How Times Change

      ...I'm remembering stuff I hadn't thought of for years. Like the Walkman I used to own. How I would sit on the picnic bench and listen to my CDs from my pocket, thinking it was the coolest thing ever. Or not being able to take the phone to the couch because it was attached to a cord. Or being too afraid to go into the tree house; I don't think I went inside once. I can still remember the ropes of cobweb that stretched from the tree house, to the tire swing, to the other tree. The gobs of silk strung all along the inside of the tire swing.
      I remember making mud pies with my neighbor. We called it "poo goo." We'd have sticky brown fingers every day after school. She ate some. She made a mud pie and she actually ate some.
      I remember the ladybug infestation. Damn, there must have been hundreds. My pet caterpillar, which I named Catapult. The igloo. The garden. All the crickets and frogs we heard every single night. I'd sure love to go back to those nightly sounds. Instead of traffic, sirens, screaming. Guitars at four in the morning.
      What I can't stop remembering are the two times I saw people riding their horses down the street. That was fascinating to me. The farm had a horse, but he was always behind the gate. I don't think I ever saw him being ridden. The landlady didn't have jumps or training posts or anything; I still don't know why she had a horse. Seemed pointless. He didn't pull carts or wagons, far as I know.
      The new litter of puppies. I know one of them was named Oreo, but I can't remember the others. Their mother was Meg, but I never saw her mate. The puppies looked purebred, but I suppose Anna the sheepdog could've just had a tiny penis. Anna might even be a unisex name; I don't know. Anna was too damn hairy for me to tell.
      And all the times I saw my neighbor sitting on the porch floor, peering at me through the screen, waiting for me to finish eating so we could play. It felt nice to have a friend who wanted to have the best of times. Now I'm old, I'm weak. All my grownup friends want to do is sit, drink coffee, basically be the parents who bored us to tears growing up.
      Play-Doh, egg-holding contests, catching frogs, and beetles. Ugh, I remember this one frog. It started twitching in my hand, freaked me the fuck out and I threw it across the yard. Don't worry - Kermit lived. I mean, he's dead now...