Category: childhood

Cherishing Moments: A Father’s Reflection on Parenting

A regular Thursday turned into a fond memory. Thursday was a fairly typical day for me. Out of the house early to drive up to Mom’s house to do a Detail. I had a busy day ahead of me but if all went according to schedule it would be fine. I would be at my Ear Doctor’s at 9 when they opened. I would start work on my detail by 10. On the way back, I would stop at my son Ryan’s house to pick up some weed. Then I would go home to shower and head out to a Masonic event. The day went smoothly and I was able to pull into Ryan’s driveway at 4. It was close but I would make it.

The weed was just an excuse to see him. I really look for any reason to get together with him. We have been making time for each other. Lately, the plan is to have a movie night with a buzz at least once a month. Neither of us smokes a lot, but we have had some amazing conversations when we do. He calls it the “Stoned unfiltered Dad talks”. I won’t lie, I love that.

On this Thursday afternoon, his temporary roommate was there as well. Hunter has been his friend since the age of 10. He is like a third son to me. He’s going through some stuff right now and Ryan is giving him a hand up by letting him stay. As conversation freely flowed, the likelihood of rolling a fat one was inevitable.
So we did.
And another amazing conversation began.

We spent some time reminiscing about the old days with them. Ryan and Hunter were inseparable. They spent a great deal of time at our house. Hunter’s home life was less than happy. We had some big laughs at some recollections. The vibe in the room was ripe for real connection. At some point, Hunter pulled out his phone and began trying to show Ryan some videos he found amusing. Ryan repeatedly asked him to put it away. Finally,he said, “Dude, put the phone away. We can watch videos any time. My Dad is here and I want to hear him talk”.
I was floored. Flattered. Impressed. Happy. Gratified. It pleased me to no end that my son recognized the value of moments.

Having been given the floor, I had no intention of talking for the sake of talking. It was an invitation to speak freely and on the level. I have never been a big fan of wearing the “Dad Hat”. I raised my children largely by trying to be a tuned-in, relatable parent. I built relationships with my children so they could reach out to me for support. I wanted to ensure they received encouragement, not reprimands and stale advice. I wasn’t a lax friend or failed role model; I was approachable.
It was in that moment that I decided to feel out what my parental legacy really was. For the sake of context, I need to say that I carry much uncertainty about my parenting. I have been validated by how wonderful all four have turned out. But I also believe that it could have happened despite me. It happens.
So I asked them something I’ve always wanted to ask, Was I the Cool Dad?

My son Derek had already suggested that to me. He and I got along famously. My relationship with Ryan was more complicated. We failed for the longest time to really connect. He would say he was just finding his way. However, I felt that I didn’t have a relationship with him. And that absolutely killed me. We eventually turned a corner and things became great between us. But the off years really dug at me.
So, the resounding “Yes” at the question warmed my heart. Ryan revealed many fond memories of our times together. Ones that I had forgotten about because of my tendency to dwell on the worst moments. Hunter further confirmed that all dads were not like me in his friend circle. I was further pleased at the mentions in which Ryan witnessed what he called my “Masonic moments.” For the sake of this conversation, Masonic moments were those times that we were together where an opportunity to do something good arose and I acted on it. He would later become a Mason himself, to my great joy.

It was such an amazing moment. It was the conversation I had always hoped for with my adult children. All of those times that I sat, head in hands, fretting about my parental mistakes. Hoping and praying that I wouldn’t be the “Holiday” Dad that only gets an invite on the big 3 Holidays. That my children would absorb the good things I tried to do and forgive the bad times.
It would appear that I have accomplished this. I am grateful for this. It really is all I ever wanted, to be valued by my Children.

At 5 o’clock I decided that I would miss the function that I had planned on attending. I was in the middle of a moment, a moment that needed to fade on its own volition. I am so thrilled that my son has learned the importance of turning off a video and just be in the moment.

