Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part XIV

Memories of Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was always a huge deal for our family. No matter the situation or where it was located and with whom, we never failed to have a big feast and great company. Some years were far bigger than others with the number of people involved being just plain impressive. And then some years were far more intimate affairs where it may have only been a few of us. And, of course, there were a couple of years when we had more than one Thanksgiving followed up by hours of bloating and shame.

The earliest Thanksgivings I really remember were at my grandparent's house. My grandma was a stickler for making the holiday extra special and she'd always break out the expensive silver (yes, actual silver) and the China plates (yes, actual China... in fact, I believe I have these somewhere). She'd dress the table in a cover that I only remember seeing use for big, impressive meals like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and probably Easter. It was one of those lacy numbers with the giant doily-like pattern. You know; meals where the food was advert-quality and as beautiful as you read about. We'd arrive early, dressed to the nines (I always hated that part), and sit around watching the Macy's Parade while my grandma, decked out in her crazy autumn-print apron, would be singing away the time in the kitchen as she created Thanksgiving masterpieces. Her food was the stuff from which legends were born: classic Pepperidge Farm stuffing, a huge, never dry turkey, bowls of mashed potatoes, and, of course, home-made gravy. Made in the pan from the drippings with just flour, a little salt, and the ancient whisking knowledge of how to do it properly. It's these meals that stick with me so prominently, and it's these meal's greatness I strive every year to achieve. I miss them.

Some years, we'd go to my other grandparent's house. My dad's family. Her's weren't quite as elaborate, but they were equally as wonderful. She didn't have the special silverware and flatware, but that didn't matter. What she did have was love and just as much skill around food as her counterpart. As we'd sit in the family room coloring -or whatever we did when we were that young- as my grandma would be doing her magic in her kitchen creating a meal that was almost as memorable. Though she'd make nearly the same thing, her feasts always included sweet potatoes with marshmallows (something even to this day I can't stomach) and some kind of Jell-O dish typically with fruit bits hovering inside. Not my favorite. But it never mattered because we always had a great time and many of those meals will never be forgotten.

After my parents separated and remarried, new families created new Thanksgiving memories... some of which just as incredible as those that came before them. My step mother (at the time) was of Maltese heritage and her parents were from the old country. Thanksgivings (the few we attended) over there at their house in Detroit, were simply amazing for someone like me who is a pretty adventurous food lover: rabbit, mastaccoli, pastitsi, you name it... the more unusual, the better (think Greek by way of Italy). And there was often enough food to feed an entire neighborhood, which was good since many times there were upwards of fifty people milling about. The Thanksgivings at my step dad's family's houses were pretty special, too. They were all more or less standard American fare, but they were all such huge sports fans that football became a religion over there and even of the food wasn't especially memorable, the games always were.

Eventually I got married. Thanksgivings became even more wide spread and began to include far more people and take place at far different locations. We've had the meal at our house a time or two, and though that is always a blast (since I typically take on more than just the turkey) it's just as fun to make things and take them elsewhere. We've had Thanksgiving at my wife's family's house, and those are great since she is a great cook and the food is always wonderful. We've had very small Thanksgivings where it was just our family (Amy, the kids, and I) and my mom (my step dad passed a number of years ago). We've had big feasts at my uncle's house that are almost magically reminiscent of his mom's (my grandma who has also passed), and those are really special since they bring back so many wonderful memories. And recently, including this year, we're having the meal at my brother's house. This year should prove to be an exciting experiment, as the guest list includes: my immediate family (5 people), my dad and his new wife, Vicki, her recently separated son, my sister and her family (4), my brother -without his wife who has moved to Florida for a job opportunity where my brother will be in March- and my mom. Bizarre, maybe, but it's not going to be without excitement. And beer. Always beer.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part XIII

Boy, it's been a minute since I last updated here. I realized this earlier this morning when I was thinking back to some High School things, and it suddenly occurred to me... hey, wasn't I just writing stuff about that? Yep. Well, here it goes, back on the track.

For now.

