By JIMMY LOWE
GLASGOW — One of the reasons why I enjoy observing the passages of my grandchildren is that, to some degree, they provide opportunities for me to reconnect to my own childhood.
The oldest grandson celebrated the big deal of turning 6 with a recent birthday party. It was a happy occasion. He blew out candles, ate cake and ice cream, ripped open presents, laughed and played, had his picture made every few seconds, and enjoyed being the very center of attention among family and friends. The ordeal left him looking forward to making another go-round from one February to another.
While his uncle was entertaining the assembled party goers with one of his pull-the-rabbit-from-the-bucket tricks, I tried to think back to my sixth birthday. I’d seen the show before, so as long as I wasn’t called forward to assist in some way, I could simply sit back and reminisce.
Yet, as I beckoned for my past, no memory came forward. I closed my eyes so as not to be distracted by the antics of the magic act. I tried to remember.
I could see the hall way of North Warren Elementary where parents were registering their children for the first grade. I remembered standing there with my mother and sizing up my soon-to-be classmates. That was just a few weeks before I turned 6.
Then I remembered helping my dad scatter walnuts that had fallen from our tree onto the graveled road in front of our house. We did this so the cars would run over the hulls and make it easier to get right to the nuts. This must have been a few weeks after I turned 6.
So what had that sixth birthday been like?
I thought as hard as one can think without getting a headache. Still, no scene played in the theater of my mind.
For a while I wondered if I had become the victim of that mean ol’ bandit, age. Had he taken the memory of my sixth birthday? And if he had, would he be back for more memories until I would finally be left unaware of those experiences buried below the present. Talk about identity theft!
I asked my mother about my sixth birthday. She couldn’t remember it, either. She assured me, though, that I got presents and had cake. “I always made you boys cake on your birthdays,” she said as she fought that tug-of-war with the memory thief. “Your grandparents came,” she said. “I’m sure they did. They always came for your birthday.”
She recollected bits of several childhood birthdays, although she may have mixed up some of mine with those of my brothers. That was okay. They were all pleasant.
Later, I thumbed through an old photo album, and I discovered what we couldn’t remember. The black pages had corner stickers that held small black and white pictures. Scribbled below one picture were the words, “sixth birthday.”
There was a much younger version of myself. I was sitting on the edge of the porch with my left arm around my father. I was smiling a goofy grin and holding a birthday gift in my right hand. Part of my mother’s shadow as she held the Brownie could be seen at our feet.
Yep, proof indeed!
I’m glad there were plenty of pictures made at my grandson’s party. He may need something to stimulate his memory when he gets into his sixth decade. The pictures will come to his rescue.
