I think back on the ancient days, Those days when I was younger,
When things that happened and I could feel a part of each one.
Time has moved forward, so I thought
Of each that I felt was the end of something, and also the beginning of another:
That last burr haircut my mother gave,
The length my hair would grow, the fact I cannot grow hair that will ever be parted again. Living without a part, and more of a beard than I ever had of hair.
Riding a banana seat bicycle, with metallic red paint, a Schwinn, brand new, up and down the neighborhood, along the creek bank, out to Hudson Lake on Sunset Road, four miles out and four miles back, and wonder whatever happened to that bike.
Playing with Scott, and throwing darts with Craig, and slipping one in at the end that crowned him in the back of the head. Scott moved away, then Craig, then me. Never saw them again.
Roller skated with tin skates, carried a giant key on blue yarn, clacking those wheels. Another thing that disappeared, or I dissapeared from them.
Speaking of clacking, or Clackers, banging those hard plastic balls together, running them at 90 miles an hour, clack clack clack clack, faster and faster, knocking someone's teeth out, bruising ourselves purple, cracking them hard against themselves. Lawn Darts stayed around awhile, but they were much more dangerous aimed.
Stealing that first taste of a cigarette, vile in so many ways, pulling a drag in, coughing til we were blue in the face. Chewing tobacco like an old man at a farm sale, biting off a cud of Days Work, slobbering up and spitting something awful. Settling for Skoal, or Copenhagen, only to leave a soda can half full of spit for someone else to grab and take a big drink. Funny, but it ended.
Levi Jackets, Wellington Boots, JC Penny Plain Pockets, (what a great marketing ploy) plaid britches, a.m. radio, 78 records, 45's before 8-tracks, then 8-tracks, cassettes, on and on. We played four-square til long after dark, ran races in the front yard, ran in the blowing insecticide from inside the mosquito truck, running about dark.
Plenty to do, to have, and all things come to an end, all things that we will likely never see again, and though our joints hurt, our eyes that need help to see, our bodies that wouldn't allow us the movement to keep going, past just what we need to, and just where we will end up.
Ralph Peck
Walking In The Past
Photo By Museum of History
Bartlesville Oklahoma
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