MAY 12, 2019 – When you’re a kid, it’s the random, passing experience of little apparent consequence that can leave a lasting impression about a person. One such experience with Mother occurred for me on a warm, sunny, summer afternoon before I was school age. With her small-boned arms, Mother turned hard on the wheel of the gray, two-door, 1939 Plymouth, and we successfully rounded the corner from busy Ferry Street onto quiet Rice Street. That’s where we lived—on Rice at the far end down by the beach on the Mississippi in the old river town of Anoka, Minnesota.
As the old humped-back car floated down Rice, I ran my hand along the short-haired, light-brown upholstery on the inside of the passenger door. It had an interesting feel to it, like the back of my head after a haircut, and for whatever reason, which isn’t much of a reason for a four-year old mind, I thought I’d try out the taste. Even the concept of child car-seats was a thing of the distant future, and Mother made no attempt to stop me from sliding down onto the floor and—here’s the really weird part—licking, yes, licking, the upholstery. So there I was, licking the door, as Mother pulled the car up alongside the curb in front of our house.
“What are you doing?” she asked. I remember her tone. It was devoid of anything negative, and I discerned a genuine interest on her part in what I was up to.
“I’m tasting the fuzzy stuff on the door,” I said. Without saying a word, Mother opened her door, alighted from the car, stooped down and licked the side of her door. I looked at her black, curly hair as her head moved and down, and I saw the full body of her tongue moving vigorously over a swath of “fuzzy stuff.” Two cars drove by and had to swing wide to avoid her.
“You’re right. It does taste good.” And so together, we kept licking ‘the fuzz on the door’ for what to me was a pleasingly long time . . . [See Part II]
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
