Out of Pocket

As I will be out of pocket until at least the second week of June. . . away from my baby . . . away from my pups . . . away from my baby . . .

I thought I'd throw in a classic Oddy nostalgia piece . . . cause I spoke to the subject yesterday and we are getting together for drinks before I leave for parts unknown . . .

OF BEER CANS AND AIRPLANES

My first love . . . well second to pom-vodka martini's neat . . . was Hair. I called him Hair - his hair was as long as mine. I have likely blogged on him many times before, in fact, I am likely repeating myself here.

He moved into my school district in the 5th grade. That's right. I fell in love in the 5th grade. We became fast friends, if only because he shared my snarky and self-deprecating humor. His older brother had a decent ride and he'd ride us home from school now and then.

We got on great. My folks worked, so we were latch-key kids. His moms sat on the couch and ate cookies, smoked cigs and drank herself into a daily stupor, mine worked . . . we were kindred.

I fought for him - you know the new kid in school, the cute, mysterious boy who'd maybe hide in the closet with you and get to first . . . or second base . . .probably just first . . . Long story short, I won.

He was my best friend and by the time we reached the 7th grade and full-on puberty . . . he was my boyfriend. My "boyfriend". That sounds so trite and meaningless. It was more than that. He was quite possibly (at that time) the other half of my soul. In fact, to this very day, he is my oldest and one of my dearest friends.

The 7th grade brought the onset of school dances, boy-girl sleep overs and strip poker! ;-) We broke up by the end of the year, though we remained friends. We were back together as a "couple" by the 10th grade - sorta. We'd had a heart to heart during one of our marathon soap-opera watching sessions. We'd decided, as teens often dramatically do, that those we love-leave so we'd not "commit" because then neither of us would leave. Our attempts at profound existential statements at the age of 14 or so were not that well-thought through.

That summer I left for the beach for two weeks. He'd found another while I was gone. . . sorta. . . I brought home a gift for him - an airplane made of beer cans - one of the kitchy souveniers from a street vendor and all was right in our world.

I was thinking about that tchatchky the other day. I'd asked myself whether it'd survived our childhoods. Like a time capsule of a more innocent summer. That summer where we'd sit in the dark in the trailer park he lived in and play guitar and sing - doing our best renditions of Janis or Van or Jim Morrison or whatever was out at the time. Camp fires at the lake, sneaking a toke or a beer or going for a joy ride.

When I'm down . . . really, really low, I think about that summer. I sing the soundtrack to Hair the musical and I think about how much fun we had being kids.

I wonder if my child will have that much fun being a kid. The world is a scary place. The ideas espoused and the views supported by those currently in power scare me . . . and I wonder . . . I wonder if my child or other kids will ever be able to have that much fun being a kid ever again. So I get low. Because I don't think I'd trade that summer and its memories for anything and I want my kid . . .even if he shouldn't be . . . I want him to have at least some of that kind of fun.

And when I'm low, really low, I will think of Hair . . . contemplate the cosmos and where our place is in it . . . and imagine that the tchatchky beer can airplane is still out there somewhere helping some kid have a great summer.