Summary: A reflection upon nostalgia, memories, and aging. | Word Count: 1,072
There are moments when you age and moments when you understand your age. The former occurs step by step, sometimes natural like puberty, other times artificial like driving and drinking – hopefully not at once. Comparably, the latter swoops in with a sudden realization like a gale-force wind which knocks the metaphorical breath from you. A simple bending motion or picking up a heavy box will send fright down your back and all the way down to your knees at the ripe age of thirty. Never mind all the times you were injured as a kid and managed to bounce back – you’re old now is your motto when you understand your age. This also happens with memories.
“Wow! I remember this. This was the Christmas episode marathon. The kids’ programming block had a mascot that got all the other show characters together to sing together. It was like the ultimate crossover before crossovers!” I exclaimed.
Now in my thirties, my life has begun to stabilize from being a broke, hopeless, and jobless millennial. I was one of the lucky ones to get out from the trenches of customer service warfare and now I took more time to spend with my parents.
The surreal part is that now I am able to drink with my parents. What was more strange was that they did not drink when I was growing up. I have been through several existential shifts in how I interact with them and this afternoon we drank rose wine together and watched old VHS tapes from when I recorded cartoons on TV.
“I do remember this one. Well. I remember you talking about it. A lot was going on that day. I just knew you were so excited about that particular episode.” my mom agreed.
She pulled out a photo album underneath the coffee table to show me the albums that prompted her to dig out a box of old VHS in the first place. The picture was of me around the age of five. I was in my underwear and had a blanket wrapped around my shoulders watching an old CRT TV.
“That’s a nice one.” I said, no longer embarrassed at myself.
Had she shown that to me a few years ago I would have asked her to stuff it into the attic and never show it again, but something changed over the course of my later twenties. The awkward aspects of life became less so and I gained a humbleness about who I was in the past. It was the sort of feeling where something is at first embarrassing, then you laugh about it later. I was less self conscious and more able to focus on the here and now.
Memories tend to become more precious as time goes on for that is what you have to rely on when understanding aging. There was no backtracking through time, but the memory was a special time travel of its own, aided further by the help of alcohol.
“I remember waking up that mornen…wondering why there was ssooo much darn shouten again.” My dad mumbled drunk, already reclining in the lazy boy.
I think he drank two glasses before I even arrived here.
“It was also the week where the final episode of three cartoons was showcased. It was amazing.” I said, pouring myself another glass of rose.
“To you it was a great morning.” my mom said, also pouring herself the last bit of wine from the bottle, “but to me and your father it was a nightmare of a morning.”
I was shocked and held up my hands in utter disbelief.
“What? What happened while I was watching tv?” I asked.
“Well for one. The neighbors down the road from us were doing meth for the past few months. Their RV that morning caught on fire and burnt part of the utility shed on our property. Second, the cops picked that morning to search their property and we had to answer their questions for an hour and a half after they found the bodies of the couple from self-inflicted gun wounds.”
I was appalled – absolutely stupefied.
“You never told me this!” I exclaimed, turning to my mom. My father had already fallen asleep, “I mean – I remember you both going outside for a long time, but I thought that was for yard work.”
She nodded at the memory and a frown swept across her face in guilt.
“We decided to keep it secret from you. You were too little to understand. We didn’t want you feeling unsafe. That’s why we made up the excuse of putting that big hunk of a TV in the basement along with your pillow fort. It was harder to hear things from outside down there. Those neighbors had a lot of fights and sometimes they were shooting off their guns wildly into the air.”
“That’s – I – I am shocked…but now that you mention it. I do remember asking about the shed. You or dad said something about lightning burning it.” I said on the edge of the couch.
My mom smiled and reached over to pat my arm.
“Yup. We don’t like to do it. However, the half-lies were told to keep you safe. I guess cat’s out of the bag. Wine sure is a truth serum.” my mom said and leaned back on the sofa completely relaxed.
I looked back to the TV seeing one of the cartoon characters fighting the bad guy by using a magic object to gain superpowers to overcome being outnumbered and manage to knock them all out. It was a moral tale of good versus evil, where good always won. Cartoons may be unrealistic compared to the real world, but they taught us the good things in life. If hope is ever needed in the world continuously rocked by grief, then cartoons were a beacon in the dark.
“That’s the power of nostalgia. Both from my own neighborhood and also my own generation.” I said, having reflected on the truth of being a naïve 90’s kid, “You think everything is good, swell, and fantastic, but then you learn the world around you is burning. The parents are stressed and worried and fearful about terrors that could happen in their own backyard.”
“But the kids are none the wiser and most importantly happy. As it should be.” My mom stated, with a chuckle and raised her glass to mine.
Off Beat Off Kilter 