Embracing Faith: A Journey from Doubt to Strength

I’ve battled my anti-religion demons long enough. I am a believer, and it’s time to walk the path that has been cleared for me. I have embraced righteousness in all walks of life but one, as a man of faith. Sure, I walk proudly, but I am secretly insecure. I have love in my heart, but my mannerisms push people away. I believe in myself, but I struggle with self-worth. I’m tired of fighting for peace when I continually immerse myself in chaos.
I have faced and overcome so many challenges. Considering all I’ve been through, the world could easily give me “a pass” to just exist. But that’s not good enough for me. I don’t want to merely exist, I want to LIVE. I want to stand proud despite all of the efforts of the Universe to break me. I want to be the best person that I can be without the use of “excuses” of hardship. I don’t want to be “The Sick Guy” anymore. I want to be the “I can’t believe you were sick, look at you now” guy. My story has been told. I am strong and healthy. I am supporting myself and thriving. I have made a comeback. I don’t want to talk about my illness anymore, unless asked. If my story can inspire, then I will gladly tell it. But it will not define me.

My attitude, my strength, my humanity, and my faith now define me. I know, in my heart, that my continued existence is not an accident. I have defied the odds given by doctors. I have been given the strength to fight myself back to health (physically at least). I have been blessed with the resolve to continually strive for self-improvement. I need to credit my Creator for all of it.

I always struggled with the notion of “turning it all over to Christ”. Or, as they say in AA, our Creator as we understand him. I always thought it was wrong to not give ourselves credit for our accomplishments. I openly pushed back on that. However, I now understand that what it really means is that God gives us the strength to overcome. If we are humble and emotionally mature enough to ask him for help.
I am amazed that, as a Believer (was I?) this never occurred to me.

I have run from religion most of my life. I eventually embraced Spirituality. Not as a copout, but because I struggled with the mainstream concept of religion. But my real issue lies in my issues with people I have met in religious settings. I have had several memorable (traumatic?) incidents with sanctimonious, disingenuous, and dangerously self-righteous people. I have been exposed to feigned superiority through the veneer of their faith. I have witnessed racism, victim-shaming, and unadulterated condescension in the name of religion. As for hypocrisy, well I don’t have the time to list all of the examples. So I rejected religion.
Now I ask myself, why do these people differ from others? Why can’t I treat them as I do other people I encounter in life that rub me the wrong way? If I meet someone at the Gym, work, Post Office, etc., that annoys me, I think,”It’s their journey leave it alone.” Why can’t I do that? Religion is like anything else in life. There is good and bad. Where there are people, there is hypocrisy. Yet, I closed myself off to an entire component of my life, the spiritual.

This is for you, my beautiful Lisa. I may never be a person who gushes publicly with religious fervor. However, I will walk with the surety of a man of faith. I will not only take comfort in believing that I have a purpose. I also have peace of mind in the Divine bodyguard beside me as I fulfill that purpose. I’m turning it over to God.

I was once told that I walk like a “Proud Peacock”. It was meant as a compliment. My walk exuded confidence and self-assuredness. Only I knew that it was largely an act. A defense mechanism to cause people to leave me alone. By embracing my faith fully, it is no longer an act. I know I was put here, and saved several times for a reason. It’s time to go out and boldly find and work towards that purpose.

Finding Spirituality: My Journey Through Mental Health

I went to Church today. I woke up and desired an infusion of spirituality. It was a good decision.

This story has 2 components. A backstory as to why I needed a Spiritual infusion, and a brief recap of my relationship with God.

