Day 136: Nickels in the Sun.

It's always fascinated me how some childhood memories are stubbornly fuzzy while others are so crystal-clear you can close your eyes and roll film on the backs of your eyelids.

I used to think it had to do with how important the experience was at the time, but if that were the case, why do I remember something as silly as rolling down the
front-yard hill one evening and then realizing I had to hurry inside or I'd miss The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour? (don't laugh - I was nine years old and thought it was the funniest show ever made).

All of which brings me to one particular memory that's been popping into my mind pretty regularly these past few weeks. It's of the crystal-clear persuasion, and (coincidentally, I think) it happened the same summer as the Sonny and Cher hill-roll.

I lived in Denver (my parents both taught at Denver University), and there was a girl named Laura who lived up the street. I thought she was so the shit. She had two older brothers, whom we worshipped, and every once in a while they'd let us hang out with them. Their names were Steven and David, and they taught us how to do really cool things like put our thumbs in our mouths and blow really hard until we almost passed out. (I know. Retarded. Did I mention I was nine?)

One afternoon, I was walking up the street when I came across a big glass jar of nickels sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. The bright summer sun was bouncing off the coins to create a thousand-watt light show, and I was immediately entranced. They were just so ... beautiful.

After several minutes spent staring, I looked around to see who the jar belonged to. There wasn't a soul in sight. And so, I squatted down, looked around one last time, and plunged my fist into the nickels. I pulled out a massive handful, then reached my other hand in and did the same thing.

When I stood up to walk away, Steven and David burst out from where they'd been hiding. "Aha!" one of them yelled. "We put those nickels out to see who's been stealing stuff from houses on the street, and now we know it was you!"

To say that I was mortified would be an understatement. Other than taking change from my parents' pockets (okay, and my mother's purse), I'd never stolen anything from anyone, and now I'd been branded a house thief. I immediately opened my fists and dropped the nickels, and they clattered and rolled along the sidewalk.

I don't remember what happened next - I probably ran home and hid for a few days (weeks?). I don't think there was any fallout from the Nickels Incident, and I don't recall my friendship with Laura changing (it was always a rough friendship anyway - she had another friend named Debbie, who lived one street over, and I tended to feel left out when Debbie was around).

The question, then, is not why this memory is so clear (the whole thing obviously freaked me out), but why it's been so front and center as of late. My kneejerk pop psychology answer has to do with wanting something bright and beautiful that isn't mine - like, I don't know, a married woman - but perhaps that's too easy.

I was hoping that by telling the story, the answer would become as crystalline as the memory, but that's not happening. I guess I'll just have to keep thinking about it.

Unfortunately, I'm the kind of person who equates not knowing the "why" behind something with Chinese water torture. I love when things are neat and tidy and wrapped with a bow - the unknown, as you might imagine, is a control freak's worst nightmare.

I guess that means this is good for me ...

But I don't have to like it.


When Laura visited the set of "Bonanza" that summer, she got her picture taken on Little Joe's horse. I thought that was even cooler than "The Sonny and Cher" show.

Clearly, stealing was a theme that year. Interestingly, I have no memory of the "Carlose (sic) Chair Theft" other than this letter. In fact, I have no idea who Carlose even was. Only one thing's for sure - Laura couldn't spell for shit.