Steve admitted short memory of the details, for example exact period, of his childhood experiences. But his vivid narration of these experiences compensated for it.
I was struck by many of his anecdotes. One of these is the series of visits to a doctor for his swollen ear drum, explaining how the doctor fooled him a few times that pricking his eardrum with a long needle would not hurt. The other is how his elder brother's school science experiment blew up the electricity not only of their house but also of the entire neighborhood. The other story that really blew me off was when his brother convinced him to move bowels in an open grassy land realizing too late that the grass material that he used to wipe out his ass was poison ivy.
The last anecdote reminded me of my own bowel-movement version. Aged five or six, I was in our home town in Albay, playing with my cousins and elder brother at early evening. While playing, I felt the urge to "bomb away" and I did not like the idea of doing it right on the rustic toilet of our relative. My brother advised me to do it right in the open, wet, and grassy lands in complete darkness. I was indeed afraid of the dark. But at the same time I felt ashamed that people might see what I was to do. The latter reason won, making me do it as advised by my brother.
I don't remember, though, what material I used to wipe out my ass. Or didn't I wipe out my ass at all?
One learning I got from reading the book so far is the necessity and joy of writing one's childhood experiences. For a thirtysomething like me, it is not too late. It is not too late as long as I have the ability to remember and write.