I have been really struggling with my Mental Health lately. I have been battling issues of self-worth on a formerly unmatched scale. I have been beating myself up more than ever over quirks in my behavior. I have hyper-aware of my mistakes and dwell on questions of my overall mental health. And despite my plentiful and amazing support system, I have been feeling very alone. If one were to observe me, they would be unlikely to see of what I speak. I act happy, I socialize frequently, and I am very busy. But underneath, the Sad Clown is still there.
My friend chalks it up to my being single. If you’ve read even one of my posts, you will know that I really want another chance at a relationship. You would also know that I have nothing but misery and disappointment. I have stopped trying. That has somewhat relieved the disappointment, but it hasn’t squelched the desire.
I have been in a very dark place. I actually have thought about ending things. If not for the damage I would leave behind for those who care for me.

Lisa reaching out to me has helped a lot. Talking about “what happened” has softened the blow. It also removed Lisa from my list of bad experiences that I have been ruminating over. We have been talking, and I am enjoying it. I missed her in so many ways. I love that she is in a good place. It is not lost on me that she credits bringing God to the forefront of her life as a reason. I think it’s working for her.

To me, God is a last resort. I am a control freak. I have challenged people in AA meetings about the notion of “turning it all over to God”. I understand that asking for help is necessary, but I believe that everything is ultimately up to us. And when we succeed, give God some credit. But give yourself some as well. I have always struggled with that notion.
I also struggle with religion. I have accepted a higher power into my life. It was a journey that took years of soul-searching. It was when I rejected the Traditional notion of religion that it became clear to me. I came up with the “Kayaking” approach.
Religion is sitting in a building thinking about Kayaking.
Spirituality is sitting in a Kayak thinking about God.

That changed everything (it is not original btw but it works).

As a Mason, belief in a higher power is essential. “Kayaking” enabled me to finally embrace the critical, and often misunderstood truism about religion. It is about aspiring to something that is bigger than yourself. If I had to choose, my religion is nature. Because I am tiny in comparison and that provides context for me. But I still reject traditional religion.
It’s always been that way.

But I needed that thing that I believe drives millions to a house of Worship on Sunday morning, the “feeling”. I have always rejected the “Holy rollers” who raise their arms to the heavens in Church. Those who sprinkle God into every conversation. The people who talk about it all the time. (Lisa is a bit like that but it’s her so I am making an effort). I think part of my avoidance of religion is because I am afraid of being that person. To be clear, I don’t dislike those people, I have just had some traumatic experiences with some of them.

But today was what I needed. There is a Church an hour from me that I really like. The dress code is informal, the people are super nice and decidedly not pushy in their beliefs. They are welcoming and loving. They made me feel comfortable.

Comfortable enough to have a good cry. To ask my Creator for clarity, help, or both as I struggle with my inner demons. I left feeling better than I went in. Again, it was a good decision.

Embrace Your Uniqueness: A Journey of Self-Discovery

I was recently asked what my last blog post would be. I had to think about it of course. I decided to write it as if I was actually well-adjusted at the time of my demise. That makes this an exercise in Creative Writing. Here goes.

Be yourself. No matter what. Then embrace it. 

That is what my final blog post would say. 

I cannot tell you how many blogs I have written about finding and understanding myself and what I stand for. I have always struggled with matters of identity. I could go on for days about my findings on this matter. Suffice to say, I showed up at the party way too late.

I’m glad I got here. However, I surely wasted an irretrievable amount of time, effort, angst, and agony in the process. I told the President of my HS reunion committee something several years ago. This was when I was asked for a quote for the newsletter. I said, “I searched high and low, far and wide for who I am. Only to realize that I was me all along.” 

I never thought I was enough. Or the right thing. Or in the right place. I don’t know why, nothing in my childhood explains it. Nobody has ever told me that I’m not good enough except me. It’s as if I placed other people’s expectations of me without their offer or permission. I think I tried to be who and what people wanted or expected. Sometimes different personas for different people or groups. 

I was big and intimidating. So I acted it. But I’m not tough nor do I want to intimidate. That didn’t work.

I was charming (to a degree) so I acted the part of Ladies Man and Playa. But I like and respect women, I didn’t even like hookups.

