Ordinary Days

Ask me to recall memories from my childhood and chances are I’ll tell you about the rainy afternoons we spent indoors making crafts and tracing stencils. Or maybe I’ll tell you about the old record player we had in the basement of our Seattle house and how Les and I must have listened a million times to the record of “All I want for Christmas”. Ooh, or maybe I’ll tell you how many times Les and I drove our wagon down the streets of Meadowdale, with her steering and me facing backwards, pushing the wagon with my feet (because as she often reminded me, she was older and only she knew how to steer properly). If you’re lucky, I might tell you all about how Les used to strap me to the rack on the back of her bike and we’d cruise through Hanahan (it’s a sure-fire way to make sure your little sister can keep up, you know).

Ask Daxson about his childhood. He doesn’t tell tales from abroad. Nor does he tell of exotic adventures. No, he recalls afternoons spent reenacting Three Amigos and Saturday mornings spent garage sale shopping with a belly full of doughnuts. He tells stories about how he used to set up a shop in his dresser drawer and sell random items to his sisters (often taking those sold items when they weren’t paying attention so he could sell them again).

Please don’t misunderstand. Trips to Disney World and afternoons at Chuck E. Cheese are delightful family adventures. But they don’t define us. It’s the ordinary moments that do.