Seven. Seven years between me, and my sister. Some people find this weird for some reason. To be honest with you, i think its a good amount of time between a first and second child. Child one is almost through all of the head splitting, hair pulling, soul sucking total spoiled brat complex of early childhood by this point. And in some aspects, should be able to take on the roll of a "big brother/sister". I remember when my sister was born. My dad and i waited, anxiously in the hospital waiting room. Which back in those days was not the proverbial "Fort Knox" they are today. As a matter of fact, it was only a few doors from where my mom was giving birth. For a seven year old, to hear your mom scream in sheer pain and agony, is not something you could understand. I remember hearing her screams, and darting from the waiting room like some running back sprinting for a long pass. Before my dad or nurses could react, i was 90% of the way to the room i heard all of the commotion come from. As i rounded the corner, into the room, i saw the doctor, nurses and my mom. Before i had time to say or do anything (not like a seven year old boy is going to say or do much of anything in this situation), my dad yanked me from the doorway. When my parents would tell this story to their friends and family's years later, they would add that i yelled "stop hurting my mom" at the doctor. I don't remember doing this, but i guess, if nothing else, it adds a nice touch to the story of my sister's birth.
I also remember prior to her birth, the miscarriage my mom had. I feel partly responsible for this, and although she would never admit it, i think my mom would agree with me. One day, while shopping with my parents in Zayers, I remember walking toward my pregnant mom, pretending to be blind (eyes closed, hands extended zombie like), and thinking it would be funny if i bounced off her stomach (to a five or six year old boy, this seemed like a perfectly fine idea). So, i walked head long into her. It was a short time after this, a month maybe, she unexpectedly ended up in the hospital for a short time. I stayed at home with my dad who told me mom was sick, and had to spend a few days in the hospital. The doctors said she miscarried because of complications. I say, it was because of my carelessness. I never heard my parents talking about the incident, but i do remember the looks on their faces when mom returned home. Its something i cant describe in words.
Around this time, we were living in Plainfield Vermont, in a single wide trailer, adjacent to a small farm. This is where i first learned where milk came from, and the reason all the animals stay AWAY from the electric fence...honestly these damn things should be outlawed!! Our land lord was the owner of the farm, and would invite me over from time to time, to help with some of the chores. This man thought me how to whistle, and how to steer clear of the "footwear land mines" known as cow patties. This was also around the time i received my first set of stitches. The farmer had a beagle, older if i remember right. One day, his daughters and i, were playing near the hell hound, when one of the girls went toward the dog to pet him. She motioned for me to follow, which i did. As she sat there, petting the dog, she asked me if i would like to do the same. Being a young naive lad, i saw no harm in this. As got within arms reach of the dog, he bolted from the girls arms, and went right for my face. The dog managed to bite me, just below my right eye. The ER doctor told my mom, while stitching the wound shut, if the dog would have bit me just a hair higher, i would have lost my eye. Needless to say, playing with the neighbors dog was now off the list.
There are a lot of stories i could write about this time in my life. A great flood, that threatened to take our trailer (and us) away, but somehow, after managing to carry away a full sized, wooden covered bridge, did not damage our house one bit, or how i learned not to pee on electric fences (damn farm!). My times playing in a small wooded area at the end of our driveway which i refereed to as "my fortress of solitude" (yes i had the Superman pajamas and a cape my mom made from an old towel, both of which, had to be worn while in the fortress). And countless other childhood memories. But this was the beginning of a new chapter for us. In my parents eye, their family was now complete.
During this time, my dad was in the process of changing professions. My dad had always been a "manual labor" type of guy. The earliest job i remember him having, was a baker when we lived in New Haven Vermont. He continued running a bakery when we moved to Barre. A small building near Long Street. While living in plainfield, my dad began working as a diamond saw blade technician at Mile Supply Company in Barre. Working in the granite industry lead to complications later in life (which we will get into later), but provided appropriate income for a growing family of four. Dad had no prior experience doing this type of work, but as anyone who knew my Dad can tell you, this wouldn't even begin to deter him trying it. As he told me later in life, he walked in, asked to speak with the owner of the company, introduced himself and told the guy "i don't know how to do what you guys do, but if you give me a shot i can learn it fast". The owner of the company liked Dad and decided the risk was worth it.
