My eyes are closed. I’m having a vision. Some people might call it a daydream. I call it a childhood memory.

I’m sitting on my bunkbed, circa 1965. I’ve got all the parts to a 1955 Chevy Bel Air spread out around me. Plastic doors. Little rubber tires on plastic wheels. The fumes of cement glue are burning a hole in my brain.

I’m adding to my model car collection when, suddenly, I hear the sound of the mixer whirring from the kitchen. I’m in the middle of putting the front bumper in place. I’m torn between the sound of something good going on in the kitchen and the need to make sure the bumper doesn’t get set crooked.

I push the box of car parts aside, making sure to get the cap back on the glue. I scoot down to the foot of my bed so I can see out my window to the back porch. Across the porch, on the opposite side, is another window, and from here I can see straight into the kitchen.

I’m thinking. Lunch is long gone, and it’s way too soon for supper. It’s odd for Mama to be in the kitchen this time of the day, plus, even I know that she doesn’t use the mixer for regular boring stuff. When the mixer is running, that usually means cake.

My interest is peaked. I decided to leave my ’55 Chevy for later. If there’s a chance that a cake is in the works, that means there’s a chance that I get to lick the beaters.

I slither into the kitchen. “What’cha doing?”

“I thought you were busy in your room.” Mama was being coy.

“Not too busy.”

“Not too busy for what?”

“I heard the mixer going.”

“And you came to help me make this cake?”

“Are you making a cake?”

“You know I am, otherwise, you wouldn’t be standing there with that look on your face.”

I have never been very good at concealing my excitement for cake batter. To this day, if I hear a mixer humming, the beaters lightly tapping the side of a bowl, and the scrape of a spoon; if I hear that, I’m gonna get up from whatever I’m doing and see what’s going on in the kitchen.

“I’m making a pound cake to take to the church tomorrow,” she says.

“Can I lick the beaters when you get done?”

“I was counting on it,” she says. “The bowl, too?”

“Yes ma’am.”

It’s been said that good mothers let their little boys lick the beaters. Great mothers turn the mixer off first.

Mama shut the mixer off, unplugged the beaters, and handed me both of them.

Sixty years later, I have not outgrown my love affair with those beautiful mixer beaters dripping in cake batter. It takes a lot of concentration to get to the inside of each blade. A professional leaves a beater so clean it looks like it just came out of the pantry.

After the beaters are clean, then it’s on to the mixing bowl. I’ll use the spoon as long as it is effective, but in order to get every drop of batter, I’m willing to go in face first, if necessary. I’ve been known to have batter on my nose and ears when I’m done.

I have no shame.

Yes, I know the batter has raw egg in it. But after sixty-something years of cleaning up beaters, it doesn’t look like I’ve got a problem with that.

The only thing that might be better than cake batter is some concoction that contains Eagle Brand sweetened condensed milk. In this case, I get the beaters, the bowl, and the can. I have learned to clean off the underside of the lid without cutting my tongue. Then I’ll use my index finger to scrape the inside of the can squeaky clean, until every morsel is gone. My face will not fit inside the can. If it could, I would.

They say that as you get older, your memories of your childhood come back to you often and sometimes so clear that it seems like 1965 was just a short time ago. The experiences that formed your passions and shaped your thinking stay with you. All it takes is a certain smell, or taste, or sound, or the sight of something familiar, and your mind carries you back to another time.

I still like the smell of freshly cut grass in the spring. It reminds me of home. The smell of a plowed field reminds me of my dad. I don’t hear it these days, but if I heard the sound of a pressure cooker’s rattling hiss, I’d think of rabbit and dumplings on the stove. I can never eat pancakes and country ham without thinking about Sunday mornings at the table in my mama’s kitchen.

There are a thousand things that stay with me. A fishing bobber sitting atop the water. The sound of a sewing machine. Pulling on a good pair of lace up work boots. The ripples made by skipping a rock across a pond. The feel of a Coke bottle. The taste of Bazooka bubble gum. The feel of a wooden baseball bat.

I think now and then how free and wonderful life was back then. I rode my bicycle everywhere. I spent hours barefoot in the creeks. I built forts in the hay shed out of square bales. I made roads in the back yard with my Tonka trucks. I moved battalions of green army men across vast war zones. My BB gun was always with me.

Somewhere along the way, as it should be, I traded that life for the responsibilities of the grown-up world. I reported to work every day. I paid off the mortgage. I maintained the necessary insurance plans. I raised my kids. I endured years of PTA meetings. I’ve tried to be a good neighbor. I’ve been committed to my Faith.

I have known good times, and I have known unbearable heartbreak. Life is not always smooth sailing. Sometimes, you get knocked around. But you dig deep and find the resolve to keep it together. You never know what Good is in store around the corner.

I can honestly say that I am living my best life right now. My childhood is long gone, but the pace of retirement is slow enough to enjoy the simple things, much like when I was a kid. I still like the smell of cut grass in the spring. I’ll still pick up a smooth rock and see how many skips I can get before it sinks. I definitely still enjoy putting a fishing line in the water.

And I still like cake, especially the batter.

I don’t make cakes. That’s not one of the things I’ve tried to tackle on my own in the kitchen. But Marion bakes all the time; one of the side benefits of having her in my life. She is a marvel in the kitchen. I’m not always around when she bakes, but when I am, she hands me the beaters.

And I am a child again.