Driving Lessons and Greener Grass

Rounding the corner to my parents house I passed a silver two-door saturn with a particularly fuzzy faced driver. Or so I thought at first glance. Turns out instead it was a young dad with his daughter in his lap. Her tiny hands grasped the steering wheel and brown curls bounced up and down excitedly as he strained to look around her for approaching vehicles. We shared a wave as we passed. I couldn't help but laugh at her delight, and his obvious entertainment in it. Seems like just yesterday I was sitting in my daddy's lap behind the wheel of our blue station wagon. We'd drive around that Michigan parking lot, waiting for mom to finish her errands. It was so hard for my little hands to turn that steering wheel, but I remember the sheer joy of "driving" and wishing only that I could be big enough to push the pedals myself too.

This long lost memory jilted the cache of my memory file and brought a flood of childhood memories to mind. My first pony ride, first motorcycle ride, the agonizing process of trying to learn to ride a bike, building forts, trying to start a fire, pulling the legs off crickets, flushing my live goldfish, bossing other kids around on the playground...

I always remember being pretty imaginative as a child. When Lindsay was just a baby, Justyn and I would play outside in our front yard in Swartz Creek, Michigan for hours tossing a ball, trying to perfect cartwheels (a feat I have yet to accomplish to this day) riding tricycles with the neighborhood kids and whatever other randomness we came up with. 

One thing we NEVER did was cross behind our house into the neighbor's yard. Apparently there was something super special about their grass. It was luscious, soft, and brilliantly green - I mean, really nice for grass, but grass nonetheless - their pride and joy. We had specific instructions relayed through our mother not to lay a foot on it. Which is sad you know, because our grass was dry and scratchy (this, of course, had nothing to do with our down and dirty playtimes) and I always imagined that grass would be like playing in Eden.  

Anyway, one day we were playing a rousing game of kickball when our ball inevitably went into the forbidden Eden. Naive logic said, well, you gotta get the ball. I mean, if it just sits there, it really will turn the grass brown, plus, they'll probably be MORE mad that we let the ball land in their precious yard. Being the oldest, I got nominated to brave the invisible boundary, dash in, snatch the ball and get out without being seen. Windows were closed, blinds were down. We figured we'd be safe, and it was now or never. Taking a deep breath, I went for it. Gingerly, I ran on my tiptoes into the softest grass my feet had ever touched, grabbed the ball, and turned to make my triumphal exit. All of a sudden, behind me I hear the screen door slam and incoherent shouts come from my neighbor who is chasing me through the yard with a BROOM! Call me crazy, but I was four, pretty sure I was doing a lot less damage to his precious grass than Mr. 250 Pounds was as he plowed through it wielding that broom and screaming like a banshee.

Good times man, good times. With a million more stories like that from my childhood, I guess it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out how I managed to be such a crazy mess at 25!