In High School I was pretty much known for being able to do one thing really well: draw. Sure, I was abundantly proficient at writing; both for assigned work and just because I enjoyed doing it. But it was always drawing that made my circle of friends and acquaintances that much bigger. I don't know how it all started, since as I said, I was new to Paw Paw for High School and only knew one person from my Portage years, so it wasn't like I had friends who spread the word. It's possible I was in art class (a subject I always excelled at and was frequently given different assignments because I was just so much more adept at things... not that I'm bragging, but there it is) and maybe chatter started there and kids began to see what I was capable of doing. However it happened, it spread and I began doing as much as I could for everyone who asked.

If there was a big basketball or football game, I'd be brought on to design signs and banners. If prom or some kind of dance or extracurricular activity was the subject, I'd be asked to help draw that up. In fact, at one point I was in the running to change the logo for the school sports teams. Though I lost out, some of my input was used in the final design that ended up getting used. I designed a T-Shirt at one point, I was consistently on the yearbook staff helping with that, and I often helped less-than artistic teachers roll out some cool graphics for something or other.

In two cases of that nature I can remember, I helped my Spanish teacher and my Chem teacher. First there was Mrs. Howell, my Spanish instructor. I was pathetic and lousy at Spanish and I honestly didn't care. Well, my grade cared because it sucked. So, in order to get it up to beyond just passing, I was commissioned to draw up and write game cards for a Spanish version of CLUE. They turned out well enough to get used years later when my brother and sister each went through the class, so I suppose that was something. And I got a sold C out of it! The other was artwork of molecules and their workings like atomic weights and such for Mrs. McCarthy's Chem class. She was one of my favorite teachers and in this case it wasn't to improve a grade, I just did it because she asked. Word got around to other teachers and I'd do a few small things here and there, but those two were some of the more major achievements that I can readily remember.

But the biggest and, arguably, most famous artwork I was ever a part of turned out to be something I still hold dear and still have in my memorabilia collection. My buddy Paul and I decided it would be really fun to start doing an episodic comic strip based on characters we'd created who looked remarkably similar to a few students we weren't too fond of. Yeah, it initially started out as being kind of mean, but it slowly morphed into more of just good-natured ribbing, as well as gaining a life of its own. The Comic was called LYLE and it starred a tall, pimple-faced goofball who bore more than a passing resemblance to a stretched out, moronic Bart Simpson mixed with whoever it was we were picking on (I forget who it was). Lyle's brother was named Glen and he was a complete mocking of one of our Speech/Theater/Grammar teachers, Mr. Roehrig. Glen was a closet... um, homosexual, and was constantly doing things that... um, reinforced that fact. It turned into a monster. We eventually gathered other artists throughout the school to do guest spots in our books, and even teachers wanted to read them. They were amazing. They were pretty ingeniously built, too. I would by a cheap, standard folder and a drawing pad that would fit perfectly in the folder, cut off the covers and glue it in. Each cover was a different color and everyone knew that every other week or so a new color meant new adventures. Those things were so much fun.

And there you have it! My life in High School as a sought-after artist. I miss that, sometimes...

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part XII

So here we are on the Paw Paw pets Part Poo... I mean Two. Sorry, I was on an alliterative roll there. But poo isn't too far from the truth, either. That's the trouble with dogs, no matter their age or continence, they still manage to mess all over the house.

Anyway, the first dogs we acquired were stray puppies that showed up on our porch eating cat food. Also probably cat poop, because that happens and we all know it. So there they were, two black lab pups maybe two months old at the high end, and we apparently had no other choice but to take them in and make sure they didn't die. Immediately my brother and sister took to them since, yet again, I wasn't really in the mood to take on the responsibility of a dog. The caveat was that they had to stay outside until we got them shots and made sure they weren't riddled with fleas and ticks. And so there they stayed because they knew food was there and since it was summer, they had company. If I remember right they received the names Shadow and Ashley. We had them for a few months until something really bizarre went down one night.

If you recall, my parents were long since divorced at this point, but my dad would come by once a week and every-other weekend to spend time with us. Well one night he had just dropped us off from dinner and was backing out of the driveway. He had to stop to let a rare car go by (traffic on our road was virtually non-existent). Well, at the same time the dogs had gotten riled up because we were home and they were off their chains to greet us. I think you can see where this is headed. Shadow ran into the street and the passing car creamed him. It was a loud, cacophonous mess to say the least: a terrifying yelp, a shouting sister, barking dog, wailing tires, crying mom... it was a split second nightmare. Well, as I gathered my sister and tried to calm her, my dad actually comforted my mom (I think my step-dad was away). It was pretty odd, by nice. And then I helped my dad bury the dead dog. Two weeks later we woke to find Ashley had ran away, likely due to the loss of her sister. And that was that for our first two dogs.

