by Jason Harrison
Some kids never learned. The parent or teacher told them one thing, and the kids instantly did the opposite. Many kids have this problem, and I was one of them. My childhood was summed up in one word: amnesia. I would do wrong, get in trouble, and get disciplined. Then I would repeat the cycle the next day. It wasn’t purposeful disobedience. Even though I tried, I just never remembered to obey. I was one of those kids who forgot everything they were told.
Since I grew up on a stunning, square mile property, I spent time outdoors away from my parents. I got into trouble for things I didn’t even know were wrong, but since I never learned my lesson, I repeated offenses. Day after day I would hear the same reprimands: Don’t hit your sister, leave the cat alone, stop eating dirt.
And I didn’t help my case. Since I lived on a hill, I went fast on my bike, sometimes hitting terminal velocity. I started in my driveway getting the bike up to full speed. Turning onto the hill, I would let gravity take control. I hit speeds most kids only dreamed of. Unfortunately, much of the time I crashed, hitting my head on the ground. This didn’t help my memory. And since I wanted to be cool, I rode my bike in winter too. Sliding and skidding along the road, I wiped out continually, never learning from my mistakes. Falling on gravel hurt my head, but falling on ice damaged my head.
One story in particular comes to mind. My brother and a friend were throwing rocks from the top of that hill. Since I wanted to be like them, I asked if I could throw rocks too.
“You’re too young.” I hated those words. My brother was only five years older than me, and he was less mature. His friend was less than two years older than me. Both of them disliked me, and if they didn’t want me around, they used the age-old age excuse. Throwing rocks was not different.
Now, I have no idea why we were throwing rocks or why I wanted to throw a rock, but I did. Defiantly, I picked up a rock and threw it with all my might. It whistled, flying through the air for what seemed like minutes. I stood proud, impressed with myself as I flexed my muscles.
Then it happened. A noise rang through the brush where my rock had landed. Crash! Next moment, I was standing alone. My brother and his friend had fled. As every strong ten year old does when he knows he’s in trouble, I cried.
I found myself in a precarious position. Here I was with rocks in my hand and a car window smashed fifty feet away. Anyone could put two and two together. I knew it was only a matter of time before my dad found out.
Within minutes I was standing before my dad and another man whom I did not know. My parents had a way of making kids feel uncomfortable beyond imagination. My dad just stood there waiting awkwardly. He wanted me to speak; I wasn’t interested. Then he said the words I dread more than any other words.
“Tell him what you did.”
I looked at the ground feeling like a Catholic in confession. I tried to push the words out of my mouth, but they refused to yield. I knew what to say, but the words stayed in my throat. My dad pressed; the discomfort increased. We all stood there in complete silence for what seemed like hours. I blurted,
“I did that to your car, and I . . . and I . . . I’m so sorry.”
All the words came at one time. I knew if I started crying I could leave, so like an honest child, I wept. My dad, convinced he taught me a lesson about life, told me I could go. Walking away I remember thinking life couldn’t get much worse.
Then guilt came. If parents knew what they put their kids through, whenever I saw that man, I thought,
“He thinks I am a terrible child who likes to vandalize other people’s property.”
This happened many times in my childhood. Sometimes I am not sure what I was supposed to learn. Don’t throw rocks, maybe? Even so, I forgot this lesson the next day. Apparently throwing rocks at your brother is just as bad as throwing them at a car.
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