I was a decent artist. So I tried to emanate artsy and liberal. Turns out I’m a casual artist and I am not wired to take mushrooms and sing Kumbaya around a campfire.

I could go on. Suffice it to say that despite having varied interests and strengths, not a single one of them defines me. They are merely components of me. The day I realized that was a great day indeed. 

As much as I can parrot the tired line, “I don’t care what people think about me” I do. But not in the conventional sense. 

It matters to me that people know who I am and what I stand for. It matters to me that people know that I am a good person. Sure I want to be liked, but I have recognized that respect or appreciation is what I truly desire. 

I have found that the answer is in the company you keep. Your friends will not only understand your uniqueness. The organizations you attend meetings and events at will also appreciate it. The people you spend time with will too. They will know your quirks and pecadillos.  They will know who you really are and what you stand for.

I am the chocolate box in Forrest Gump’s lap. I come in many shapes and forms. They’re all good in their own way. If some of my pieces don’t do it for you, then leave them and enjoy another. I’m me and you never know what me you’re going to get.

Having made that bizarre statement, the overall point is my recommendation to everyone to just be yourself. If you’re not surrounding yourself with people who appreciate the particular magic you bring to the table…well then find a new circle.

Reminiscin’

I was recently asked what was my favorite memory of my Father. One immediately

I will just start by saying my Dad was a god to me when I was young. Unfortunately, I feel that I worshiped at arm’s length. Later in life, I would understand the small gap of air between us. What I thought was reserved was actually his “Dad Hat”. My Dad was determined to be a good father. Committed to give me a good childhood and to make sure I had enough of everything. 

Because he had a lousy childhood and was given nothing, he was ending the cycle. 

What I refer to as reserved was just him trying too hard. I wish he had learned to just be himself around me. He eventually would, and when he did all was good. We enjoyed a very nice relationship in his later years. Nevertheless, Parkinson’s reduced him to a shell of his former self. He died in 2013.

I connected with my Dad through common interests. I made myself interested in things to spend time with him. When he was working on the house, I would hang with him and help out whenever possible. When he was under the hood of the car, I poked mine in as well to see what he was doing. When he watched Sports, I sat with him. I ingratiated myself to get close to him. And I’m so very glad that I did because my love of cars and sports came from him.

But what I love most from my father’s influence is my passion for motorcycles.

My Dad rode motorcycles as far back as I can remember. Motorcycles have an obvious allure. Aesthetically, the sleek styling, shiny chrome, and loud pipes appeal to the senses. The idea of them and what they represent excited the hell out of me. Freedom, danger, independence and (let’s face it) a badass vibe came to mind. That excitement has yet to wear off, but it is rivaled by the sight of my Dad pulling up the driveway on his bike when I was young.

It was agonizing on so many levels as I waited to be deemed old enough to ride on the back. When that day finally came, I was jumping out of my skin with excitement. I can still remember putting the helmet on and watching as dad made sure it was fastened properly. I remember the pre-ride speech about staying still and not making any sudden movements that may throw his balance. I vividly remember as we rolled down the driveway for the first time.

I wasn’t scared. I trusted my father to the moon and back. We went to our favorite place in Salem, MA. We ate pizza and Ice Cream as we watched the people scuttle about. It was a magic day and the place became our place after that day.

The only memory greater than that, my absolute favorite of all, involves the day I met up with my Dad. I was on my own bike to embark on our first ride together. We went to our place in Salem, MA, our place, and ate pizza and Ice Cream. This time, it wasn’t just the destination that mattered but the journey there and back. 

That is how I like to remember my Father. When I bought my first Harley after he had passed on. As I fired her up for the first time, I looked to the Sky and wondered if Dad was proud of me.

