It was little Emma’s fifth birthday a couple of weeks ago. It was held at an indoor playground right by their house, and one thing that held me spellbound was seeing how many friends she had.
I don’t remember having a lot of friends as a child. The neighborhood in Louisiana I grew up in didn’t have a lot of kids. My dad always preferred staying home drinking his beer and watching the television on his days off, and my mom was usually busy with work. So most of my play time involved me in our yard just making shit up and trying to keep myself entertained.
I had a golf club, so I would hit the golf ball around the yard and pretend I was Chi Chi Rodriguez. We had a bunch of azalea bushes, so I would pick the flowers and have a field day so to speak. I also loved kicking ant hills and running away before they would get to me. There were the books I would read, the tv shows I would watch since I did have a tv in my room.
That made my birthdays family affairs: my mom, my dad, my Mama and Dallas Aunt (who went to LSU during this time.) But I was fine with that. I wasn’t that much of a friend person. Sure I had friends at school, but these weren’t deep friendships or anything. They were just people I could talk to and socialize with at school.
I guess this is just further confirmation of what I learned during my Christmas road trip to Louisiana — that deep down inside I like being by myself.