A True Pothead

Once upon a time, when Papa was just a little boy,

he loved to wear hats, caps, and just about anything that would fit on his head (which even then was becoming fewer and fewer things that would fit, considering the amazing rate his massive head was growing). He loved helmets, play-act costumes like fireman's helmet or astronaut. And one of the best places he loved to go was under Mama's cupboards, where the pots were stored, or at Grandma's house. He loved to go and try all the different pots on his head, with the handles sticking out in front of his face like the bill on a cap.

He especially loved the colander, it didn't matter to Dougie that it was full of holes, or that people used it to strain spaghetti. It was the perfect hat. No, it was helmet, like what knight's wore. It was armor, like what the Tinman in The Wizard of Oz wore, or the stuff of which he was made (he always loved the Tinman best, probably because of the bright shiny funnel on his head, and also because the Tinman seemed so nice that he was constantly bursting into tears and rusting himself, and this rang like the tin bell of truth to Dougie, he identified with him for a variety of reasons, on various levels, not the least of which was the very cool ax the Tin Woodsman carried).

When Dougie grew up and had a son of his own, Harrison, guess what one of the first things Harrison did when he could barely crawl? He headed right for where the pots were stored and fit a colander to his head.

Since Dougie always had a very large head (as a small boy his head was larger than most men's heads) he could even wear the largest of pots (if only one of the largest had holes for his eyes, it would have been perfect). His head is even larger now, but he rarely wears pots on his head (and he was never the other kind of pothead, shame on you for even thinking of such a thing, as the stuff INSIDE his head was and always has been important to him; even at an early age he realized, all on his own, that to be ther OTHER kind of pothead, was to lose some of your mental sharpness, some of your very identity of who you are and what you are supposed to be). He still loves wearing hats of all kinds: cowboy hats, baseball caps, outback hats, and possibly someday an actual knight's helm (yes, he's pretty much that weird, to this day)!

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Unembellished: Although I'm neither adding to, nor taking away from these stories, it must be remembered that every recollection is recreated in the brain (the noodle works that way, it does not draw upon a static storehouse or upon concrete "memories," but like a mad scientist the brain bubbles up potions of chemicals and electric spark, and drawing from here and there amongst the neurons and dendrites, creates a new movie in the mind, every single time), and viewed through the lens of remembering me the way I was via the interpreter of who I am today. I am certainly as fallible today as I was then, whether two years of age, or four years, or forty-six years (and really, just as prone to tears!). But I capture these memories here, for my children, much the way my own Dada told me, and my sisters, stories of when he was a little boy. This way the memories go on, and never die.

- Douglas Christian Larsen