The Evolving Role of a Dad at Christmas

It’s Christmas Eve and I am very excited about spending time with my family tonight. With my children now grown adults, the dynamic of the Holiday has transformed greatly. Permanently etched in my mind are the Christmases of old. It was always a huge ordeal at my house when I was a kid. My parents loved Christmas and were very generous. My Dad was so dedicated to my mother that he truly could not stop getting her gifts. Sadly, I think it was insecurity masked by generosity but it was certainly based on his love for her. The exchange of gifts was borderline excessive. But I was always provided for and I enjoyed the Christmas holiday.
I enjoyed it less and less as I got older. I began to see it for the rampant and crass commercialism that it was. When the kids were young, I enjoyed it through them. As they got older, I smiled and acted happy. Holidays would become a major stressor for my wife, and consequently on me and I soured on most all of them. But I suppose that is a story for another day.

I did enjoy Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve was always a great night at my house as a kid and remains a fond memory. The house was full of family and friends imbibing in drinks and snacking on holiday treats. It was a zero pressure evening, the gifts were already wrapped, the toys were assembled, there was nothing to do but enjoy the calm before the storm.

Christmas now consists of a party on Christmas Eve, and everyone goes their separate ways on Christmas Day. I love this transition. It reminds me of the old days. But it is much to my ex’s chagrin that hosting duties have been passed on to the kids. She wants to still do it. I think she misses the Holidays when the kids were young. I suppose it’s a natural reaction to aging.

My oldest daughter has hosted for the last few years. It is such a great time. I look ahead to it all year. The kids, their spouses, and significant others gather. A smattering of family friends and new in-laws join for drinks, a nice meal, and then games.
I missed it last year. I had COVID. I was miserably sick and depressed about missing it.
This year, my oldest boy and his Fiance welcomed us all to their nice new apartment. Just reading his texts and emails are warming to my heart, they are so excited to host us all.

This is a small chapter in the “How to be a parent to adult kids” manual. My role of the father has evolved. While my children would disagree with this, I would argue that my children don’t “need” me anymore. It’s not that I don’t have a role, it’s that I’m not depended on by them anymore. This is troublesome for me because that is something that I miss in both my personal and professional life. I was always an integral part of things. Now, I have a support role.
To put a positive spin on this, it is a victory of sorts to be in this situation. During the days of family turmoil, there was a lot of arguing and resentment. I often worried that my children would resent us. I feared they would not have need for us once they were on their own. I now believe that we made the repairs in time. By acknowledging that fear and being proactive about repairing those fractured relationships.
My role now is to be there when they need me, otherwise to sit back and beam with sheer pride at how magnificent they all really are. It’s not about taking credit, it’s just gratitude that it all worked out.

I am so excited about tonight. Still, I harbor a fair amount of sadness. My youngest daughter and my ex are still not speaking. As a result, my daughter will miss yet another family event. This I hate, so many magical moments have happened recently; a wedding, engagement, the birth of a beautiful little baby…she’s missed them all. I can’t say if she is bothered by it but I sure am.

It’s difficult to enjoy a holiday while missing someone. I miss having her around. I need harmony in my life. I guess you can’t always get what you want.

Dad talk

I was recently asked what my Dad was like when I was younger.

I love talking about my Dad. In fact, I visited him yesterday. I talked a lot, in fact, I did all the talking. Primarily, because he can’t hear me through 6 feet of dirt and a Veteran’s Grave marker. He may have died 10 1/2 years ago but not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. 

One of the things I remember most about my Dad was a conversation we had towards the end of his life. As Parkinson’s ravaged his body, transforming him into a shadow of the mighty Oak he once was, he became briefly interested in his legacy. He didn’t have much regard for how people felt about him and he wasn’t a man with many regrets, but he was concerned about how he was as a Dad. I was shocked when he brought it up.

“Do you resent me for being out of the house so much”?

I had never really thought of it. He worked all the time. Side jobs, overtime, helping my Grandfather. “Out” wasn’t out with the boys or time spent on himself. It was work. Other than that he was home being a great Dad. And, it wasn’t as if I had a reference point to compare his time home to others. All of my friends’ Dads worked, most of them a lot. I always thought that’s how it was supposed to be, the parents provide so the kids can thrive.

