2007? Wait...no not yet!

The calendar keeps shuffling along, but the days pass like monochrome images. Stark black with hints of gray tossed around so I can wander to the next terrifying crisis. The reality of life isn't what you can get out of it, it becomes surviving the shit so you can do the right thing so your kids can have a better life than you managed to fuck up. Happiness is void with responsibilities. Am I bitter. Why yes I am. And yet it makes no sense. Funny how the game of life works out.

People enter into your life and you don't understand them completely when they are there. Or worse yet, the stars weren't aligned correctly so you didn't get to know them the way you really wanted too. The days pass and you are stricken with the feeling that this person should be in your life, but no matter what you do it can't work out. Fleeting like a soft kiss, she is gone. Like that kiss you wanted it deeper, longer and add passion with a hint of danger and humor. You know you could have it all, but that's how things work out.

And yet I feel that's how my life has been from day one.

It all started in Chicago in 1964. Yes young people I'm an old fart with a few years tucked away under my heart. I don't know why my family lived in Chicago at the time, but that's what it says on my birth certificate.

Life between then and kindergarten is a wash of faded memories. I know I almost lost my wrist at the age of three when I reached for a glass and I tumbled over a stool. The glass broke, my wrist sliced open and there were lots of blood. It doesn't seem to affect me much these days, I can still rub one out with the best of them. We moved to Iowa during this time and my father worked for my grandparents. He became successful in selling Insurance, Accounting and then real estate.

One of my grandparents favorite memories was on the day of a ground breaking ceremony for a large apartment complex they were building. I was dressed in my Sunday's best and then decided I was bored while everyone else got ready. I splashed my way into a few mud puddles. I'm sure everyone was pissed, but they had a chuckle retelling the story.

I can remember huge birthday parties in the summer time at my grandparents house. Sitting in the apple tree eating all the green apples my friend and I could stomach. It pissed my grandmother off, but we could have been doing other things. When my cousin came to visit (he was a few years younger) we would always leer him into trouble. Sending him to the store (across a busy street) with a dollar to buy a balsa wood airplane. My butt was pretty sore after that.

The elementary school was right next to the complex. My father was the manager so everyone knew who I was. One evening I heard my father bellow for me to get inside for dinner. When my father yelled it meant do it now or die. I didn't have time to go around the chain link fence so I decided to climb it. Halfway over, my shorts got tangled in the metal ends of the top of the fence. I had attempted to climb at a place where I could not see the front door of the apartments, but I could hear his thunderous voice. I panicked. I think the more I struggled the worse the tangle became. My father didn't threaten, the rumble in his yell could determine how angry he was and then he would explode. After the third or fourth yell I knew I was going to get a beating as soon as I was able to get off the fence. I tried screaming that I was stuck, but my voice couldn't carry. I'm sure tears and frustration also limited my ability to cry out as loud as possible. About fifteen minutes later some sweet older lady wandered out of her apartment and helped me down. I remember how patient and sweet she was as she helped me off the fence. The sweet smile she gave me when my feet hit the ground and I started to run, made me believe in angels. For only an angel could be that nice and calm in the face of my father.

I bounded up the stairs to the front door to see my father coming again. My life was committed to his hands and I knew there was a thin thread between living and dying at that moment, especially when you are a six year old boy. He grabbed me by the back of the shirt and carried me up to the front door. I hung limp like a slain rabbit. Protesting would only encourage more of his wrath.

My father stood around six foot three to six foot five. Its been awhile since I've seen him, but my father looked like he played professional football. I don't remember him smiling around me much and his eyes always held contempt or anger for me. At that age, I knew I tried to do everything in my power to please him or at least what I thought he wanted me to do. Still I screwed up despite my best intentions. My father led a gang in the fifties in Des Moines, IA. Don't laugh. It may not have been South Central or the Projects, but he and his controlled the school. When he got tired of the bullshit there, he decided to enlist in the Army. He wanted to be a paratrooper. The Army had other plans for him. They wanted him in special forces. The Army won out. I don't know what my dad did in the Army, but he was good at it. I remember seeing a few medals and more than enough weapons to believe he succeeded at it. I think his training made him meaner and angrier, but how am I to know?

Well back inside the apartment, my father threw me across the room, yes all the way so that I slammed up against the opposite wall. Literally twenty feet across the room with enough force to make me bounce off the wall and fall backwards. I cried in pain. I hated to cry in front of him, it usually made things worse. I struggled to get up as he spoke. "Your twenty minutes late. Wash your hands and you have eight minutes left to eat." When he meant eight minutes, I had no longer. I didn't try to explain what happened, I did what I was told and hussled into the bathroom and cleaned up as quick as possible.

My step mother to be looked at my shorts and asked what happened. I told her what happened. My father shook his head and after eight minutes I was finished eating and doing dishes. I know it probably wasn't the horrific story or all stories, but it was the fear my father impressed upon me. I have other stories that would make people blanch at their telling. When my father struck either physically or mentally I felt the blow coming like a truck slamming into a concrete pillar.

About the time I entered first grade, my father married Maggie his second wife and we shuffled off to Arizona. From what I understand we had been there before with my mother, but I remember nothing of it. This time I hated the thought of going to Arizona, but it wasn't up to me now was it?

Maybe I'll post more about this? I dunno...

cya laterz