Eventually, two more dogs arrived at the house. The first was a new Ashley (my brother liked that name, apparently) in the form of a Beagle puppy who was the runt of the litter and evidently just too cute for my brother to pass up. Ashley was pretty adorable and stayed relatively small her whole life. She became an inside dog since she was quickly brought up to health code and licensed, and we all really liked her. Well, not to be deterred, my sister found a pup of her own from a stock that belonged to a friend of hers. This one in particular was a mutt, but equally as cute, and looked like a tiny black fur ball. She was named Mariah. As she grew, she took on a tall, lanky, bizarre appearance and no one was quite sure which mix she was, but she was very smart and learned a bunch of pretty impressive tricks (she'd later go on to have pups, but we'd sell all of those). Ashley and Mariah were around about a three years when tragedy struck again.

Since Ashley was the runt, she often had health issues. Nothing major, but occasional seizures and odd things here and there. But it was one of these seizures that ended her life. Apparently, as she was outside one day, she was over near our neighbor's that had a giant pond. The dogs loved this since they could chase bugs and ducks and stuff and the neighbors didn't mind since they really didn't do much with it. So on this fateful day, Ashley seized and rolled into the pond and drowned. My brother was obviously quite saddened, but in a way it was his fortune that he was the one to find her. Not too long after, he found another pup to replace his Beagle in the form of a German Shepherd mix, which he named Manitou.

And Manny and Mariah were fast friends and inseparable for many years. Eventually a third dog was brought in because my sister wanted a new puppy. So, in an act of brilliance, she and my mom picked up a Lhasa Apso (yeah, another one) at the mall pet store. I hate those places, so I'm glad at least at the fact that she was saved from that death trap. But to say that the dog was anything shy of annoying and bitter is to say far too much. She instantly fell in love with my step dad and became very protective of him. I'm not sure if she felt his impending cancer coming on, but I've heard of dogs being able to sense such things, so I don't discount it. She was his dog, no doubt, till the day he died. Oh, her name was Maggie and she ended up moving on with my mom when she eventually moved out after my step dad passed. But that's another story for a far later time.

So, that about covers it for the dogs. In short: we had a lot of pets. Most of the time they were great and just friendly as can be. Sometimes they were psychos and fought each other, like dogs are wont to do. And sometimes they destroyed things and pooped all over the place. Again, as dogs will do. I haven't had one since I moved out. Dogs annoy me.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part XI

Hi. I kinda took an unintended hiatus there, didn't I? Busy stuff going on here at the Miller Collective. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. Anyway, on with the memories...

Oh, and I've decided to subtitle this episode: "Pets, Pets, and More Pets: Part One" or, "How I Found Out I Really Hate Cats".

So living in an old farmhouse on a couple acres of land with a barn and a chicken house more or less eventually leads to pet ownership by proxy. And that's really how it happened. One day the cats started showing up out of nowhere. Well, maybe not nowhere, in fact I'm pretty certain they were just shacking up in the barn when we moved in and came out when they knew humans were around and therefor likely offering food. And we were, too, because at the time we hadn't had a real pet in a while and having a cat or two seemed like a good idea. At the time. In retrospect, it really, really wasn't.

So one day, the first cat of what would eventually multiply into more than twenty over time, stepped into our lives and we named her Big Mama because it was apparent immediately that she was pregnant. And thus we adopted her, as it were, and brought her into the house. This proved to be a big mistake, but we'll get to that later. I wasn't too thrilled right off the bat to be a pet owner, and so I left much of the responsibility to my brother and sister who were more than happy to argue over whose turn it was to change the litter box (though the cat did often go outside more than in, actually), and keep the food and water bowl topped off. I just kind of skirted the issue and let them have her. That is until the day she gave birth. And she wasn't messing around.

