back then, toy fire trucks were usually ladder trucks, big long giant trucks just like you see today, in the next century, but loud, and complicated. I loved it. I do not remember how long I loved it, but I loved it so fiercely, I still have joy thinking of it, still love big firetrucks, and all of it centers on that day, the fire truck cake. It was a surprise cake to, I do not remember asking for it, or if I did, it was still a surprise. Also, what kid can resist the absolute insane double threat of a new toy ON A CAKE. I know how white sugar ruined my life as I am an addict now, but the heroin junkie does not ask why the point is filled with heroin in his busted mailbox, he just gets terribly excited and does it. Cake with toy to a child is almost ridiculous in the happiness level. Yes I just wanted the rush of sugar, but damn, it has a toy too.

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