“Not at all, Dad”, I replied. “I didn’t resent you ever, about anything. I admired your work ethic and I always looked to you with pride for your accomplishments.”

A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He caught my reference. I was reminding him of something he thought about every day of his life, his upbringing. My Dad came from very humble beginnings. He lived in the poorest section of town, one of 4 kids. Of he and his multiple cousins, Dad was the one with the work ethic, the good eyesight and the desire to do better. I mention eyesight because it has been theorized that my Dad was the product of an affair. His entire family wore thick glasses, Dad could spot a feather out of place on a Hawk’s tail at 2000 feet. Dad was also the only one to make something of himself. He joined the military, learned a skill, joined a Union, bought a house. Instead of being happy for him, he was chided by his family as the “Rich one”. To them, Middle Class was rich. Me, I was the “Rich Kid”. I hated them for that. I developed a “fuck’em” attitude early on.

So, knowing all of this, I never had a problem with his hard work. It was all for us.

But the real matter at hand here is what was my Dad like when he WAS home. The answer is simultaneously simple and complex. He tried too hard, because someone in his life didn’t try hard enough. He had very high expectations for me, but he forced a lot of them on me because he never had the opportunities I had. He wanted to be an amazing father and husband, but he put on metaphorical “hats” (Hubby hat, Dad hat, Neighbor hat, etc) and in the process denied himself some of the more genuine moments of family life because he couldn’t just relax and be himself. Those moments were rare but so very special.

I am not a revisionist historian. I don’t paint the past pretty colors in an attempt to make it more palatable. I didn’t always get along with my Dad. He pushed me very hard at a time when I was too mixed up to handle my own problems. He didn’t recognize those times when I needed him to take off the damn hat and just be there for me. I don’t blame him, I just feel that at times he was more worried about outrunning his childhood than being present in mine.

I am glad to say that, later in life we became close. We closed the gap, evened the playing field as it were. He went on to be a loving and doting Grandfather to my children and I think he made peace with most of his demons.

He died young from a terrible disease. He is missed by a lot of people. Most of all by me.

Quality time

I’ve always enjoyed “Down-time”. Somehow, I went from never having any time to myself; I worked a lot through school and carried a maximum course load, I pulled at least 2 all-nighters per week in college and worked full time, and after college, I worked 2 jobs. Once I became a family man, my life only got busier. I always craved a day, or even a few hours to myself life never really allowed it. In the off chance that I did have some free time, time without a wifey-issued “Honey Do” list or a parental commitment, I enjoyed finding a movie or a documentary that interested me and I would enjoy it with a whiskey and maybe a hit or two of some stinky weed. That was all my life allowed.

When illness took me out of the “busy” phase of my life I found myself with the opposite problem, too much time on my hands. It was dreadful for me, the transition of paces. In addition, much of the downtime was, and I’m not sure if I’m phrasing this properly, but much of it was unusable. For starters, I was on dialysis. Dialysis is incredibly time-consuming and none of it is valuable. It consists of waiting, forcing yourself to be still for over 4 hours with a painful needle in your arm, and treatments often resulted in my feeling nauseous or outright sick. When I was home, between sessions, I slept a lot and generally felt ill.

Unusable.

Once I got used to dialysis and managed to find some quality of life, I recognized that I needed to get some joy in my life. It is fair to say, as I look back, that I had limited expectations of my longevity. So I created a bucket list. Instead of accomplishments and destinations, I made a list of things that would make me happy. Having concluded long before that real happiness has eluded me in the past, I was determined that if I can’t die accomplished, then I would at least die at peace.

The first item on my list was therapy. Not in the form of a psychiatrist or Psychologist, but in wind. Wind therapy is expensive but remarkably simple. All you need is a motorcycle. So despite feeling sick all of the time, despite lacking funds and despite the naysayers who warned of the dangers I bought a bike.

