Gonna Take A Sentimental Journey

I loved my childhood. I have many great memories; I learned a lot and generally had a lot of fun.

Once I exit a period of my life, I don't particularly have deep, emotional ties to them. I am able to look back on many of my youthful escapades, recreate most of those memories and be happy for their occurrence, but still somehow come short of falling into a deep nostalgic bliss or longing to turn back the clock.

Tonight is a little different. I guess as the seasons change and life becomes more complex and difficult, it's easy to recollect the times of non-responsibility (and irresponsibility) of youth. The follies become even funnier; the forgettable moments become cherished memories. And friends forgotten become the people you've been the closest to in your life.

When I was in junior high, a new family moved into our church. No matter your age, you were sure to know one of their kids. I believe there were 8 of them, ranging in age from 18 to 3. The father's job was transferred from The Woodlands to San Marcos. Not knowing how long they were to stay in the area, they rented two apartments instead of purchasing a house. The older kids (12 and above) stayed in one apartment while the younger kids stayed in the main apartment with the parents.

J. and I immediately became best friends. Since I lived in Wimberley, the only time we got to see each other was for three hours on Sundays and maybe once during the week. Still, we formed an instant bond that made up for the distance and absence.

J. was an even better best friend in that he had two incredibly hot older sisters. One was absolutely untouchable; she was a senior in high school. She was so gorgeous that if you stared at her for too long, your eyes started to hurt. The other sister was 16; while she was stunning herself, she was more cute than gorgeous. Plus, she was still at that awkward age where playing Scrabble with your younger brother and his zit-faced friend was still kinda fun.

J.'s older brother was a Marine. He would occasionally come home on the weekends and set up camp in the living room. He grunted a lot and like to clean his guns and sharpen his knives. We were both terrified of him so I don't remember much about him.

On the drive home this evening, I was thinking about the summer before 8th grade. The memories I have of those few months were very Stand By Me. I suddenly felt like that summer was not two decades ago but only a few weeks ago. That if I closed my eyes and snapped my fingers, I could return to the time where girls, jobs, and homework were just background noises.

J. lived by a small river. It wasn't much but a man-made waterfall did make it all that more interesting. The jump was only probably only thirty-five feet or so, but it was as scary as Niagara. Plus, the jump had to be very accurate; too far to the left, the right, or not far enough and you'd land on rocks. Being absolutely terrified of heights, I had no interest killing myself.

Until J. made it known in no uncertain terms that he would tell this girl we both had a crush on what a chick I was. What else could I do? I think most guys got my back when I say I'd rather kill myself at worst, but probably only break a leg on the rocks, before I let it be known I was too scared to do something.

So, I took the leap. After that, jumping off that waterfall was the only thing I wanted to do.

I would stay at J.'s apartment for days at a time. My parents knew where I was but looking back, I'm not entirely convinced his parents knew I was there all the time. Dinner usually consisted of chips and cookie dough so we really didn't' have to go over to the main apartment. His sister would give us a ride into town at night, we'd watch a movie, and then hitch a ride back. We were largely without adult supervision but still innocent and naive enough where we really didn't need it to keep us out of trouble.

J.'s grandfather came to visit one week; he lived in a beachhouse near Galveston, I believe. At the end of the visit, he invited J. to drive back with him and stay the following week. Best friend that he was, J. asked if I could go. Not a problem, as long as my folks said it was okay. I called my dad at work but he didn't pick up. I tried calling home but my mom wasn't at home. My thought process was as follows: I had already been away from home for a week. J. was going to the beach for a week with or without me. I was positive that if one of them had picked up the phone, I would have received permission. So, I hopped in the car and away we went. However, I did the mature thing and called as soon as we arrived as his grandpa's house.

Lucky thing I was gone the entire week; it gave my parents enough time to cool down and not kill me when I got back.

Later that summer, we went to Scout camp near Devil's Backbone. We really weren't into Scouting (a later regret) but did enjoy the outdoors; plus, we'd be out of the house for another week.

The mornings and early afternoons were spent at various sessions earning merit badges. I remember learning to tie knots and starting fires with a magnifying glass and cotton. The rest of the time was free time. We could swim, hike, or play Capture the Flag when it got dark. After about the fifth day, J. and I realized that we had yet to shower that week. In fact, we hadn't even taken off our shoes in several days. After that, the stank and stench became badges of honor. No way were we gonna ruin The Streak. So, we stayed soap-free for the next couple of days. Our mothers weren't as impressed as our Scout Master.

Only once did we do something we probably ought not to have. One summer day, we ran out of chips and cookie dough, I guess. We wanted icecream floats, also. But, J.'s mom and sister were out running errands and wouldn't return for hours. So, we pulled together what money we could find and took the family car down the road to the nearest Sac-N-Pac. It was probably only three miles, but it seemed like a cruise down Route 66. J. drove there and I drove back. Our friends were so impressed when we told them about it later.

Soon thereafter, J.'s dad got transferred once again. To where, I don't remember. Today, J. is in Austin with his family; I'm in Dallas. I'm certain that a phone call or an e-mail would be easy to arrange. I know he's only four hours away; but at times, it feels like we're twenty years apart.

I looked him up on the Internet a couple of months ago. Not being certain that it would even be the right person, I never made the call. After all, I also Googled my own name and to my surprise, I found out that not only was I convicted of DUI in Missouri, I am currently incarcerated in Colorado. So, I wondered if J. ever Googled my name and wondered what exactly happened after he moved away.

Just whenever I get tempted to look up my childhood friend, I wonder if it's for the best. I'd hate to think that we have nothing in common except for a few "Remember When?" stories.

Sometimes, memories are best left in the past, tucked away in the drawers of your mind. And only cleaned out when remembering the past makes you look forward to the future, certain that a phone call is not that far away.