Because my Dad was new to the industry, he had to obtain some special training. The only place for this type of training was in Georgia...not Georgia Vermont but the great state of Georgia. I remember my Dad being gone for a few weeks. Which I'm sure was less than perfect news to my mom, who now had a seven year old boy and a newborn baby in the house. TBC.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Chapter one
To begin, i am 100% new to the blogging world. I know the word, i know the meaning but have never read or contributed to one myself. With that being said, please excuse any faux pas', i am sure to make and just read on...its bound to get better....right?!
This blog is primarily meant to be a work in progress. Similar to a live memoir, a continuing autobiography where hopefully, at some point, i will feel a sense of completion. The best place to begin is at the beginning. Okay, cliche i know, but where the hell else am i to start. I am not some famous person. A man of great knowledge or power..to others anyway. in my minds eye i am all of this and more. In the company of my current circle, i suppose i am famous...in my own right, in my town (and possibly entire state) on some level. But who says you need to be famous or someone with great wealth to write such a body of text. NO ONE! Plenty of people on the other hand, say you have to have some type of status for others to read such a piece of work and give some type of a shit about the focal point! Well to hell with them.
I'm a man, in my early thirties, living in the small New England town of Vermont. I have lived here the entirety of my existence in one town or another. To be completely truthful, i believe i will continue to remain in this small state, content with life...or at least tolerating it. I am the son of two of the most caring and self sacrificing people i know. I have a younger sister and a nephew. From the outside, and based on those facts alone, one would think i lead a normal, down to earth life..one would be wrong.
I was born in lat January, 1978 in Berlin, Vermont. For the first seven years of my life, i was an only child. I remember a good deal of those times, some of the best i ever had. Everyone who has ever written anything about themselves, usually say about the same thing. Its because its the truth. YOUR A KID! You eat, sleep poop and play. That's your daily routine. And unless you are one of the "statistics", that had some kind of shitty childhood because of some deadbeat parents, or some uncle with "wondering hands", you can probably say the same. My earliest childhood memory is of what i have determined to be preschool or possibly kindergarten. I remember at recess there were these awesome tubes, which looking back on it, were some sort of public works or city equipment that was probably donated by the city. They also had these bicycles. Not your everyday ordinary ones, but high wheel bikes! These things were what every kid went for when the bell rang. I can only remember one time where i was able to make it to one of these sought after, mobile death traps. There i was, five, six feet in the air. Perched on this contraption, i distinctly remember thinking "wow, that's a long way to fall". After pedaling a few feet, the lumbering beast decided the ride was over. And on no uncertain terms, bucked me off like a raging bronco. I remember coming too, and the excruciating pain that burned and shot through my face. This was, but the beginning, of a life time of injuries. I don't remember much more of that experience, but i do remember NEVER going near one of those bikes again...ever.
My mom used to pick me up from the school, in my dad's 1969, flake blue, Pontiac GTO. The rear end of the car had these monster tires, which, for my mom, made it impossible to see anything under four feet tall while in the drivers seat. We would leave the school yard, drive about half a mile and stop at a small convenience store, where my mom would buy me a pint of chocolate milk. This was not some special treat, this was a daily occurrence. While i would sip the milk through a straw (usually), my mom would ask me about my day. She seemed to take genuine interest in what i was saying. Although now having a three year old nephew of my own, im sure some of the interest in my babbling was feigned. This small, and seemingly insignificant interaction, has and will, stay chiseled into my memory forever. It was my mom, and me, sharing a moment, something which i wish was more of an occurrence now in my adulthood.
My mom was my role model for much of my childhood. I learned a great deal from her...well her and the countless shows i would watch on TV. Until recently, i had lived under the assumption that both of my parents had graduated high school. I found this was in fact, not true. They had dropped out, got married and had me. My mom and dad, high school drop outs. This puzzled and confused me in a way i can not put into words. The two people, i looked up to, learned the most from, were not high school graduates. Please understand, i am not ashamed of this by any means. as a matter of fact, i am proud of this. My parents, without a full high school education, raised two children, neither of which were ever held back in any grade, and graduated high school with flying colors. Let that sit out there for a minute. Think of all the times you have ever brought home a piece of homework and asked a parent for help. You expect help! The right help! And my parents did the best they could, and got me and my sister through school. This is a perfect example of what i mean when i refer to my parents as "self sacrificing". It was always us, before them..always.
