My mom bought Ryder and Destry each a pinwheel for their Easter baskets. I didn't think much of them at first, but then Ryder took his outside and as soon as the breeze took hold of its blades and the pinwheel began to spin, I was taken back to images of my childhood.
I don't actually ever remember having a pinwheel, but I remember them being around the neighborhood. I'm sure that at any given time, one of the dozen kids on Oakdale Street had a pinwheel. We also had an arsenal of toy guns on our street, but something tells me the site of a plastic M16 or Uzi is never going to provoke the same warm feeling as a pinwheel. When I was a kid, we probably used the pinwheels to slap each other around with, although today as I watch Ryder run through the yard with his spinning, I see innocence and I see a simpler time.
I realize I'm late to the party, but I've recently become a big fan of A Prairie Home Companion and (more specifically) listening to Garrison Keillor report news from Lake Wobegon. Make believe as it may be, listening to stories about Lake Wobegon, the little town that time forgot, gives me a feeling similar to that of seeing a pinwheel spin – a feeling of nostalgia. Obviously, that's what Keillor's radio show aims to do. I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that I yearn for yesteryear and reverie getting back to basics more than the average Joe.
In a way, Oakdale Street was its own little town like Lake Wobegon, although I regret to inform you that time most definitely did not forget the street I grew up on. The phrase, "You can never go home again," applies well. Yet as the pinwheel spins, and Keillor spins a yarn, I forget what time it is and for brief moments no matter where I am on earth, I'm home again.
Could my last dying word actually be pinwheel?