My Wonder Years

Yesterday I was engaged in some sort of menial task, the type of thing that lends itself to distraction and to thoughts wondering in unpredictable directions. While my thoughts were meandering I found myself in the middle of a moment of childhood nostalgia. I began to remember, very vividly, an occurrence of my youth that I had nearly forgotten. I’m sure many of you have had a similar experience to what I'm about to describe. I think all of us kids who grew up in the 80’s did. In fact, I can't think of one person who didn't go through it. It was something along the lines of the Challenger explosion or your first Pogo-Ball, you remember exactly where you were. It was an event I remember rather fondly. The first time it happened with me, I was 8 years old. I had just finished a Saturday morning YMCA soccer game. We were victorious. Mind you I wasn’t exactly an essential cog in the machine that was our soccer team, but I had scored a goal in this game, one of about 3 dozen we rained upon our inferior opponent. As a result, this game was maybe a little more special than most. So on the way home I was feeling pretty good about myself. I was riding in the back seat, we had just pulled out of the parking lot of the soccer field. I hadn’t even had time to take off my shin guards or cleats yet. I’ll never forget my father saying “You looked good out there today son, I’m proud of you.” This wasn't that unusual, but his tone was different, more sincere and as he said the words “I’m proud of you” his hand reached over his head to the back seat and in it was a brand new pack of filter-less Pall-Mall cigarettes. At first I was stunned, unsure of what to do, but he motioned the pack toward me as if to say “Go ahead, it’s OK.” My fingers were trembling with excitement and I could barely get the cellophane off of the bright red and white package. As I pulled the lid back I was mesmerized by the perfectly round cylinders of sweet smelling tobacco that looked back at me. I remember having trouble deciding which one I would take, thinking that I needed to pick the perfect one. Like the kid I was, I took one right out of the middle like a piece out of a birthday cake. As I withdrew it from its package a sweet smell flooded my nostrils. The smell of fresh inexpensive tobacco mingled with the hot vinyl seats and artificial vanilla air freshener to create an aroma that took me somewhere I’ve not been since. My mom turned from the passenger seat and handed me a lighter, she was smiling from ear to ear. My tiny little fingers were too small to turn the rough metal wheel across the flint. After a few tries my mother said “Let me, son”. As her thumb turned the wheel with expertise a beautiful yellow flame erupted from the end of the lighter and my heart began to race. I put the cigarette between my lips and as the end of it met the flame a tiny crackle sounded. My chest filled with a thick world of wonderment as I inhaled as deeply as I could. My head was swimming with nicotine and joy. I remember my father looking at me in the rearview mirror, his headed nodded almost imperceptibly. I was only 8 but I knew even then that his look was one of pure pride. When I finally smashed the butt into the shiny ashtray in the armrest of our Buick, my fingers were nearly burning. I didn’t want it to end! Later as I vomited through a smiling mouth, my father mussed my hair with an outstretched hand and said “Atta, boy.” Ah to be 8 again.