Life Was Different When I Was a Kid

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     As a young child in the early 70's, I learned that milk was terrible. Let me re-state that. I learned that the milk my mother gave us was terrible. You see, I spent the first seven years of my life thinking that milk came from a cardboard box on the pantry floor, and you just dumped powder into a glass, added lukewarm water, and it was mixed for maybe 2 swirls, if you were lucky. I generally wasn't, so as I'm sitting at the table STILL finishing my lukewarm Salisbury Steak, my mother comes over looks in my glass, and bows her head. She says that not only did I need to still finish my dinner before getting up, I needed to also finish my milk. THAT'S A LIE! I wanted to shout. IT'S NOT MILK, IT'S POWDER! IT'S WARM CHALKY POWDER AND IT MAKES ME GAG! At this point if I were to ask for more water to add to the clay mixture in my cup, I was lectured about wasting time talking about the milk instead of drinking the milk. For a moment I thought hmmmmm, maybe she had a point. Probably not, my 7 year old self was melting down thinking about the clay in my room and how it looked exactly like what was in my cup. The things that shape us. To this day I don’t drink milk but it’s by choice. I’m a big boy now and I’m smiling as I write this. I adored my mom, and she adored me, and we both knew it. Except for when she tried to clog up my airway nightly with fake milk. 

So, it wasn't until I reached around 23 years of age that our whole family was together for a warm weather Hallmark Holiday. We were all chill for once, and we were enjoying a warm, breezy night on the back porch. Some of us were drinking (MOST) and we started telling funny stories from growing up. When it got to me this is what came out: MOM MADE US DRINK POWDERED MILK! It was as if I had gotten this great weight off of my shoulders in a brief burst of words in an outdoor-appropriate voice. I got a couple of looks but a screened porch is outdoors. Anyway, who knew that I was so scarred by having to chew my lukewarm chalky powdered milk. To my utter astonishment, instead of a cry deep from her soul for her child's forgiveness, she outright denied the whole thing! I looked to my dad for help and of course there was none there.  He knew what was good for him and who not only buttered his bread but made it fresh for him. I wouldn’t learn that until many years later, when I myself became a father and husband. The man was showing wisdom in his silence. I was later, albeit slowly, finally able to learn this for myself. Now how to implement this new found knowledge? Back to the milk.

My younger sister at the time was an infant. She got it wholesome and pure, straight from the milk spring itself. I made my 7 year old self feel better with childlike logic: Well at least hers is lukewarm TOO. Remember I’m 7 now. My older sister who could always be counted on, like Lucy, to pull the football away at the last minute from Charlie Brown, would say "it was fine, you're making a big deal over nothing". She could say that because I found out a few years later that when she would go to add water, she would dump out at least half the powder. What can I say. She is a sneaky kid. As the night moved on and the sun dropped out of sight, we recalled other fun and less traumatizing things to our eating habits. We also learned that night, even “traumatizing” memories of chewing milk can be edited with new memories of all of us laughing about it together. Sure, easy for them to say. I was the only one left with Milk- related PTSD.

     Growing up my mom took us to the mall for school shopping. She said the clothes are all trendy at the mall. In reality, she took us to buy clothes that will set up our social order for the next year, at Sears. It wasn't even attached to the mall. They shared a parking lot. Definitely not the mall. 

To make it worse I wasn't allowed to shop in the "current clothing" section, even at SEARS because my father's side of the family were all Hobbits. I was also a little soft as a kid. Again, thank you Hobbit ancestors. So we now went to the 'cool clothes' (per mom who clearly thought I was a moron) section at Sears. It had a giant sign hanging above it that proclaimed it was the "Husky" section. Definitely didn't say 'cool clothes'. After trying on jeans in the fitting room, and looking into the 3 sided mirror, I saw a miserable kid wearing what looked like fishing waders made out of jeans material. Meanwhile my mother is outside sort of leaning in calling out "let me see! Come out here" multiple times like Beverly Goldberg. As if being in the 3 sided mirror in front of other people trying on clothing and begrudgingly waiting for the child fisherman to get out of the way wasn't bad enough. Let me go stand out where people walking by looking for a solid Craftsman hammer can take a gander as well. It was tough being a "Sharp Dressed Man" as ZZ TOP encouraged us to be when you go clothes shopping at Sears. And forget sneakers. I wanted to go to Foot Locker like a normal kid and get a simple pair of Adidas. But my mother insisted on "the best" for us kids. So she took us to a store for "quality sneakers that are expensive but worth it". Why are they expensive I asked? If the Adidas are less expensive can I get those? NO. It's just a simple fact that Stride Rite shoes last longer. And no one will know the difference. I differed and stated that I think the fourth stripe will give it away. With that, I bowed my head and went in to be fitted for a pair of appropriate footwear for a child who wore jeans from the Husky section at Sears.