A muddy stream trickles through it...

“They're growing houses in the fields between the towns
And the Starlight drive-in movie's closing down
The road is gone to the way it was before
And the spaces won't be spaces anymore.” (“Houses In The Fields” – John Gorka)

If you were ever a kid, and I’m guessing most of you were, you probably remember what it was like to get dirty on a fairly regular basis. And I’m not talking about adult dirty. Adults get dirty as a function of working; mowing the yard, cleaning the house, or maybe hastily digging a shallow grave. Kids, on the other hand, get dirty playing. Their dirt is play dirt, and it is the best thing a human being can wear.

I’ve been looking back over my metaphorical shoulder of late, tracking my footprints back through the ever-deepening dust of time, only to discover the landmarks by which my memory navigates harder to find with each passing year. And it isn’t just my memory that’s fading; the landscape of my past is changing with time. More and more of the places that were home to my memories exist now only in those memories; the real places are either gone, or so significantly changed as to bear no resemblance to the places I once knew.

When I was in elementary school, there was a creek that ran through an expanse of woods adjacent to the school grounds. We kids called this creek and the woods through which it ran the Mini-Brook. Too many years have come and gone since then for me to give an accurate accounting as to how much time I spent playing in and along the banks of that creek, or how many miles I logged riding my banana-seat bike (with playing cards clothes-pinned to flap against the spokes so they made engine noises as I rode) along the myriad trails carved through those woods by the kids who rode before me. Of course, to me back then those paths simply were; like the trees, the burbling waters, and the sky. They always had been and always would, and I would play forever there, because—while I was there—there was everything.

When I think back on it today, it feels as though there was a magic bubble through which only young boys on banana-seat bikes could pass, and within which the Mini-Brook ran. Time meant nothing there. I spent countless millennia digging clay from those muddy red banks in a single day. It felt as though the sun paused in the sky to watch as I raced between its green and gold rays along the paths cut through those woods, a one-eyed Jack chasing a tattered queen as I rode. Scrapes acquired there healed more quickly, soggy sneakers dried faster, as did any tears that made it across the threshold from the outside world.

I manage to get back home a couple of times a year these days, and I made time to take a walk behind my old elementary school this past summer. The Mini-Brook is still there, but where once it ran wild through vibrant woods, today it slips quietly unnoticed past the backyards of neighborhoods that grew up where once only those timeless trees stood. Fences block the breezes that once stirred the long grass along banks now overgrown with thickets and thorns. The fabled creek of my memory has been ripped out of the world and replaced by a drainage ditch.

As I stood there that day, I felt as though I’d stopped by an old friend’s home after many years away, only to find that he had died. It felt wrong to be touched by sadness in that place, even when I knew that that place no longer existed. This is silly, I thought. I’m mourning the passing of a stream. I laughed at the thought, which in and of itself felt more appropriate to the memories I’d made there. Yes, the Mini-Brook would have wanted me to smile, I thought, and laughed at myself even more.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a small, blonde head appear briefly over the fence and disappear. I turned to face the spot where it had appeared, and it immediately appeared and disappeared again. And then again. And again. Each time the head broke a little higher over the horizon of dog-eared boards. By about the fifth bounce (the fifth of which I was aware) I could see the broad smile on the face of the child on the trampoline in the yard where those magic woods once stood. I recognized that smile; I knew that magic. And I realized that trees can be felled, and the land can be parceled up into tidy boxes by adults and their fences, but that magic—the magic of a child at play in the world—is forever.

It might be cheaper in the long run to just change my name...

In the past few weeks I've been enjoying delving into my distant past for subject matter for my ramblings. It's been fun to really think about specific times in my past and try to wring the fun out of them in the here and now, and it's been nice knowing that I can do so safely. Those days were long ago and far away from where I stand today. Part of the reason I can laugh at the mistakes of my past is that the person I was then is so different from the man I am today. The younger me paid the price for his errors; that bill was paid long ago.

Or so I thought until I tried to renew my North Carolina driver's license the other day.

