The Wander Years

 

My mom, me and grandma.  And, yes, I was a big beaver fan.



 





As promised, the return to the story of my boyhood.  For part one and two, check out The Early Nerd and Memoires Love Company.

 

2 memories, a few years apart, I have held all these years that best describe what life could be like in my home.  One night, me sound asleep, my father came in and roused me awake.  He then had me get up and we went for a drive.  I didn't see mum anywhere when we were leaving, not that I can remember anyway.  No clue how long we were gone, this was probably 3 A.M-ish mind you.  We drove around the little town we lived in and then eventually back home.  I can recall Dad saying nothing but I was so groggy he could have spoken.  And when we pulled back into our parking spot, there in the window I could see mum, in tears, scared to death, obviously wondering where we had been.  With all that I saw and heard in that home, nothing sums it up better than that moment.

 

And then, when mom got sober and dad had yet to get there, mom absconded with me one evening herself, no explanation.  I think I was 11.  And we went and stayed a couple days at the home of one of her friend's until finally returning home.  No recollection of how Dad was upon our return or if our absence had disturbed him.  All I know was I was on a little cot in a strange house with very little clue what was happening between the 2 people that meant the most to me.

 



Grandpa, Santa and I with some classic Fisher Price in the back.

In my youth, and this is evident in good and bad ways, I was raised by the television.  Constantly bored, mostly alone, I turned to it to help me figure out what was going on around me.  And so instead of mom and dad, I had Rerun and Rog, Mike and Carol, Lamont and Fred, Ward and June, George and Weezie, James and Florida--On a total side note, one of the things I am grateful for from my TV viewing is that racism never made sense to me, even in a town where I saw a few klan rallies as a kind and nobody another color than me until I was 18.

For certain, I got grandpa's hair.  And the great dichotomy of my life--Winnie the Pooh and Han Solo's blaster.  Pewpewpew!

 My babysitter, Miss Helen, had to retire from the profession so a couple of the neighborhood teenage girls took her place.  That led to a few odd situations, none moreso than my apparent attempt to work my way into a gig as a photog for Playboy when I, at 7, had my 14 or 15-year-old babysitter model nude for me.  Whose idea was it, darned if I know, all I can really recall was I was too shy and nervous to even look much but I snapped away with our Polaroid for quite a few shots.  It could have gone past that, but, at that age, I had enough sense to quit while I was ahead.  Of course my parents found the shots and I never had that babysitter again.  Had I known it would be the last naked female I would see for a few decades, I may well have looked more.

My mom's brother, my uncle John, and I circa before most of you were born.  Inventing the Macarena.

 

So, at age 10, I had 2 alcoholic parents, had lived in 5 places, spent 80% of my time alone and had seen 2 naked females live and in person.  And David Partridge in a pear tree.  When next this thread gets pulled, we move forward into the first of my double digit years.

 

 

Thanks so much for reading and for all those comments you have been sending my way.  I enjoy all your blogs so much, so many creative, wonderful, beautiful folks that have so much to share.  Proud to be part of such a community.  Big, deep hugs to the lot of ya'.

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The Wander Years

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