If I remember correctly, she had seven kittens, two of which died. So now we had six cats. But this would mark the day I temporarily fell in love with a cat. Temporarily. The one I chose was a wiry little kitten with a really slick black-and-white pattern that looked a little like he was made from two different cats. I didn't have a proper name for it until it got old enough to play and jump. That's the day it became Spider-Man. That little cat could spring around like you read about. My siblings each took on the rest of the kittens and they soon became our house pets. The cats I mean, not my siblings.

Ah but then came the reality of cat ownership to an unbeknownst family of allergy sufferers. Sure, I discovered mine were bad the hard way: with triggered asthma outbreaks and sleepless, itchy nights.But it was my step-dad's reactions that were epic and legendary. His got so bad that he had to go to the hospital a few times. But he never said a word to us about getting rid of them because he knew we were happy with the cats. Well, at least for a little while. Eventually it had to all come to a head for both of our suffering health problems, and it was decided that the cats had to be moved to the barn. Can you guess what happened next?

If you said, "the cats bred with every other damn cat in a mile radius", you'd be exactly right. Soon, we had kittens and more kittens, while some of the adult cats managed to wander off and find new homes. For about two years we had an on-and-off supply of roughly twenty cats and kittens at any given time. But, despite that, at least we allergy sufferers were happier without dander and whatnot floating about, and we kind of enjoyed the endless parade of pussies. See what I did there? But, I'm still not fan of cats because secretly I know they know I'm allergic and do all they can to get all up in my face. I avoid them if possible.

So, during the reign of the cat, we also managed to acquire a multitude of dogs... and I'll get into that next time...

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part X

So apparently I'm doing these around every ten days now. Seriously, I'm not really planning this, it just seems to magically be working out that way. Oh well, moving on then...

Ah, the life of a High Schooler. One can never be too sure what to expect out of High School until it's thrust upon you and you either go with its ebbs and flows, or you attempt to fight its current like a salmon. I kind of fell in the middle category. I was more akin to a frog hanging around in the rushing waters not really wanting to feebly attempt to join in on any one 'clique' (not that I was invited, you see) or hide out among the lilies and pretend not to be noticed. I had friends. That wasn't the issue. I never actively tried to be the morose teen who stuck to the shadows and was always referred to as 'weird'. Well, that's not entirely true either. I was 'weird', but for vastly different reasons. What I was, was popular not because of the groups I freely associated with, but because of the fact that I could move freely among all the groups like some kind of chameleon. A chameleon with the ability to draw.

Drawing came in instantly handy when I was first introduced into the fray of kids who -in a broad sense- already knew each other and had already coagulated into the various gelled groups. I felt a little lost at first, but as I said, having a talent immediately garnered me a kind of 'Get Out Of Jail Free' card and I was quickly absorbed into various collectives. I would doodle incessantly and those who sat around me in class latched on and took a liking to what I could do. Word spread pretty quickly and soon everyone, for one reason or another, was asking me to draw things for them. I would do work on posters for big sporting events, work on posters for Homecoming Games, artwork for projects kids were doing for various things, and even artwork for teachers for their classrooms. Sometimes the artwork both got me in with the cool kids and a better grade with the teachers, like killing several birds with one stone! It was pretty sweet.

But, as I said, I still had friends who were just friends whether I drew for them or not. And soon I had kind of formed my own little group of kids who all felt like I did: we didn't care about the cool cliques or the jock cliques or the nerd cliques... we were just kind of a rag tag crew who liked hanging out and that was all there was to it. It was more or less an 'All Are Welcome' deal and we all liked it that way.

Eventually, the artwork would both elevate me to High School stardom, and destroy me. And we'll get into that next time. Why? Because cliff hangers are neat!

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part IX

Hello, everyone. It just occurred to me that it's been about ten days since my last post, so I suppose I ought to toss out a few more juicy chunks of meaty memory.

I'm going to back up a bit to the actual first summer we lived in Paw Paw. Well, it's not that far of a back up since I really haven't gone much further than that... but you get the idea. I wanted to reverse a bit because I forgot to mention that this would be the first summer where I had an actual job. You see, my uncle decided to start doing a Drama Camp in Portage and the once-existing Waylee Elementary School. I say once because it has long since been un-built in favor of expanding the Central High School grounds that more or less surrounded it. Anyway, my first job was as a counselor at this particular camp. And it was pretty decent money, too. If I remember right, we got paid after the first week, and then again at the conclusion of the three-week session.

