Our Time

OurTime

I have a name - but there are no fancy letters and numbers following it on any diplomas that hang with perfect precision on my off-white walls. I have no diplomas that announce my credibility in the field of Memories and their influence on you. And I have not sat through endless debates and lectures on the subjects of Psychology or Psychiatry at any of the prestigious Universities that dust the earth like fall snow in the White Mountains. I am just like you, I have lived and loved and learned through experience. I am now 52-years-old but sometimes not a day over 12 and other times I am 91 and wonder how I can possibly go on.

But Who Is Trash Kan Karl?

I call myself Trash Kan Karl. I’m the memory “Kan” of Little Carl. The Kan Big Carl takes firm hold of by the “hand”le and pulls slowly to the curb each week. I loved the feel of Big Carl’s strong hand pulling, pulling me trustworthily down the driveway of our suburban multiple bedroom house on an anywhere street in America. For a big man, he was gentle with me, always getting me there safely and placing me where I needed to be as I waited for the brutes. (More of them in a later episode).

Memories...of Trash Kan Karl and Little Carl

Whoosh! Little Carl barely avoids me on this bright summer morning as he rockets past me at top speed,. I watch as his skinny legs carry him down the street, his mop of sandy brown hair bouncing to and fro. He makes a wide sweeping turn two doors down, the sun glistening off his blue-on-blue, his face set in intense concentration, tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth. Here he comes, I know what’s coming, Little Carl sets up on me like a lion hunting his prey. He is almost upon me, his front wheel sliding past, his body weight jutting forward over the handle bars. His feet in just the right position on his pedals, he lifts his rear tire and turns his wheel ever so slightly. With the grace only a lanky 11-year-old can muster, he throws his 80 pounds violently forward and to the right. His wheel swings towards me like the pendulum of some giant other worldly clock. Bam! Bullseye! His back tire crashes into me with a bone jarring crunch. That blue-on-blue moves past and two doors down, he makes the turn, tiny tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. I love this time we spent together, little Carl and me. Kick-out after kick-out on this beautiful summer morning.

What’s It All About?

It’s that memory of a youthful tongue sticking out of the corner of my mouth as I glide two doors down that makes me stop and ponder. Where have I seen such a tongue and a mouth? I don’t need to really think about such a question, to whom it belongs. Of course his tongue is not that of a skrawny little 11-year-old boy and his concentration not set on the havoc he will wreak on an old metal trash can. The tongue I now see is that of Big Carl. Big Carl, my Dad, pulling on a long handled "breaker bar” as he attempts to loosen the nut that won’t give as he rebuilds that 455 olds. The tongue that somehow aids him in his quest to keep moving his polishing rag in furious circles around and around his most prized possession, soon to be so shiny that it burns the eyes if one looks too long. It’s that tongue that makes me think of bunny hops, kick-outs and wheelies.

The year was about 1980 or so and the California sun beat down on the asphalt driveway of our 4-bedroom ranch style home in a sleepy little far out suburb destined to be a sprawling concrete jungle as far as the eye can see in another decade or so. But for now the days of mass shootings, fentanyl and non-stop natural disasters were still up the street, around the corner and a transatlantic flight from this scrawny little boy and his dad. 

This particular summer morning I awaken with a huge yawn and stretch from underneath my “Speed Racer” comforter. I can hear the muffled sounds of what seem to be hundreds of lawnmowers. Undoubtedly being pushed by stout little men, lanky little teenagers and even a few curler headed moms. The sound of a distant lawnmower and the smell of fresh cut grass, still some 40 years in the future, can stop me in my tracks. This is a memory that tingles the belly and makes me smile. If I could live in this memory, of fresh cut grass and the hum of mowers, no one would ever find me again, for here I would stay all tingly and smiley. Today though, I will not be held captive by such wistful smells and noises.

My bare feet swing to the shag carpet below and in a single bound I am out the door, down the hall and ready for my culinary delight. Maybe if you are a child of that era you can guess this wonder of early morning gastronomy. Yellow hearts, blue diamonds….that’s right! You guessed it. I sit at the table with a spoon in my hand and my elbow jutting towards the ceiling in some double jointed pose, and I shovel in the glorious contents of my bowl. I can still hear my mom telling me “I just bought those Lucky Charms yesterday and I won’t go to the store until next week. When they’re gone, they’re gone."

