Photographic Memories of a Childhood Obsession

When I feel overwhelmed with life, I enjoy browsing through photos of my childhood.  My dad was (and still is) a photography nut (hey, I come by it honestly), so events of my younger years were snapped, developed and stuffed into albums that would probably put my facebook profile to shame.  Being the youngest of three, my albums don't quite rival the Gone With the Wind size bestowed to my older two siblings, but I still have a collection of prints decent enough to make me realize why we could never afford to pay for my dream of one day becoming Olympic gymnast Shannon Miller.

This was before digital, of course, so relaxing with this photojournaled history of my childhood is truly an aesthetic experience that blends classic memories with the scent of processed film and PVC-coated plastic.  A balm for the anxious mind as well as a treat for the olfactory senses (I confess, I love that plastic-y smell of baseball cards and new toys at Christmas.  Mom didn't call me "Miss Nose" for nothing.).

I'm not sure if it's the need to escape a stressful day or the secret desire to sniff synthetic materials and still feel Christian about it that prods me to open my closet and pull out an album, but I always revel in the flood of simple memories that gives me hope that I am not permanently damaging my children for life.

Today was one of those days that sent me running for the closet and reaching for an album.  As I was turning the pages with a happy sigh (and sniff), a few photos in particular made me smile.

You see, when I was a little girl, I used to be obsessed with steering wheels. 

My Kool-Aid stained face says it all--I was in heaven...and I wasn't going to share it.  Missing from this snapshot is the accompanying photo...the photo stuffed in one of my siblings' epic-sized albums that pictures my brother and sister in the back seat of the truck, scowling because I had insisted on hogging this giant wheel of wonder to myself.  They simply didn't understand my need.  I wouldn't be surprised if my sister's flip-flop in the upper right corner of this photo was really intended for my head.

I remember one Christmas when I received a Smurf-Around, the 1980's commercialized spin (ha ha) on the popular "Sit-n-Spin".

It was a marvelous toy, as most toys were in those days.  I smurfed around on it a few times like little Johnny and Susie on the box coaxed me to, then promptly tipped it over to create an instant steering wheel for my new "car".  Oh, the places I drove!

The obsession didn't stop there.

Whenever asked to choose which park we would visit as a family, I always cast my vote for "the park with the steering wheel."  (Yes, there were parks without steering wheels in those deprived days, and I can't wait to tell my kids about it).  Nevermind the swings, slides, and spring-loaded metal critters...I staked claim on that glorious wheel mounted to the wooden wall, and drove to my heart's content until dusk called us home.

People who accuse my generation of having no imagination obviously never ate breakfast at our house.

If they had, they would've marveled how one barely-awake child could polish off a piece of toast for the sole purpose of utilizing her now-empty plate for the steering wheel of an Indy race car.  In my world, obeying the speed limit was never a requirement.

I remember one Christmas when the top toy on my list was yes, you guessed it--a steering wheel.  Who would've thought a piece of black plastic, molded in the shape of the Knight Rider wheel (with Kitt, too!) would make a little girl's dream come true, but I was wild with excitement.  No more tipped plates or toppled Smurf-Arounds for this driving diva.  Those served their purpose well, but now I was a real class act, cruising in style with all the latest battery-powered sound effects.  There was no stopping me.

When I grew a little older, my family visited amusement parks like Cedar Point and King's Island.  Sack slides and junior roller coasters were all good and fine, but my heart staked claim on any attraction resembling an automobile.

However, once I wised up to the gimmicks of this merry-go-round-in-disguise, I sought fulfillment elsewhere.  Faux steering wheels can only pacify for so long, and I quickly followed my instincts to the real rumble of power:  the Model T's.  These beauties had steering wheels that actually steered, pedals that actually worked, and real gas that emitted a deliciously noxious fume not for the faint of heart.  Since I was still too small to drive by myself, my dad would push the pedal while I would "help" steer the wheel.  I was content in this designated driver arrangement for a few summers, but oh, the joy that filled my heart when I finally surpassed the yardstick's mandatory height requirement to reach both steering wheel and pedal and could officially drive solo.  I had the power!  And I couldn't wait to exercise my freedom.  Which brings me to another memory:

Those Model T's can jump the track if you try hard enough.

The safety experts might tell you otherwise, but I distinctly remember testing my theory of vehicular freedom on a sharp left bend in the track with a hard right yank of my wheel.  For three glorious seconds, I tasted the thrill of victory...until the safety wheel keeping the bottom of the car riding smoothly along the boundaries of the road's metal rail lodged directly on top of the rail which, quite shockingly, rendered me stuck. 

Had I not turned around and noticed the pile-up of cars behind me, I may have reveled in the woes of betrayal by my circular instrument of power, but I had no time to mourn.  Fortunately, my dad was in the car behind me and eventually jumped out to lift my Judas Car back onto the track before the scary, half-hung-over summer employee ride operators could chastise me for something they secretly wished they had had the guts to try.

Those were the days.

Today, I find myself wondering why on earth I used to be so obsessed with steering wheels.  As an adult, I certainly don't tip my breakfast plate, topple my children's sit-in-spin, or even relish any bonus thrill in the reality of driving my car place to place.  In fact, hiring a chauffeur sounds rather heavenly in this overwhelming time of life when I believe that M.A.D.D. really ought to stand for Mothers Are Drowsy Drivers (and need to get off the road).  I have often joked with my siblings that perhaps my steering wheel obsession was symbolically a quest for power and control.

But I think in many ways, I envy that little girl.  The little girl who loved, imagined, and created for the sake of loving, imagining and creating.  The girl who attempted to jump the track of the ordinary, just to see if it could be done.  The girl who did not feel the need to offer an explanation to spend the time doing the things she loved the most.  When life feels like an endless onslaught of mundane routine, I find myself missing her.  Not because I want to shirk responsibility or somehow turn back the clock.  But because today I need to remind myself that somewhere, she is still a part of me.

And I really need to find her again.