Okay. To be honest. When I was so much younger and impressionable I was just as stupid... Okay... worse than stupid. One time I couldn't find any pants to wear to school - our house constantly was covered in a layer of dirty clothes and... well... junk really, and finding clothes to wear usually proved a challenge. Most everything I owned was stained and ruined from working around construction equipment. Plus, whenever I wasn't working I was usually still back at the "shop" (my grandpa's construction shop) taking something (like my bike) apart or just getting dirty like boys know how. Anyway, back to the story of needing pants for school - I found a pair. Little did I know, they were my sister's pants (skinny ones at that). I think this actually happened in 5th or 6th grade - but at any age, no one wants everyone at school pointing out what you're wearing; and of course, that's just what everyone did. However, now, I could wear the same pants and be pretty darn cool... in the Emo crowds.
The thought of taking apart my bike (which happened a lot) reminds me of my first bike. I'm pretty sure I got it the Christmas after Andrew died. I don't know if it true, but I think I remember hearing he was the only one of my siblings that ever had life insurance - that means, for a while my parents had some money to play with. We all got bikes that Christmas. I know we went to Disneyland around that time (the next summer maybe) too, but I don't remember when exactly. The only thing I really remember about D-land was riding Space Mountain with Tevia - I was so scared I (tried) to scream the entire ride... but no sound was ever able to escape my mouth. I was terrified of roller coasters for the longest time after that.
Back to the bike(s). My siblings (and cousins and friends) and I rode our bikes EVERYWHERE - but our favorite location was probably the trails in the forest behind our house. There were SO many trails! And we kept finding and making more. Many of them had jumps in them. I had my share of wrecks on those jumps... I was sure I'd be sterile for life after some of them - apparently, I'm not. We (my siblings and I) made up several ghost stories about those woods. One about a beating duck heart in a tree. Sometimes, I would go to where the tree was and scare myself to ride away as fast as possible - and riding through a dense forest on a small winding trail made it that much more exciting.
We did so much in that forest. I don't think I can count the forts we built. From tree forts made of wood boards to wigwam style forts made from small trees we would fall and cover with pine needles - like an igloo made of pine trees. One time, I went to visit a girl I liked in a daycare that was at one edge of the forest not far from our home - there was a big oak tree just outside the fence of the daycare that I climbed to show off. Well, the show turned ugly when a swarm of bees, living in that tree, deemed me a threat and started stinging me. I was covered in stings! Ever since then, I was so afraid of bees that I would use the "I'm allergic to bees" card anytime I got around one.
That forest was a sanctuary. More than once, after getting in trouble (which happened a LOT really) I would "run away." Of course, I never stayed long since I knew I'd HAVE to return eventually and when I did, I knew I'd still be in trouble - usually more than I would have been originally.
Yes, trouble always found me - or I would find it. Either way, about this year, life really got frustrating for me. For those of you who have read the Harry Potter books, from here till about the time I went to Texas my life was book five.
I remember killing a bug around my Borrego cousins - yes, probably just showing off, and partly because I hate bugs - HATE bugs - and my dad found out. I hid the small corpse, incriminating evidence, and I knew what kind of punishment I could expect. Well, my dad gave me the lecture of "not killing animals unless it's for a good cause" - like food or self defense. I can understand if it was an ANIMAL - not an insect. Anyway - as punishment, my dad made me find another bug (a grasshopper) and eat it - alive. It wasn't that bad. Tasted like grass smells, and I'm CERTAIN it was better then the dung beetle would have tasted that I originally killed.
I had a habit of not finish my cereal. This was when I was much younger (kindergarten - 3rd grade-ish). Well, one time my dad had enough and didn't let me eat ANYTHING else until I finished a bowl of cereal I had already served myself. It sat all day long. ALL DAY. It was Honey Nut Cheerios. I ended up eating it probably more than 12 hours later. It was the NASTIEST thing I have ever been forced to eat to date. To this day, the thought of Honey Nut Cheerios makes me gag. *gag* I just thought of them.
My dad often took me on long rides with him (probably because my mom didn't want to deal with me). He often had T-shirt orders to deliver - my parents acquired a T-shirt (screen printing) business somehow around this time of my life - I don't remember exactly when though. One trip in particular we headed out and I was STARVING - I was always starving - I was a growing boy. My dad got sick of me asking for food, so he stopped by the local Bashas' (grocery store) on our way out of town and went inside. Moments later he came out with a half gallon of strawberry ice cream. To this day, I have no idea what compelled him to get that (I know HE likes strawberry ice cream - but I never really did). He handed me the carton and told me to eat it before it melted. Guess what kind of ice cream makes me sick now, just thinking about it. Yes.
Every Sunday was my parents' "day of rest." I never understood, as a child, why they - or anyone - would want to take a nap during the day. No need to explain that concept to me NOW. But back then, any time I wasn't working, or at school or church, I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to play. My siblings felt the same. We would play house, or city, or whatever. ANY noise would get my dad SO mad. We always wondered how the heck he could even hear us from the bottom floor (we were up stairs). Understanding the physics of sound travel and shoddy construction, I understand - NOW. More than once we all had to line up and grab our ankles for a good old fashioned spanking; often cushioned by the stuffing of newspapers or toilet paper down our pants before he came up to lay into us - we thought we were so clever, but looking back, I'm sure my dad had to know.