I retract my elbow from its disjointed pose, belch as any 11-year-old would, push out my chair with a slam and I’m gone! Like Flash Gorden I am in my room to put on my Brown Toughskins, my white OP tank top, my pooka shell necklace and last but not least, my Hawaiian Vans. Back out to the hall through the entryway and out the door to the front of the house I run like an Olympic athlete in the prime of his career. Sitting where I threw it the evening before, next to the big garage door, is my blue-on-blue. I grab it like the world may end at any moment. My pulse pounding, (maybe from the sugar filled cereal) or from my future morning of bunny hops, kick-outs and wheelies. This thought lights my soul and makes my heart sing as my foot hits the pedal and my bum hits the seat. My wheels just begin to turn, my future so exciting and bright, when I hear the garage door open with a lurch, and Big Carl utters the words that stop my heart, make my blood turn to ice and my little inner boy scream like the whistle of a steam train. “Son! I need your help."

“Ahhhh dad! Can’t I just play today?” A huge knot forming in the pit of my stomach. I know exactly what the answer will be. I am no lawyer, at this age not able to formulate any intelligent protests that may sway Big Carl. But from my vantage point now at this “memory overlook," I am happy that my dad did not give in to my youthful laziness. My shoulders slump forward and my eyes no longer shine with future greatness. I drop my bike and drag my feet into the dark cavern that is our garage. 

It’s not a big garage by today’s standards. Just a two car garage in an anywhere U.S.A suburb of the 70’s. Room for two gas-guzzling cars common to that time with a little space around the edges not seen in suburbia today. Cars that I would love to have parked in a field as money in the bank for a future day. A monstrous water heater sits smirking at me from the far right corner at the back. A long workbench stretches along the wall from the water heater to the entry door of the house. Along the back wall is the toolbox and a mishmash of other “garagey” things. Along the left side of the garage there is only room for a few small things and this is where the fishing pole cabinet has its home. (More of that fantastical place later). 

My time

Big Carl has already been hard at it on one project or another on this beautiful summer morning. Little beads of sweat adorn his forehead and grease and oil stain his hands. At this age and time in my life, I hate the smell, the look, the feel of grease and oil. Grease and oil mean prison for me, locked away in that cavern of misery, twisting and turning wrenches while the morning stretches on and my future is postponed. You see my friend, this is the heart of the matter. As a boy I never looked forward to the “time” I would spend with my dad. That “time” for a boy of 11-yrs was supposed to be “my time."  “My time” was supposed to be with my blue -on-blue in glorious concentration as I performed my bunny hops, kick-outs and wheelies. 

I remember Big Carl asking me to fetch his 9/16 open ended wrench or his “dog killer” screwdriver from his not so tidy toolbox. I would search and search to no avail. I was sure it wasn’t there, but Big Carl would come over after a time and pick out the proper tool with little effort. Frustration would well up inside of me and threaten to burst like an over-filled water balloon. Why would he subject me to this torture!? I was clearly no help at all and surely I must be a source of frustration for him. But he would return to his task, wrench on a stubborn bolt, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He would work until the task was complete and only until then would he withdraw that tongue from the corner of his mouth.

Our time

As I sit and ponder “my time” that was so precious to me as a free spirited, snotty nosed 11-year-old boy, I finally see what it really was. It was not “my time” but “our time." When Big Carl would come to find that proper tool that eluded me and made my mood black, he would ruffle my sandy hair on top of my head with a gentle smile. Why did I never see that smile and gentleness then? Why did I not open my eyes and see that this was “our time” not “my time” and “his time." But that’s the beauty of our memories. I can look back not on the feelings of an 11-year-old boy, lost in the gloom of unrealized bunny hops, kick-outs and wheelies. I can peer back through time and space and remember “our time." A time of togetherness, a time when I see that gentle smile and I feel the love and care from my Big Carl. I look back upon such memories now, and yes: I could reflect on that tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and remember what I didn’t do. Remember there were no bunny hops, kick-outs and wheelies on that beautiful summer morning. But now I can look at what I did do. What we did. I can look back not on “my time” but I can look back with my tongue sticking out of the corner of my mouth and remember “our time."

So may it be for you my friend. May you reach down into your can, past the what you weren’t able to do’s, and find your own happy memory. They are there, maybe deep in your can, but they are there I am sure. Take off your lid, peer inside and may you find a memory, a time special to you and someone you love. May you find your own “our time.”