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| That was then..., This is now
by jimmiebegood at 11/6/2009 12:07:52 PM
It was then in my childhood home, on 74 Stetson Street; a blue-collar, 1950’s neighborhood in New England, that I first recall spending time looking into the mirror. The small mirror was hanging right over the wall sink in the small bathroom, the only bathroom in our house.
In the early days it took a gymnastic kind of move for me to actually look into the mirror. And, there were grave consequences if the mount wasn’t right. Too short to see from the floor, I would climb onto the rim of the four legged porcelain bathtub, straddle one leg to the sink, and sort of peak over to the mirror. With good balance everything usually worked out well for this part boy, part monkey kind of kid
In the early days after discovering the mirror, I was usually bored starring at my reflection, quickly moving off to other adventures. Eventually the trips to the mirror increased, particularly as I grew and began to see the top of my head. Eventually I was standing before the mirror combing my lush hair, looking like Elvis, James Deane, Ricky Nelson. Over the next few years that mirror reflected Mohawk haircuts, buzz cuts, Moe and Curly cuts, and the Beatles hair-do along the way.
One day that mirror revealed a shock: a pimple! Here it was, I didn’t know exactly what I would face, but it was the first quake of the hormone war starting to rage in my world. At that time there were no drugs to help out the afflicted and besieged. Just popping, squeezing, pinching, poking, patting and painting those darn things. I think I sort of hated the mirror then.
The remembrance of that little white framed mirror has faded along the way, but it was my first mirror. Passing into my history were those reflections of me looking like Johnny Atlas, posing with muscles I was sure would become enormous. Gone would be the look of a kid who had his heart broken. Forgotten would be those panicked reflections of one desperately trying to cover up a blacked eye, a patch of poison ivory, tears, a fat lip. And then, one summer morning I took my final look with a wash cloth in hand, a toothbrush at my side. A last glance and a drive to the bus stop, saying good-bye to a teary mom and dad, off I went for a three year tour of duty in the US Army, much of it in Vietnam.
Hundreds of mirrors have reflected my story since then. Many mirrors are remembered fondly, all of them telling the story of the way this life has traveled. Then, my mirror, on Stetson Street, reflected the springtime of youth. Now my mirrors reflect a different season. Gone are the pimples, the hair, the muscles… Now, there are lines, spots, wrinkles, grayness…; but still, a gleam in the eye saying, “Hello again mirror, we have viewed each other often along the way. Then, you reflected the glorious life of youth, and now a reflection of the colorful days of my autumn. It is still good to see you today, for you were there then, and here you are now.”
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