I Want To Savor

I want to savor.

Not just remember

I want to dredge up memories of those Bologna and Cheese sandwiches from my after-catechism Saturday’s. Where mayonnaise kept lettuce from sliding off the bread; and I could eat all the potato chips I liked; oh and wash it down with chocolate milk in a glass the size of my forearm. 

No one was concerned about what was healthy for you; there wasn’t a prevailing concern over what any of that stuff was made of. 

It taste good, and we liked it.

  Whenever I hear people talk about all the abuse they took growing up, I take inventory of my own stories. It’s odd, but I feel deprived by not having tales to tell of being deprived.  Near as I can recall, ours was a regiment of strictness and how far from easy is that?  Yeah, rules that influenced my risk taking spirit from getting unintentionally killed; despite such measures, I still had my share of close calls anyway.  But I didn’t feel oppressed or repressed to the point of being constantly conscious of feeling slighted. It wasn't like I was so daunted I ever entertained a notion of being stunted.

I had no grudge.

I certainly never felt put upon to the point of hiding in the shadows born on any misguided fear of being less than anyone else; on the contrary, I was a scrapper for my rights; like struggling with my siblings for that last pork chop on the table.  You had to ante up to win the pot.

  In reflections seeking to measure against a television like depiction of a perfect childhood, things could have been better; who wouldn’t admit that?

I figured if I had a bigger appetite my childhood would be just filled with me gobbling down more Bologna sandwiches; that’d have been pretty swell.

Well, that and a pony.