It's difficult for me, sometimes, to accurately describe how or what I'm feeling. Especially as of late, when some things are growing more and more confusing. It's no mystery that I suffered a life-altering brain injury a few years ago. I've mentioned it here, in this forum, numerous times. Explained how I fell. How I knocked myself out. How I spent the next twelve months trying to restore my life to the level it was before, only for the experts to drill into me that life as I knew it, was going to be drastically changed. I work hard to maintain the knowledge and memories I have and pausing to celebrate the ones that come fleeting back. I had a childhood memory come dancing back into view and I'll share it with you all now.
I saw a family out in the park the other day. Dad was pulling the tightly bundled baby in a toboggan, the name Radio Flyer emblazoned along the side in it's unmistakable font. It was a happy memory, for that child, unfolding in front of me and it sparked a memory of my own. 😊
We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up. I lived in a trailer for a majority of my life. A seventy-two foot mobile home that was situated just west of our city, which is another memory that I restored lately. I loosely recall where the dealership was located when my father brought all of us along to look at multiple models for purchase. I just want to clarify some minor details with my mom, before I write about that one. However, the memory that I chose for today, concerns the Radio Flyer wagon and the small trailer we lived in prior to the one I lived a majority of my childhood in.
The trailer we had before, was tiny in comparison to what we'd eventually move into. It was just a two bedroom. My sister and I shared a bedroom in the front of the house and my parents room was in the rear. Separating the two spaces was a small bathroom at the end of the hall, next to mom and dad's room, then a small kitchen/living room. If one were to look at RV camper trailers, today, you'd find more luxury than you would have found in that dinky little dwelling. Like I'd said before, our family didn't have a lot of money and my dad made due with what he had and if I were to reflect on that time, you'd find a twenty-something, new dad, new fledgling family and just trying to keep everything afloat. My dad did good.
I remember watching Stampede Wrestling with my grandmother on an old black and white TV that was shoved in one corner of the living room space. Across from that was a washer/dryer combo machine, that my mother confirmed the other day as being a real memory of mine. It was so small in stature, that I was confused by it, but my mom confirmed that it was, indeed, a washer that was on wheels and could be maneuvered over to the kitchen sink for the hoses to hook up. I recall having a poster on the back of my, sorry, my sister and mine's bedroom door, of the Jolly Green Giant, that also served as a measuring implement to gauge our growth. The one other memory I have of this tiny dwelling, before I get to the main course of this Brain Matter edition, was the night my mom was attacked while she slept.
Being on a farm, it's not uncommon for some of the outside dwellers to come inside. Perhaps seeking warmth from the coolness of the night or maybe to grab a nibble of a delinquent crumb or alike. On this one particular night, my mother rose from a deep sleep to a stunning awakening, crying in distress. Turns out a tiny mouse had ventured into our place, but instead of seeking out a forgotten cookie or a dropped piece of vegetables under the kitchen table, this little adventurer, found itself in my parents bedroom, where my mom's arm had slipped off the bed and was hanging just inches from the floor. My mom had woken up to something chewing at the end of her finger. It's crazy to think about just how vulnerable we, human beings, really are when we sleep.
I believe it was a Saturday night and I was all excited. My dad wasn't home. Probably at work. He worked at the Cory Potash Mine, at the time, which involved a lot of shift work. Something that remains to this day, I believe. So it was up to my mom to cart this large box into the kitchen. The box was nearly as big as the entire kitchen. Eventually the box was emptied and taken into the porch to allow more room to work. It was exciting. Me dancing with glee and joy as my mom assembled this flashy red wagon together, piece by piece. Finally it was down to just popping the red center caps on each wheel to hid the mechanism beneath. Three successes and one that broke when being pressed on. Little did I know, at the time, that this slight imperfection would be a running theme throughout my life. Case and point: The day I bought my truck from Honda. I'd only owned it for maybe ten minutes before someone, at the dealership I might add, parked next to me, flinging their passenger door into the side of my brand spanking new truck. Now I owned a brand new spanking truck with a ding in the side of it already. Because I'm not allowed to have anything nice.
Minor imperfection or not, I loved that wagon. I took it everywhere with me on that farm. I can only imagine the eye rolls I must have gotten when my dad would be hard at work, reassembling an engine or something in the shed and hearing the unmistakable rattle of my little red wagon and I coming to see what was going on.
I remember concocting something that would allow me to tow the wagon behind my bicycle (another memory just popped for that) and I used that wagon for everything it was worth. I wonder if my mom ever stood back with pride, knowing that she'd been the one to build the toy that her eldest was having so much fun with. I know if the roles were reversed and it was me looking at something that my kid was enjoying, I'd feel pride. I get that now, when Monkey is playing with something I made for him.
The wagon got a lot of use over the years, eventually being drafted into service for my dad. I'd find the wagon, now covered in dust and surface rust, sitting in a corner of the shop. Smiling, almost, as I came into view. Both of us, it an aging old toy and me a grown adult, sharing a moment of reflection, reminiscing about the old days we shared together.
After my dad passed away in ninety-nine, I don't know what happened to that little red wagon. If I would have been smart, I would have taken it with me before the entire farmyard of equipment was sold at auction. That was a heartbreaking event, in and of itself, which deserves it's own blog to discuss. As for my wagon... Who knows? Probably snatched up by some auction bidder who never gave the wagon the respect it deserved and why would they? To them it was only an implement. To me, it was a show of freedom. Freedom for a kid who never had a lot of stuff growing up, but I had that Radio Flyer.
"Could you spare a crumb or a berry? Even a finger if you're not using it."
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