Almost 15 years ago, The English Teacher edited this column for the very first time. She has been my editor ever since. She has stated often that it seems as if I like writing about, and maybe even living in, the past more than the present. Like most things concerning the English language, she is, of course, correct.
Growing up at 110 Flamingo Street with my three brothers and The Sister was indeed a simpler time. This story is all about a kid who wanted to grow up and be an adult and some of the odd choices he made trying to do so. So for the start of this story, we have to travel back to that old familiar street not so far away.
Dad left for work long before daybreak and returned just before dinner. This was his routine five days a week and half the day on Saturdays. But he also had another routine. In the evening when he returned home, he would head for his recliner where Mom and his drink would meet him. The rule around our house was simple: no one was allowed to talk to Dad before he finished his special drink.
Dad nursed the strong smelling liquid in the small glass full of ice for about 30 minutes. Mom said he needed the time to unwind. Unwind what, we never found out. After all, none of us were allowed to talk to him during his unwinding. This went on for years without any change until the year I turned 8. That’s when I decided I wanted to be a grownup.
Being as Dad was a grownup, I wanted to be more like him. I too wanted a special drink of strong smelling liquid in a small glass full of ice. When asked, to my surprise, Dad let me have a sip.
Sure, it took months of my asking and months of his saying I wouldn’t like it, but eventually he was worn down. Special note to those younger readers out there: Asking for the same thing over and over will eventually wear your parents down. It’ll also get them really mad at you, but they will usually give in just to make you quit asking.
It was Older Brother Richard who double-dog-dared me to take a huge gulp instead of a small sip. So a gulp it was. Immediately, I knew my mistake. Listening to Richard. He was the one laughing the loudest as I ran around the room coughing and gagging.
Eventually, when he caught his breath from laughing, Dad got up and got me a glass of water. Handing it to me he said, “Told ya you wouldn’t like it.” It was that numbing liquid that made me stop wanting to be a grownup, at least for a little while.
Six months later it wasn’t Dad’s routine that hastened my journey to adulthood. It was Mom’s. Or should I say it was her pack of cigarettes? Mom smoked about a pack a day. She said it helped with her stress. What stress she was talking about none of us five kids knew. She didn’t have a job like Dad. She stayed home and took care of us. How hard could that be?
In my mind, Mom was a grownup and she smoked. That meant if I wanted to also be considered as a grownup, I too had to smoke. I shouldn’t have followed Big Brother James’s advice that day. He said smoking one cigarette would not make me a grownup. Smoking a pack would.
Later that day, Mom finally found me wandering around the backyard, a cigarette still dangling from my lips. She said I was so sick my face actually had turned green. Actually, after I had passed out from smoking the first half of the pack, James and Richard had painted my face. When I woke up they had double-dog-dared me to smoke the rest of the cigarettes.
It was that day Mom threw away her last pack and never smoked again. Said she didn’t want to be a bad influence on us kids. I thought she just didn’t want to pass out and have a green face like me.
These were just two examples of the many ways I tried to become a grownup. They are many, many more. Sadly, the reason we moved is how I grew up overnight and why I write so much about those seven magical years we all spent growing up on Flamingo Street. But that is a story for another time.
For all those out there trying to grow up and become adults, I have but one word of advice. Don’t. Trust me, you will spend all your adult life trying to be young again.
Enjoy the freedom of being a kid — especially during the summer. For me, I’ll just keep writing stories about a long, long time ago on a street not so far away.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
