Getting Older is a Hazzard

A couple of days ago my birthday was here like the quiet snow that came and went with it. As I've gotten older, especially after I turned 30, I occasionally lose track of my age. I often forget that my upcoming birthday will be in a day or two. And sadly, I have gradually lost a lot of my memories in general. Besides physical ailments being my nemesis since I turned 35, and wrinkles and fat slowly becoming an old familiar friend that annoy me, the loss of memory is the most troubling, and scary. Many of my childhood memories are all but forgotten, so I need pictures or other people's recollections to help jog my brain. Sometimes I wonder if that's why I enjoy 1970's vintage clothing so much, because it takes me to those times that are leaving me. As I think back, the only birthday I can remember is my 30th, when my wife took me to a surprise party at a St. Louis Blues game. I can't remember any of the other special multiples of 5 birthdays. Nor my 16th, 18th, or 21st. I can't even remember last year's. Unfortunately, most of the pictures from my childhood are at my parent's house. I happen to have a few Polaroids from that special first camera I probably got for a forgotten special birthday. And one of my Polaroids is of me and my friends at, I think, my 11th birthday, exactly 25 years ago. Disregard the fact that the kid in the sweet butterfly collar thinks my cool party is boring. Don't focus on the kid in the humongous glasses. Ignore the two kids trying to steal my thunder. Forget about the tough one in the back with the rolled up sleeves and open shirt whose mommy wouldn't let him sleep over at my house. And especially don't pay attention to the fact that I'm acting like an idiot, or that I remind you of the young Tommy Boy who runs into the sliding glass door thinking it's open. Focus instead on my flannel shirt. Vintage, early 80's flannel. I was probably also wearing Husky corduroys that my Grandma bought for me because she felt it was the only brand I could fit into, but again, focus on the flannel. I wish I could say I remember it like it was yesterday....During that time I was a HUGE Dukes of Hazzard fan.

I had the Matchbox cars, the figurines, the lunchbox, and a baseball style shirt with the smoothest picture of the Dukes on it I had ever touched. You may recognize my flannel shirt as something you might have seen Luke Duke sporting. Now, I liked Bo better because he looked like me, or so I thought, and he was a more daring driver, and he seemed to attract more of the ladies. But Luke was the brains of the operation and was cool and collected. And those forearms that would bulge out of the rolled up sleeves of his blue plaid flannel impressed me as well. Of course, then, there was Daisy, and I don't think I need to explain myself any further in that matter. But how could I be cousin Bo or Luke when I had these feelings for Daisy? The two of them seemed to struggle with my same problem on the show. I felt that it was a problem I could live with, for Daisy's sake, so I kept on being one of the Duke boys. Like I said, 25 years have passed, and I don't feel much like a hood slidin', car ramp jumpin', yahooin' Duke anymore. I now feel a lot like Uncle Jesse. Thank goodness I don't remember him very well.