Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay
that starts here:
When I was a small child on the move, everyone in the house eventually learned their possessions weren't safe. Was it because I was the runt and they were "of an age" that found them with some earned change in their pockets to buy those extra items? <shrug> I have no idea what drove my destructive engine.
My first memory of, "getting into something", occurred when I was quite young, yet of walking and grabbing age. (so grabby was I) In our family of seven, the single bathroom offered a floor to ceiling, double doored cabinet that was beside the sink. The room may have been tiny, but there was a place to store the essentials. One of those "essentials" was my oldest brother's pomade.
If you have no reference for pomade, I can only share that my brother's was sold in stick form--similar to glue sticks or antiperspirant. Did I observe the sibling's application at another previous time or did I instinctively know how to use that stick? Hard to say, but I can imagine my mother's reaction, when she found me with a petroleum based wad of hair stuck to my wee cranium.
And maybe that's why the memory sticks (no pun intended)--the clean-up. Oh golly! I cannot imagine (my apologies, repeating myself) my mother's horror. She tried all of her tricks and apparently, all of her tricks were needed to remove that stubborn substance from my wee noggin.
You'd think, but you'd be wrong, that I learned my first lesson. No! There were other possessions to find, enjoy and then destroy. Did I feel remorse? I doubt it. I was on a mission to seek out and . . . find all the joy hidden within the house. Huh. And there it is--just a tyke seeking delight.
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