I absolulely love riding my motorcycle. While I enjoy the comraderie it provides, motorcycling is very social and many treat it as a Brotherhood, I also enjoy accumulating bugs in my teeth while riding alone. The fresh air and smells of the countryside does wonders for my mood, and hanging corners provides just enough adrenaline to remind me that I am ALIVE.

I really can’t close on a better note. There is a difference between prolonging the inevitability of death and actually feeling alive.

Getting outside, preferably with my Iron Steed, is the simple pleasure in life that keeps me going.

Early memories

I was recently asked what my earliest childhood memory is. I always cringe when asked about a childhood memory. The fact is, I either have a terrible memory or I have suppressed an awful lot of my childhood. Given my penchant for mercilessly beating the crap out of myself for things that happened forever ago, one would think that my memory is tremendous. I will compromise and say that I have a great memory but it doesn’t go back very far in my childhood.

But I do remember one particular toy very well, let me tell you about it.

The “Hoppity Hop”, the 70’s greatest invention. A big rubber ball with handles that you can hop around on. Every kid in America had one and I was no exception. I brought mine everywhere. Including on vacation to Papoose Pond Camping area in the State of Maine.

Pappoose Pond was a favorite destination of ours. Mom and Dad were Square Dancers (go ahead and deride deride) in the 70’s. They had a lot of fun and made many friends. Those friends had kids of course, and that made it fun for me. Every summer, as many as 8 families would take 2 weeks off for the annual Jamboree. Long after Square Dancing was done, the same families would meet. This was great for me, as a young child I always looked forward to my “2 week friends”, and as we got older we managed to get together more often.

I’ll never forget certain details of those excursions. For starters, the Pond was incredibly murky, so much so that we didn’t do a lot of swimming. I also remember that it rained several days every year and the dirt road’s multitude of potholes became a great way to get filthy as we plowed our bicycles through. I fondly remember the adults all getting together for wine coolers, crackers and cheese; a ritual that would ultimately span decades.

But one of my favorite memories was the playground. As far as playgrounds were concerned, this one was the Taj Mahal. At least 2 huge Jungle Gyms, sandboxes, the Rocking Horses on giant springs, and the tallest Swing Set I have ever seen.

If I were to visit there today, and nothing would please me more, those swings are most likely not there anymore. This would be due to the simple fact that they were dangerous.

Today’s generation could never handle them and the pussified parents of today wouldn’t allow their children to swing 20 feet into the air. Additionally, the swings were made of wood. Hard wood with edges that can cause damage. How do I know?

I was hit in the face with one.

My family, cousins and all, spent a great deal of time in that playground. One sunny day in August, I was bouncing around on my Hoppity Hop, having a grand ole time. My cousins, all 6 of them were taking turns on the monstrous swing set. To this day I am still not sure why, but I think I can safely say that natural stupidity was a part of it, I hopped my way directly into the path of the swings. I remember much shouting, my mother’s voice stands out, and then looking up. My older cousin Deb was mid-air, on a downward trajectory yelling at the top of her voice for me to move out of the way. As I type this I recall that I was watching this as if in slow-motion.

Too late. I was struck and I flew through the air. Not an exaggeration, I flew at least 6 feet. I had been struck in the face and there was no shortage of yelling and screaming as family members and strangers ran to assist me. Amazingly, I was fine. I had a deep cut under my left eye and a headache, but I was relatively unscathed.

I was taken to the hospital where the doctor stitched my cut and made the official diagnosis that I have the hardest head in recorded history. He also made the tacit observation that I was the luckiest kid alive. A mere inch higher and I would have lost an eye.

I will never forget the concern on my family’s faces, and the face of my cousin Mike, whose face told me that I would be called a dumbass forever.

Dumbass is not far off, but I have amended it a bit.

That’s “Lucky” dumbass to you, sir.