"Once Upon a Time" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
On a hot summer afternoon sometime around 1961, three boys stood together on a gravel backroad in rural Wisconsin. They were thirteen—young enough to believe in endless possibility, old enough to begin wondering what the future might hold. One wore glasses and had dark hair; the other two—one blonde, one brown-haired—stood beside him, their Schwinn bikes gleaming red, green, and blue in the dappled shade of a tree-lined lane. The world stretched out before them, wild and unwritten.
Their names were Mike, Terry, and John. That summer was a symphony of freedom—choruses of laughter, the click of gears, and the crunch of gravel beneath rubber tires. They wandered the sun-warmed backroads, far from the watchful eyes of parents and the weight of expectations. One golden afternoon, they paused beneath the sheltering trees and let their imaginations drift toward the future. The year 2000 loomed like a shimmering mirage on the far horizon. They did the math, figuring how old they'd be by then. They laughed, half in disbelief, at the thought of being in their fifties. What would they be? Who would they become?
Terry, quiet and sure, thought he might be a farmer like his father. Mike was uncertain, content in the moment. And me? I said I wanted to go to college, to see the world beyond the county line. And I did. I went. I ended up in northern California. Terry stayed close to the land that raised him, in Wisconsin. Mike built his life in Indiana.
Memories are peculiar creatures. Some are always near, like old friends. Others wait in the shadows, slipping forward unbidden. Lately, this one—this memory of that summer day—has found me often. Perhaps it’s the rhythm of the rain outside, or perhaps it’s the long view of a life mostly lived. I miss them—my friends. And I miss the boy I once was. The one with sun on his face, wind in his hair, and the whole world waiting.
Now, so many years later, only one of us remains. Just me. Remembering. And on this soft, rainy day, it feels like no time has passed at all. As if three boys are still standing on a shaded road, bikes at their sides, dreaming aloud.
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“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” ~Dr. Seuss
~Wylddane
Their names were Mike, Terry, and John. That summer was a symphony of freedom—choruses of laughter, the click of gears, and the crunch of gravel beneath rubber tires. They wandered the sun-warmed backroads, far from the watchful eyes of parents and the weight of expectations. One golden afternoon, they paused beneath the sheltering trees and let their imaginations drift toward the future. The year 2000 loomed like a shimmering mirage on the far horizon. They did the math, figuring how old they'd be by then. They laughed, half in disbelief, at the thought of being in their fifties. What would they be? Who would they become?
Terry, quiet and sure, thought he might be a farmer like his father. Mike was uncertain, content in the moment. And me? I said I wanted to go to college, to see the world beyond the county line. And I did. I went. I ended up in northern California. Terry stayed close to the land that raised him, in Wisconsin. Mike built his life in Indiana.
Memories are peculiar creatures. Some are always near, like old friends. Others wait in the shadows, slipping forward unbidden. Lately, this one—this memory of that summer day—has found me often. Perhaps it’s the rhythm of the rain outside, or perhaps it’s the long view of a life mostly lived. I miss them—my friends. And I miss the boy I once was. The one with sun on his face, wind in his hair, and the whole world waiting.
Now, so many years later, only one of us remains. Just me. Remembering. And on this soft, rainy day, it feels like no time has passed at all. As if three boys are still standing on a shaded road, bikes at their sides, dreaming aloud.
--
“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” ~Dr. Seuss
~Wylddane
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