I was seven. I found a pocketknife buried in the mud. We were on a fishing trip, in the middle of the sticks. I saw something poking from the ground with gold studs and a wooden handle.
It was a Buck knife. That might not mean anything to you. To a seven-year-old, it's the Cup of Christ.
Another particularly good moment in my life:
My cousin gave me a bicycle. It was purple—my cousin was decidedly female. The bike had pink tassels on the handlebars. The feminine contraption would've humiliated any self-respecting boy. But it was my first bicycle.
I rode eight hours on gravel roads. I zipped down a
steep hill. I wiped out, busting my jaw. It should've hurt. But I was too giddy to feel it.
My uncle's farm: acres away from his house. A junkyard dating back to the Confederate Army. It was a place where rusty things went to die in the weeds.
Iron plows, oxcarts, and hay rakes. There were old Chevys, Model T Coupes, and wrecked trucks. I'd sit in their front seats and spend all afternoon driving across the United States.
It's a wonder I didn't die of tetanus.