MARK IT 8, DUDE
We will take any excuse to rediscover youth.
The number 8 has many different connotations.
In Buddhism and Japanese culture, the number 8 is considered lucky. It symbolizes rebirth, new beginnings and infinity.
Yankees baseball player Yogi Berra, who famously said, “Nobody goes there anymore, it’s too crowded,” wore number 8.
The 8 ball is the only black ball in billiards, the one that ERASES others.
“That the divided but contiguous particles of bodies may be separated from one another is a matter of observation; and, in the particles that remain undivided, our minds are able to distinguish yet lesser parts, as is mathematically demonstrated.
And, like, Plato is totally my friend, and Aristotle is like my good pal, but my best friend is BOOTWOOD. Orbit THAT, ya dig?!”
— Isaac Newton
Being 8 never really felt like a significant time for me. I often found it quite droll whenever I reflected on its significance in my life — even as an 8-year-old! The number, and not the year I spent being 8, was merely a speedbump on the single-digit highway of my youth, simply interfering with my desire to reach 10 on a faster level.
In my hometown of Reedsburg, WI, the number 8 for me reflected cheating death on multiple occasions.
Before I turned 8 I was, well, I was 7 years old. A second-grader. A bottom-feeder pipsqeak with the emphasis on the pip and an urgency on the squeak. Slow in any race. Gangly. Awkward. Socks up to my knees. Could barely hook a kernel of corn on a fishing pole and show the bluegills of the Baraboo River what I was made of.
When I was 7, I was once playing baseball in a neighbor friend’s backyard, and though I don’t recall why, I was playing catcher, a position I almost never played.
An 8th grade farmboy with Popeye forearms came up to bat. I was clearly inching a little too close to home plate, because he swung with all his might — and that farmboy hit something, all right, but it wasn’t the baseball.
After having a baseball bat connect directly across my face, I stumbled and wobbled around the backyard until I made my way to third base, whereupon I swung my arms like a Three Stooges stunt double: knocked over the head, kicked one foot in the air, and collapsed to the ground, bloodied, bruised, and beaten.
The wounds would heal. I made it through a couple close calls and managed to stand up on my own two feet. When people would ask my parents why we don’t have pets I kept waiting for them to say, “Have you met Brian yet? He’s got nine lives.”
Being 8 was a rite of passage for me. For starters, I qualified for walking to school without requiring a chaperone or needing a ride from one of my parents. I began a life of freedom. A young Kerouac anxious to soak up life before sitting down to write about it, looking to sink his remaining teeth into something that tasted alive — something that was not creamed tuna on toast.
“One cannot paint BOOTWOOD as it is, but rather as it is felt."
— Georgia O’Keefe
The older I get, the more I realize there is nothing greater than being young and tasting freedom, or rather, the ability to take your first steps without escort, and experience all the wild wonder waiting for you.
8 was when I learned to read, learned to love stories, and learned to use my imagination to benefit each and every time I found myself lucky to sit and dream about the world.
When I was 8 I also had one of the biggest medical scares of my life. My behavior in a Catholic grade school classroom was never one to brag about, but let’s just say any future ADHD diagnoses were on full display in Mrs. Pickar’s 3rd grade classroom. I was rambunctious, irritating, obstinate, and pretty much every teacher’s worst nightmare.
To all my previous instructors, teachers and coaches, I sincerely apologize.
While in the hospital for my ruptured appendix, my cousin got me a bag of 101 pieces of bubble gum. My lungs were caked with a bunch of gnarly black gunk and I contracted pneumonia, so on top of nearly dying I needed to learn how to resuscitate not only my atrophied muscles but my breathing, which, wait for it, was yet another Mt. Everest for a bony-kneed kid with asthma.
The nurses got me to join them in a daily competition of who could blow the biggest bubble of bubblegum. Little did I know they were just trying to get me to strengthen my lungs.
That same year I had a brand new BMX bike I was riding in the alley behind the house I grew up in, eventually careening too hard and too fast, disobeying the laws of physics enough to find myself colliding with the cement, leaving what was first a bruised then calcified elbow that (sorta/mostly) healed?
Bumps and bruises and no regard for gravity. What is this, a Van Halen video from 1984?
