I did it in the car

My ancestors were very religious people and as soon as they stepped off the boat they shot the Indians, set up a budget, formed a committee and built a church. They proclaimed themselves Baptists and we were taught to be suspicious of pleasure, avoid dancing and believed the presence of God was strongest in the back three pews.

But as time passed they felt there simply were not enough restrictions and rules so in the late 1940’s they pulled away from the Southern Baptist Convention and became known as Free Will Baptists. Most were farmers and so I grew up in a church where the men had white foreheads, our Broadman Hymnal was green, oscillating fans kept the heat bearable in the summer and you were expected to pay attention during the sermon. Attention Deficit Disorder was cured instantly by your parents or any other adult that told you to sit still and be quiet and listen. If a warning didn’t work you got smacked--and that always worked. We were not pill people.

I grew up inhaling second hand smoke and standing upright in the car seat as my father drove down country roads at 70 m.p.h in a 1959 Ford while Johnny Horton sang about the Battle of New Orleans. Ground beef was our friend and butter made everything taste better. Kids these days are raised using ten-foot shelves of books accompanied by excuses. I was raised by pure chance.

Lately I’ve been thinking about those times and I miss the joy. We were wonderfully naive back then. A cigarette was your link to Hollywood movies and you guffawed at corny jokes. We thrived on ignorance and everybody thought Lassie was just one dog.

Now we have too much information, too many guardrails, too much black and yellow tape and warnings “Do not touch, glowing charcoal may be hot”, “Sharp, may puncture skin if pressed into it”, “Open with extreme misgivings—see Therapist”. It takes a wrench to open your pill bottle and everything is potentially harmful to you.

I’m tired of the stress so last week, on pure impulse, I drove all the way to work with my seat belt unfastened. Yep. I did it-- NahNahNahNahNah, Naah! It was a cheap thrill. The Angel of Death rode shotgun and I felt young and reckless again. You’re the first person I’ve told about this.

One day the doctor will stride into the room holding a report and with dark concern on his handsome photogenic face say “Your jangular expialadocious is disseminated. You have two months to live. I can make you comfortable but that’s it. Also, I’m out of the office all next month.”

“I’ll handle it,” I say. I shop the nearest grocery store for ten cartons of unfiltered Camel cigarettes. The cashier is horrified and swoons to the floor. I walk out holding the cigarettes and six cases of Land O’ Lakes butter under my arm. People try to intervene or give me pamphlets.

“Stuff it,” I say and walk home and I light up a Camel and my nervous system rings like a doorbell.

I make gallons of Nestle's chocolate milk using too much chocolate ( Hi mom!), put on a Mel Torme CD and soon word gets out. Neighbors who for years have been slaves to their kid’s safety obsessed bipolar needs and crazy schedules now find their way to my house. I grill steaks every day, we jump in the pool with our clothes on and we all stop eating vegetables.

Every now and then it’s good to break free. No, I haven’t gone over the edge yet, but I am peeking at it.