What is in a name

The kitchen table that I grew up eating at is still in my mother's house. My family of six could hardly fit at it now and it was replaced years ago with a much nicer and larger table. Why on earth would my mother be keeping it?

As I looked out the kitchen window I could see my sister playing on the tire swing my father and I had hung from the large oak tree in our backyard together. I considered the tire swing mine since I had helped build it from a do-it-yourself toy book that was also mine. Beyond all the work I had put into it the swings on the swing set my grandfather had bought me many years ago had been replaced with a porch swing that only my sister ever used. That was hers.

None the less as I looked out the window there she was on my swing, sticking her tongue out at me. She knew it was mine, but what could I do... I was stuck at the kitchen table doing extra curricular school work and the rules were simple. I could not go outside until it was done. I turned my attention away from my villainous claim-jumping sister back to my school work.

My pencil was one of those yellow types with the red eraser stuck at one end. A metal band holds the eraser in place under normal use, but if you give it a good tug with your teeth it comes right out. I was further amazed that I could bend the metal band with my bare hands. Once the band was bent the eraser did not go back into place and the pencils erasing end was ruined for all naturally intended purposes.

It was not long before I realized that the rather sharp band could be used to carve out the lacquer on the table. First just a small spot, then a long line. After taking out one more straight line I was ready to venture into advanced technique. I slowly carved my nick name into the table's lacquer. I sat back and admired my name before realizing this was not actually going to be admired by my mother.

Well obviously I was wrong, my mother has admired it these many years and the last time I saw the table it was the center piece in a special reading area in their home. The table still has my name carved into it. A table cloth could cover it but my mother is not ashamed of my work and has taken pride in telling my friends and most recently my wife about the name carved into the table. A simple layer of varnish would wash the blemish away, but my mother would never destroy such a valuable piece of artwork.

Worst of all I grew out of my nickname many years ago and don't particular care to hear it now. But thanks to my artwork, I will never forget my nickname used to be... Well I wont say, but I bet my mother would be happy to let you see the table.

On a roll

I can barely remember anything about the state I was born in. What I do remember was from vacations that my mother and father took to visit friends. The following is an embellished memory of one of these trips.

My younger brother was still not old enough to walk and was still in a carriage. It seems that we were staying in a three story house that was within walking distance of a park. The park as I recall had fountains that children were allowed to play in. My father, mother, sister and I set out with my little brother in the carriage. The park was at the top of a hill and my mother made me push my little brother's carriage to the top of the hill. When I saw other children playing in the fountains I lost all interest in pushing my little brother's carriage any further. I don't think I pushed it down the hill, I simply let the carriage go and it rolled happily down the hill with my father drawn behind it by some mysterious force five year old boys enchanted by water fountains don't understand.