This blog is primarily meant to be a work in progress. Similar to a live memoir, a continuing autobiography where hopefully, at some point, i will feel a sense of completion. The best place to begin is at the beginning. Okay, cliche i know, but where the hell else am i to start. I am not some famous person. A man of great knowledge or power..to others anyway. in my minds eye i am all of this and more. In the company of my current circle, i suppose i am famous...in my own right, in my town (and possibly entire state) on some level. But who says you need to be famous or someone with great wealth to write such a body of text. NO ONE! Plenty of people on the other hand, say you have to have some type of status for others to read such a piece of work and give some type of a shit about the focal point! Well to hell with them.
I'm a man, in my early thirties, living in the small New England town of Vermont. I have lived here the entirety of my existence in one town or another. To be completely truthful, i believe i will continue to remain in this small state, content with life...or at least tolerating it. I am the son of two of the most caring and self sacrificing people i know. I have a younger sister and a nephew. From the outside, and based on those facts alone, one would think i lead a normal, down to earth life..one would be wrong.
I was born in lat January, 1978 in Berlin, Vermont. For the first seven years of my life, i was an only child. I remember a good deal of those times, some of the best i ever had. Everyone who has ever written anything about themselves, usually say about the same thing. Its because its the truth. YOUR A KID! You eat, sleep poop and play. That's your daily routine. And unless you are one of the "statistics", that had some kind of shitty childhood because of some deadbeat parents, or some uncle with "wondering hands", you can probably say the same. My earliest childhood memory is of what i have determined to be preschool or possibly kindergarten. I remember at recess there were these awesome tubes, which looking back on it, were some sort of public works or city equipment that was probably donated by the city. They also had these bicycles. Not your everyday ordinary ones, but high wheel bikes! These things were what every kid went for when the bell rang. I can only remember one time where i was able to make it to one of these sought after, mobile death traps. There i was, five, six feet in the air. Perched on this contraption, i distinctly remember thinking "wow, that's a long way to fall". After pedaling a few feet, the lumbering beast decided the ride was over. And on no uncertain terms, bucked me off like a raging bronco. I remember coming too, and the excruciating pain that burned and shot through my face. This was, but the beginning, of a life time of injuries. I don't remember much more of that experience, but i do remember NEVER going near one of those bikes again...ever.
My mom used to pick me up from the school, in my dad's 1969, flake blue, Pontiac GTO. The rear end of the car had these monster tires, which, for my mom, made it impossible to see anything under four feet tall while in the drivers seat. We would leave the school yard, drive about half a mile and stop at a small convenience store, where my mom would buy me a pint of chocolate milk. This was not some special treat, this was a daily occurrence. While i would sip the milk through a straw (usually), my mom would ask me about my day. She seemed to take genuine interest in what i was saying. Although now having a three year old nephew of my own, im sure some of the interest in my babbling was feigned. This small, and seemingly insignificant interaction, has and will, stay chiseled into my memory forever. It was my mom, and me, sharing a moment, something which i wish was more of an occurrence now in my adulthood.
My mom was my role model for much of my childhood. I learned a great deal from her...well her and the countless shows i would watch on TV. Until recently, i had lived under the assumption that both of my parents had graduated high school. I found this was in fact, not true. They had dropped out, got married and had me. My mom and dad, high school drop outs. This puzzled and confused me in a way i can not put into words. The two people, i looked up to, learned the most from, were not high school graduates. Please understand, i am not ashamed of this by any means. as a matter of fact, i am proud of this. My parents, without a full high school education, raised two children, neither of which were ever held back in any grade, and graduated high school with flying colors. Let that sit out there for a minute. Think of all the times you have ever brought home a piece of homework and asked a parent for help. You expect help! The right help! And my parents did the best they could, and got me and my sister through school. This is a perfect example of what i mean when i refer to my parents as "self sacrificing". It was always us, before them..always.
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