1983 – Age 5
Finally, my first year of school. I was excited, even with all my laziness and early steps of procrastination. I still had the urge to grow my knowledge base.
Mom was sad that her little boy wasn't going to be around as much, but she was also happy. My father was glad I'd be around kids my age and be able to make friends. Georgie told me not to let anyone pick on me, and I thought to myself, We're only five—will there truly be bullies?
When I started school, I thought it would feel like stepping into a new world. Instead, it felt like walking into a very small box filled with bright colors and scattered crayons.
The classroom smelled of chalk and paper. My teacher, Mrs. Langford, had a smile that radiated kindness. Rows of small desks lined the room like a grid—hmm, I liked the rhythm of structure.
My only problem—if it could be called that—was that my knowledge base was far beyond this point. As I grew, the limitations of the body slipped away, and my intelligence grew rapidly. So I was probably at a late–high-school or early-college level while sitting in kindergarten.
We started the day learning about classroom conduct—how to be in the school environment, form lines, raise our hands, and take turns. We learned about sharing and cooperating with each other, and learning to say sorry when you hurt someone.
The teacher also taught reading readiness and basic math. She asked, "Who here can count to ten?" I raised my hand and slowly counted for the class. She clapped, and some of the other students joined her—and for some reason, I wanted to find a hole and jump in it.
We then learned early writing, like how to write our names.
We also practiced other learning methods such as coloring, building with blocks, and singing—and FYI, I did not get a gift for singing, and I was embarrassed again. Yay.
The school year passed by rather quickly, and I found it best to just go with the flow, not overthink it, and enjoy my childhood. I decided to live my life to its fullest and enjoy all aspects of it this time around.
I also decided that I would probably mirror Sheldon. I know he goes to high school at nine, so in turn, I'll go when I turn eleven.
Life at home was good. Sheldon and Missy were now three, and Georgie turned eight. Mom brought us to church, Dad talked about football, and Meemaw—well, she was Meemaw.
1984 – Age 6
By six, I had learned that silence was safer than honesty—not because I liked to lie, but because people didn't like the truth when it came out too clean.
At home, I tried to live like a normal kid. I rode my little blue bike, drew pictures with Missy that somehow turned into numbers or patterns, and started to put my last perk to good use—helping Mom in the kitchen.
Although she didn't let me near the stove, I really liked cooking. The rhythm of measuring, mixing, and waiting—it was tasty math.
Sheldon was now four, already showing his brilliance, becoming the young prodigy he was meant to be.
One afternoon, while Mom and Meemaw were on the porch talking, Sheldon and I sat on the living room floor with building blocks scattered around us.
Sheldon stacked them into a crooked tower, proud of his creation.
"See, Eli? It's a rocket!"
"Nice," I said, adjusting one of the blocks without thinking, "but it's leaning. You need a wider base."
He frowned. "It's not falling."
"Yet," I said gently. "But if you build it taller without proper balance, it will."
He glared at me, then at his rocket. He rebuilt from the bottom up. When it stood straight, he looked at me with that spark in his eye—meaning he understood, not because I told him, but because he saw it.
"That's better," I said, doing slight jazz hands. "Science."
He grinned. "I like science."
"Yeah, me too," I said, smiling.
That moment stayed with me because it was simple. It wasn't about showing off what I knew—it was the good feeling of teaching my little brother something. I knew Sheldon would figure most things out himself, but it still felt good.
1985 – Age 7
By seven, I liked to keep my answers short and neat—people trusted neatness. It made intelligence look polite.
School was easy, as usual. I finished my worksheets before everyone else and would find myself daydreaming or drawing patterns, or doing math equations in my notebook.
One afternoon, the teacher asked me to stay late after class to talk about needing a more challenging workload. Of course, I agreed. I knew that if I wanted to advance and follow the plan I'd decided on over the years, I would need to stand out a bit.
A week later, I sat in a room with three adults and a stack of papers thicker than a Bible. The test was called the Exam for Acceleration (EA).
It was almost fun—until it wasn't.
I could tell as the test went on that their smiles grew tighter and more polite, but more uneasy with each question I answered correctly—which was all of them.
A few days later, Mom was on the phone. I caught pieces of her conversation: "advanced placement," "we're praying about it."
When she hung up, she was holding back tears and told me they wanted me to move ahead in grades. Dad, of course, wasn't too keen on it, thinking I'd be too small to be with the bigger kids—worried I'd be picked on.
I was excited to move ahead. While I had a couple of friends, I knew I'd make new ones, and I decided what I would do with my life—if life allowed it, of course.
That spring, everything changed again—but this time it had nothing to do with school.
Pop Pop passed away in his sleep.
Meemaw didn't talk much for a while after that. Her laughter turned quieter, slower. She still came over, still made her coffee too strong, but sometimes she'd stop and stare off like she was remembering a sound only she could hear.
Mom said he'd been sick for a while. I didn't know much about death—not this kind, not the kind that takes its time.
I watched Meemaw fold one of his old flannel shirts and tuck it in a drawer, her hands trembling just enough to give her away.
That night, after everyone went to bed, I sat outside under the porch light and thought about him.
He'd been steady—not loud, not soft—just steady.A quiet kind of strength.
I didn't cry. I wasn't sure how to. But I promised myself I'd remember him the way he was when he called me Eli-boy and winked after losing a card game on purpose.
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