Which brings us to music.
Many people don’t know this about me, but I started college at age 8. I graduated from the third grade and immediately found myself attending the University of Van Halen, with Professor Lee Roth and Headmaster Eddie Van Halen educating me on how to appreciate theater — good or bad — as I witnessed their unpredictable behavioral tendencies through that naughty little chestnut we once referred to as MTV, or, “the devil’s box.” 1984 was the year I got deeper into music, the beginning of a formative education that would unfold for the rest of my life. For that I am forever grateful to my elder siblings for providing me with music that exceeded my age and maturation. 8 years and I’m binging R.E.M., Hüsker Dü, Heart, The Bangles, Richard Thompson, and Springsteen. I’m listening to “Old Man” by Neil Young and thinking, Old man take a look at MY LIFE. I’m 8 years old and I’m a lot like you. :)
My first album was 1984 by Van Halen. I would go on to listen to many other bands
“Money can’t buy you happiness. But it can buy you a sneak peak into the mind of BOOTWOOD and pull up right alongside it.”
— David Lee Roth
What was your first album?
I write this passage reflecting on my recent birthday. Some of them call it a milestone. It doesn’t feel like I’m turning 50. I’m still the kid who appreciated being able to create other worlds from the hallowed walls of our local public library, still savor cold basements on hot summer days, still biking through that old buzzard Fredrickson’s driveway near the water tower so I can get to the swimming pool faster, and no matter how full of food I could be, I am still that kid who salivates over the idea of his mom’s simple creamed tuna on toast recipe, often made with the mindfulness and love provided by parents who did their best raising a big family without substantial money in the bank. My parents were saints who always provided for us, and for that I live richer than any person with all the money in the world.
I am so very grateful to everyone who has wished me kind birthday messages over the years, and although I am not apt to self-celebrate very often, I smile fondly when I think of something my mom recently said to me the day before my birthday.
“50 years ago I was lucky enough to meet you for the first time.”
Funny how far we seek to find the answers this life spreads over our plates. I am back home in Wisconsin after being away for many years. I have a home, the sweetest pups around, and the proximity of family. Everything I need is at my fingertips.
I am about to marry the woman of my dreams.
A couple bumps, bruises and breaks later, we get back on the Dirtbike of Life.
Happy to be here.
Just please keep the baseball bats away from my head, thank you very much.
*****
WRITING EXERCISE
Write a letter to your 8-year-old self. Seal it and date it and save for another time down the road when you want to look back on who you once were. Or save it for your kids or grandkids. Ma Bartels is currently writing some memories of childhood, and from what I have recently observed, they are well worth capturing and sharing with others.
WRITING EXERCISE #2
If you enjoyed the first exercise, try writing a letter to your current stardust self from the point of view of your 8-year-old self.
Meta, right? I did this and found some amazing things about what I wanted to really focus on more when I was that age, along with some comical things my 8-year-old self wanted to tell the adult version of me.
Drink responsibly, stay wonderful and live forever.
CREAMED TUNA ON TOAST
Recipe: Feeds 1 child with a broken nose, missing teeth and a black eye.
Ingredients
1 can (5 oz) tuna, drained
1 can (10.75 oz) cream of mushroom soup (condensed)
1/2 to 1 cup milk (or half-and-half for extra richness)
1/2 cup frozen peas (optional, but a great addition)
Bread for toasting (I do not recommend buttering the bread, as it holds up better against the sauce when you keep it dry after toasting)
Salt, pepper, and a pinch of garlic powder or onion powder to taste
Instructions
Combine ingredients: In a medium saucepan, whisk together the cream of mushroom soup and 1/2 cup of milk over medium-low heat.
Add mix-ins: Gently fold in the drained tuna, your frozen peas (if using), and any seasonings.
Heat thoroughly: Simmer on low for 5–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is hot and bubbly. Add a splash more milk if the sauce is too thick.
Serve: Toast your bread and ladle the hot creamed tuna mixture generously over each slice.
Captain & Tennille, "Love Will Keep Us Together." I'm pretty sure I wanted that album because it had dogs on the cover. And my mom liked the song. Happy Birthday!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOOTWOOD BABE!