When I was a kid, everything was new, fresh, and, a lot of times, scary.
When I got scared, I had several “Hiding Places.”
One of my hiding spots was my bedroom closet.
We had shelves in our closet and had made a small “Club House” in it.
It had a sleeping bag and pillows inside as well as a small fluorescent lamp.
On the shelves, I had a “rock collection.”
We lived next to the train tracks, and the trains that ran by our house carried coal.
Every day we walked the “Tracks” to get to wherever it was we were going, and along the way, at times, I’d find a “Special Rock,” and I’d pick it up, put it in my pocket, and save it.
The rocks were probably not monetarily valuable at all, but to me, they were beautiful and priceless.
Some rocks you could stick a magnet to, and it would stick, which told me it was some sort of metal. Some had diamond-looking pieces in them.
Dad had one of his friends come over and tell me about each rock, and I remember him telling me that one was “Fools Gold.”
I probably had fifteen rocks sitting on that shelf.
So, when life was “scary,” one of my hiding places was my closet, where I’d sit and look at my shiny rocks. Dumb little boys do things like that.
Those train tracks were a big part of my and my brothers’ lives.
In fact, I had four more “hiding places,” and the tracks held three of them.
Why am I talking about this today?
I just realized that I don’t have any hiding spots as an adult.
And that kinda stinks.
