Consider this your welcome. Before I even roll too deep, please note that this is a continuation of a journal that started in 1991. After many volumes, I've decided to go digital.
There are some things, as you can imagine if you know me, that may be written here that aren't appropriate for all ages. There will be words with which you may disagree, and you are welcome to that. This is not, however, a public forum for bullshit discussions that turn into redundant crap. This is me, on the web, as nearly as pure as you will see.
If you don't know me, then e-mail me or post a note if you find something you can identify with. It's always nice to meet kindred souls.
Now, to dig into the world that is me. Let's begin the history lesson.
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Chapter One
For a kid, I was pretty sharp. I mean, I was in accelerated programs at school, at least until parochial school where the ruling law was heavy handed and the clipboard rained down its justice upon the grade school miscreant… but I digress.I kept up with the adults, for the most part. I could run a competitive Scrabble game, and most conversations I could follow. I’ve always stayed on point with current events, even if it is only to understand the superficial.
All the intelligence reports tend you lead your train of thought to one thing; “Damn, what a geek.” You’re right. I was a geek. In the early years, I held my own. That was simple; catch a snake, kick the ball hard, ride your bike down the ravine. Eight-year-old jackass.
Up until 5th grade, I was a public school kid. I think part of my accelerated learning was because I was a happy kid. I loved to read. I absorbed books like a sponge, and even helped other kids with their reading. I was active, with my nearly white blonde hair and my blue eyed wonderment. My family loved me, and life was great.
Then I got glasses.
It was third grade when I finally succumbed. Glasses were an instant encumbrance; constantly sliding down my nose, getting lost in my not-so immaculate room and constantly needing to be cleaned. I would be cursed with this “disease” until I would be three months from my 30th birthday.
After a fourth grade year of slacking grades and sloping interest in school, I was transferred to a parochial school in the Lutheran church. Sorry for those who had hoped for catholic school stories. I think the degradation of my interest in school was sparked by a really bad teacher in 4th grade. I don’t honestly remember anything from 4th grade other than a day where several of us had to line up for swats from our teacher. I don’t even recall the offense that necessitated such harsh retribution…
Parochial school started out good. My teacher was great, and very supportive. I was going in cold turkey; I knew some of my fellow students from church and Sunday school, so I had some inside connections already. Not that it mattered, but the class sizes were small, and we spent the entire day together. This was fine, if you fit. Once you didn’t fit anymore, it was hell. Hell-- brought to you by the Lutheran church, Missouri synod.
Sam and Bryant were my best friends. Sam was also the pastor’s son, which was really neither here nor there. Bryant and I had been friends from early youth, and was my “outdoor” friend, meaning he had a 3-wheeler and I didn’t.
The girls in my class, for the most part, were horrible little bitches. I hate to use the term to describe such a young age, but it fits. They would torment the other girls that didn’t “fit,” as well as some of the boys. Everything, at that time, was about labels. Clothes. Shoes. Backpacks, trapper keepers, watches, hairstyles… it was probably the heart of the superficial 80’s, and we were caught in the midst of it at the most awkward time of our adolescence.
I wasn’t rich, by any means. Now I think, “Thank God,” but then it was all I could do sometimes to keep from lashing out at the teases about my Rustler jeans or my off-brand shoes. My parents were perfect. We had love in our home, we had music and inspiration and creativity and lots and lots of Love.
In 6th grade, we took comprehensive but basic skills tests to determine if we would be good candidates for the band program. I passed with one of the highest aptitudes in the class, and shortly after receiving our results, we got to go to the high school band room to peruse the instruments.
I wanted to play the trumpet or drums. I had never seen a trombone, nor had I cared to. The trumpet was the front of the line… it was a weapon of domination for band nerds everywhere, and although I wasn’t a band nerd yet, I was aspiring and I wanted that weapon of mass destruction.
My parents, standing close behind, watched me as I was introduced to the program directors. I saw saxophones, clarinets (yeah, right), baritones, tubas, and trumpets. My eyes brightened, and then the head director, nick Leist, told me to check out this trombone.
I thought to myself, “Hey, if it’ll convince him that I should play something else, let’s get it over with.” He carefully showed me how to properly hold the instrument, and it was surprisingly heavy. That impressed me, for reasons both primal and aesthetic. Then he told me to blow into it. As I innocently went to place my lips on the mouthpiece for the first time, he stopped me.
“Don’t just blow air into it; you have to buzz, like you’re making motorboat noises in the bathtub.” Strangely, this analogy made sense to me, and without further ado, I placed my lips against the horn and “buzzed.”
There are several times or events in my life I will never forget.
Sorting my baseball cards at my grandma’s house in Jackson when I was sick, Grandpa and I going fishing in the Galaxie, seeing my dad cry when I moved away to Texas, my wedding day, the day my divorce went through, my sister’s child’s birth… These are epiphanies in my life. Changing events, or glacier movers.The first note I ever played was a B-flat. It was a little sharp, but it was there. Then I moved the slide around and made a real mess of my first performance. Mr. Leist said that I was a natural. I will never forget that; it is what sold me on playing this horn. Maybe it was said in good humor, maybe he said that to every kid that picked it up, but what I can tell you is that for a kid in hand-me-down glasses with early acne and a really odd sense of humor, it had me floating above the floor.
I signed on to play the trombone, and shortly thereafter, we got a rental horn so I could start practicing. Band became my personal refuge. Most of the students who teased and poked fun didn’t do band, at least not after the first year. We would all get on a bus and travel to the public school to learn our scales and fib about how much time we practiced. It was a break from the dulling monotony that was school.
Fast forward to my eighth grade year. I’m still pretty short, around 5’2”, and husky. I liked husky, unlike most kids. My friend Travis and I actually compared how many rolls we had on our bellies one day in the locker room.
I finally got contact lenses in eighth grade, after what was probably a lot of deliberation by my parents. Contacts were not cheap; these were hard lenses, and would require a level of responsibility that I probably hadn’t shown to this point. It wasn’t that I was an irresponsible kid; I just was borderline most of the time.
This was a pivotal point in my school career. We finished parochial school in 8th grade, and I would now return to public school. In the span of a summer, my family would move into our unfinished new home, I would grow about 6 inches and I would adjust to not having to wear thick glasses anymore.
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More to come.
One Love,
D
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