You see, last Saturday was my birthday, and it happened to be on this particular birthday that my driver's license expired. So, first thing Monday afternoon, I drove over to the DMV, stood in line, took a number, and took a seat to await my turn with one of the fine, courteous, and capable* people staffing that location.

To pass the time, I amused myself by watching the other would-be drivers. I genuinely enjoy people-watching, and think everyone should spend at least a few hours a week at it. (I figure, if you've got to share the planet with other people, it's probably a good idea to have some sense of who those people are.) People-watching is easy, free, and there are only a couple of rules you need to keep in mind. First, people-watching is a lot like admiring animals at a zoo. As with the animals at the zoo, it's best if you avoid any actual contact with those whom you observe. Second, it's critical that you do your people-watching in different locations from time to time. The cross section of humanity you'll observe dining at a five-star restaurant is likely to be quite different from the sample you'll get at the farmer's market or, well... the DMV. Be careful not to draw broad-reaching conclusions based on small samples. (Based on the data I gathered while waiting for my number to be called, the average American is in his late seventies, speaks little or no English, and is roughly five months pregnant.)

The wonderful, courteous DMV staff finally called my number, and I got up, went over to the cubical to which I'd been directed, and sat back down. I handed the gentleman sitting across from me my expired driver's license, and recited my social security number for him when asked. He told me to sign my name on a small slip of paper, which I did, and then he looked at his computer screen, and asked me for my social security number again. I recited it. Again.

Houston, we have a problem...

"Have you ever been to Illinois?" I knew immediately that he wasn't asking me to go away with him for the weekend, but aside from the fleeting sense of relief that knowledge brought me, I knew this wasn't going to be good.

Houston, we have a problem in Illinois...

I paused before answering. He probably thought I had to think about whether I'd been there or when, but the only thing I needed to think about was how to ensure that the next words that came out of my mouth weren't expletives. "Yeah, like twenty-five years ago. Why?"

Of course I knew why.

Houston, we had a whole slew of problems in Illinois about twenty-five years ago...

I mean, I didn't know exactly, specifically why. I couldn't have told you right then exactly which specific stupid thing I'd done twenty-five years earlier had come back to bite me in the ass this time, but after you spend enough time being your own history's chew toy, you get a sense about these things.

The nice DMV guy explained that the state of Illinois had placed a block on my license, and gave me a phone number to call so that I could find out why, and hopefully get the issue resolved. When I called, a nice woman in Illinois explained that the block was due to my failure to pay a fee to reinstate my Illinois drivers license, after Illinois suspended it in 1982, subsequent to a DUI I got while back home in New York. I politely pointed to twenty-five years of proof that I had never needed to reinstate the license in question, and asked how I could be responsible for paying a "fee" for an activity that had never occurred. I could certainly understand if they claimed I'd failed to pay a fine for having my license suspended, but a fee for a reinstatement that never occurred?

Despite being thoroughly impressed with the flawless logic inherent in my own argument, I'm fairly pragmatic these days, and I knew my argument would never, ever win. I could rant and rave if I wanted, but in the end, I was going to have to pay whatever they demanded, because at the end of the day, Illinois can probably get by without my seventy-five bucks, but I really need that license. I did manage to get the nice woman from Illinois to acknowledge that there was no rational argument for claiming to need to reinstate a license I had not needed for twenty-five years, and that (without actually saying it, of course) this was really just a way for Illinois to get some money from me by holding my license hostage. I thanked her for her candor, and gave her my credit card information so she could charge me the "fee." She told me that I should be cleared to renew my North Carolina driver's license by next Monday, at the latest.

Of course, this means that until then I either have to stay home, or drive illegally. Driving with a suspended license for a few days is no big deal, so long as you don't get pulled over for anything. Right? Well, it should come as no surprise to anyone that it only took me until the very next morning to attract the attention of Raleigh's finest. While rushing to drop the kids off at school, I apparently rolled through a stop sign. (In my defense, I need to point out that I did not roll over it, just past it.) The cop was nice enough, as was the neatly printed citation he gave me for failing to stop and for driving with an expired license.

So, on the downside, I get to go to court at the end of the month, and pay a nice little fine. On the upside, it looks like I'm going to have another excellent opportunity for people-watching.