Rebellion

In my younger years,my father drove an old truck.It was light blue,not quite powder...but nowhere near navy.The bed was made up of wooden planks..This idea fascinates the hell out of me..I guess because everything is so plastic,and polished these days.
I loved to ride back there.This was an age when adults were allowed to let their children ride in the bed of trucks...a summertime favorite.
As trivial as that sounds,it is one of my favorite childhood memories...right up there with picking honeysuckles,or destroying every toy we could get our hands on,along with my brother.
My father was adamant...no sitting on the wheel wells...no sitting against the tail gate.I would usually obey him,although he may tell you a tale to the contrary.
When I was around five or six,he took me for a trip to the grocery.We were cooking out,I think...but,that's just a minute detail.
He plopped me in the bed of the truck,and we commenced.He had told me to put my back against the cab,I remember that much.My rebellious nature had already bloomed, by that age.I don't personally think kids have to learn this trait.I believe it's an inherent trait in all life forms.Think about it next time you house train a dog,or discipline a child for something that they already knew not to do...again and again.
I moved to the wheel well...a no-no.
I knew this,and did it anyway. I saw my dad's eyes in the rear view...his steely gaze told me he took great exception to my action.So I went back to sitting against the cab...The End.
I wish.
Instead, I quickly put my back against the tailgate...strike two.
My father pulled that old truck,to the side of the road to admonish me.He was actually in a decent mood,he loved to cookout...it was a gorgeous summer day...so he went easy on me...and off we where.
As we entered the parking lot,immediately I stood up,walked to the tailgate, and sat back down...idiot.The consequences would be dreadful.
Dad slammed the brakes,and sent me sliding across those wooden planks so hard, that I slammed the cab with my knees.The splinters could have been tooth picks,their stature was only diminished by their sheer numbers.
I carried them for a tour of the store,before going home and having mom pluck every splinter,kissing each little wound out of pity,as she went.I should have learned that rebellion would only cause me pain.Any rebellious nature should've died that day.
Instead,my rotten little kid mentality told me that sympathy would get my ass kissed.That seemed like a fair enough trade to me,I suppose.
I still find myself weighing the risks of rebellion.I need to remind myself that,mommy isn't here to kiss my ass anymore.