KNOWING ME, KNOWING YOU, (UH HUH)

via istockphoto.com

Knowing Me

As a young child in an unsupervised moment one of my playmates decided to ride his trike. I hopped on the back axle where there was room to stand and gave him a big push.

Except he pulled back on the handle bars just as I pushed and popped a wheelie that trapped my food under the standing platform. The edges of the metal dug into the top of my big toe and peeled it a little as it cut.

I went home with a bloody foot. The home nurse (mom) patched it up with a can of bandaids I bled through. I watched the scar move up my foot as I grew from a little boy to a six foot three man with size thirteen sleds.

Knowing You

The big kid in the same neighborhood played a game of batting a ball down the street gutter and following it for another whack. When he showed up in front of our house you wanted a better look.

Big boy didn’t see you watching from behind and nailed you in the head with the backswing of his bat. One concussion later set up the next one and the hits that followed playing high school and college football.

Knowing Me

As a sixth grader I rode a friend’s bike with them sitting side saddle on the bar between the seat and the handlebars. For more fun I told him we would set a world speed record and stood on the pedals for more power. He got frightened and started kicking until his foot kicked back into the spokes.

The fast spinning wheel yanked his leg in between the front wheel forks and send the bike into a cartwheel. He rolled with the bike while I sailed overhead. One broken collarbone later my flag football season ended.

Knowing You

If you liked a girl in high school you drove by their house. If they liked you and you knew it you’d do burnouts on the road beside her bedroom window to show you cared.

If the ritual worked out you’d have a prom date. If it didn’t, the girl’s father would call the house and complain.

Love was such a mystery.

Uh Huh

The best part about growing up in one place was seeing how things turned out. Then I met people as an adult who weren’t sure where they grew up. “I grew up all over the place,” is never a good answer unless they were military brats.

Talk about childhood memories to someone new and they start talking about their ‘dark places’, get ready for shock and surprise.

How often have you heard someone’s story, or part of it, and wanted to hear more?

How often do you want to hear less?