Cleaning seemed an endless chore in our home, which never seemed to improve its appearance. One time, we were all told to clean the upstairs bathroom. This bathroom was nasty. Nasty beyond nasty. Ninety percent of its life, the toilet was covered in brown. Not poo - just brown. I don't know how it got so gross... okay, we were afraid to flush because it was like playing roulette with a toilet - you knew it was just a matter of time (felt like a one in six shot) that what you flushed down was going to come back up. That usually meant the nastiest things that went in, sat there the longest - for fear of it coming back at you and all over the floor. One time we were "cleaning" this nightmare of a bathroom and discovered the joy of an indoor slip n slide. We covered the floor with soap and water and slid back and forth on it. It was a small room but big enough for what we were doing - and what we thought we were doing, was just making work fun. Needless to say, and I really don't blame him for this because I would do the same now, my dad wigged out when he saw what we were doing. Grab your ankles time, again.
Without a doubt my worst punishment, and I have to say my most unfair, I ever got (imposed by family) happened the summer of 1990. I was ten years old. Quentin was almost eight. Remember, I HATE bugs - ants included. One day I was out torching them with hair spray and a lighter. I started out in our garden; I was sick of them crawling on me while weeding so I decided to dispose of them. Burning in the garden lead to burning more in a wood pile just behind our house - the same wood pile we would have to pack wood in from every winter to keep our house warm. Quentin and I burned ants for a while, then went off to do other things. All was fine. Until about nine that night, we woke up to the lights and sirens of fire and police vehicles. The wood pile erupted in flames. Not such a big deal, under normal circumstances. However, being older (maybe wiser) now, I can understand the urgency of that particular circumstance. Remember, my grandpa had a construction shop just behind our house, and thus, just beyond that wood pile. He had underground tanks of diesel fuel and the ground was pretty saturated with grease, oil, gas, and diesel as well. It didn't take long for Quentin to come forward naming me as the cause of the fire. Next thing I knew, I found myself in the back of a police car, getting my rights read to me. Yes. I know. A ten year old. Perhaps my parents and grandparents chose this method of punishment to impact the severity of playing with fire to me. After all, it was a dangerous setting, and my dad did lose a brother to a house fire when his brother was playing with matches when they were younger. However, a talking to (and the nonstop singing of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire" by my cousins) wasn't enough in their eyes. I spent the rest of that summer doing community service hours - sweeping the sidewalks around the Blue Ridge Schools. I had to go with a group of other juvenile delinquents, but I was by far the youngest. We all sat around at lunch and talked about what we were "in for." As if being a ten year old in juvey wasn't enough of a joke to all the other high school kids, when they heard why I was there they they just laughed more. I can't help but think those eighty hours of service only made me worse. I learned more that summer than any ten year old should ever know - things I probably shouldn't even have known as a high schooler. In a way, I think that was the summer I lost my childhood and any trace of innocence I had.
Fourth grade started that fall. Back to the bottom of the totem pole. Alexia Wood moved to our school that year. It was love at first sight for me. We started "dating," as much as two forth graders could date. David Miramon was "dating" Alexia's best friend Victoria. One day, after school, David married Alexia and I on the "book of the holy mice." It was some kids book, like "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" or something like that. Regardless, in the eyes of that book and with David and Vicki as witnesses, Lex and I were married. She gave me a cassette tape of Bon Jovi's "Lay Your Hands On Me" that I remember listening to with head phones - over and over again. To this day, it's the only way to hear it. We kissed a few time on the playground, but I don't think it took long for her to be done with me and by year's end, we were "divorced." I got the official news at Woodland Park on field day. I was devastated. Absolutely torn apart inside. I remember Dirk Neil trying to comfort me as I let my hurt out by beating up trees. And yet, life went on. Aside from that - the school year was a good one. Mr. Scrignar was an excellent teacher. We read "A Wrinkle In Time" as a class and played "city" the last part of the year. I don't remember how it was set up exactly, but there was "money" we earned by doing our "jobs" and our chairs were "cars." The last day of class Mr. S did an auction of a bunch of prizes with the "money" we earned during the year.
Sentences. This was the year Mrs. Day, the music teacher, and I decided we hated each other. Okay, I don't think she decided that - and to this day, she only describes me as being "pesky" back then - according to her aunt JoLynn. I had to write sentences SO many times in that class, it still hurts me to write for more than a minute - thank goodness for computers!! I pretended to hate that class, but in reality, I loved it - and writing sentences as punishment for being disruptive was better than my classmates knowing I liked Phantom of The Opera and West Side Story. To this day, I still consider Mrs. Day (Jeanie) one of my favorite teachers.
I don't remember exactly when this happened either, I always thought it was when I was about seven years old. I was walking the ridge of a dump truck (playing in the construction yard) and I fell off - landing on my face. I chipped my front tooth. My parents took me to a dentist (first and only time until after graduating high school). The dentist couldn't reattach the tooth, but he sealed the exposed nerves somehow with a UV light - I think. Anyway, I had that chipped tooth well into college. I guess I should complain too much about it, it was my own dumb fault for falling off a truck, and my dad had the same chip in his same tooth from about age seven till just a few years ago.
Before
After
I was accident prone as a child... most children are I guess. I was tossing around a small stuffed bunny in our living room and running around to catch it. I slipped and fell head first into a window sill. Cracked my head clean open. My mom took me to the hospital with my aunt Tammy holding me and putting pressure on the cut. I got stitches... and a snoopy band aid.
Hard to see, but the scar is there... still have it too.
1 comment:
There are a few things here that I didn't know about you! crazy!!
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