So what did I do? Well, the first play we put on was 'Oklahoma!' That's right, the classic play about... the state. Yeah, just that exciting. And I still remember nearly every song, though I've seen the movie and play since then (I wasn't much of a Broadway guy at the time). That first year would go on to spawn such classic standards as 'Grease', 'The Fiddler on the Roof', 'Carousel', and 'The Music Man', among countless others. And yes, each and every one starred children, because that's what the camp was all about: teaching kids who could sort of act and sing to sort of act and sing slightly better, plus the added benefit of crafts! Oh what fun.

I kid. They were great times and great memories. Even though I was older than the kids, I actually made a few great friends, some of which I still maintain contact with. A few of my cousins were in it a time or two, as well, so that was pretty fun, too. I learned how to make miniature set decorations, how to apply gobs of make up effectively so the crowd could really see the emotive faces, and how to break the news that certain lead rolls were not going to those kids whose voices could crack safety glass. Three cheers for responsibility!

Well that was my first job; a job I'd go on to repeat for five years, each and every summer until I'd eventually move on to bigger and better things. Let's see, my second 'real' job was washing dishes for a local restaurant in Paw Paw called 'Warner's', which turned out to be an exercise in futility since I worked with Kevin. I'm pretty sure we broke far more than we washed. After that I graduated to 'Burger King', also with Kevin though he moved on after a bit and I hung around for maybe eight months. Then I got a job at a local factory in Mattawan (just outside of Paw Paw) called EPC and got to sit at plastic-press machines and watched parts fall into boxes. Whoopee. And that was about it until I went away for College. But, as always, I'm getting ahead of myself...

Next up: High School Life or Four Years of Possibly Growing Up.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part VIII

How's about another weird tale? I told you way back when I regaled you with my first 'supernatural' experience that I had a few more under my belt. Well, here's the next one. And this one, as always, is 100% true.

Kevin Ray (I introduced him in the previous chapter) and I had been friends for a year or so at this point (yeah, I'm skipping ahead a bit, but I really wanted to write this story) and we decided to head to South Haven, a nice little lake-shore city that lies roughly thirty minutes west of Paw Paw. It was early summer, likely right about when school got out, so it was still a bit cool during the evenings, and our plan was to hang out all day and just crash for the night in the car. Why pay for a camp ground, right? So we stocked up on a ton of pop (primarily Pepsi) and cigarettes (yeah, I smoked at the time- well I had just started so actually I failed at smoking more than I actually smoke... but you get the idea) and we headed to the shore.

It was a pretty dull day in terms of potential beach babes. It might have been just because it was so cool out and not quite the bikini weather we'd hoped for, but we prowled nonetheless. Soon we got bored and began inventing our own fun, which included chucking full pop cans into the air and trying to make them burst by smacking them into one another. For a destructive game that did little but deplete our soda supply, it was pretty fun. Soon, the sun began to set and we could see off to the west that a pretty decent storm was approaching. I had always wanted to watch a storm come in, and this looked to be a good one: dark wall cloud, lightning flashing, the distant rumble of angry thunder. We headed out to the pier and prepared to watch the maelstrom roll in.

The storm was coming in far more quickly than we'd anticipated. As we hit about the half-way point of the pier, we could physically feel the wind really picking up: whitecaps began to foam and water started to spray a bit over the stone breakwater. Besides us, there was one other guy on the pier that night, and as we walked by him he was reeling in his fishing line a rapidly packing up his gear. We said hi and he informed us -rather obviously- that the storm was going to be big and we'd be smart to head back to the beach. We thanked him and told him that we were only going a bit further and we'd turn around. The storm hadn't quite gotten there yet, but it was knocking on the door for sure.

With little warning (other than the storm, of course) the wind suddenly doubled into whipping, lashing gusts and it became apparent right then that we might have gotten a bit to far out onto the pier for our own safety. We said nothing, but turned toward the beach with our intentions perfectly clear: get off the pier. And as we looked back toward the welcoming solid ground we both saw the exact same thing. What could only be described as an Angelic figure stood right where the sand met the outcropped pier. Her translucence haloed yellowish white and her 'robes' billowed in the wind, only more like the breeze was gusting in slow motion. She was stunning and welcoming and most of all, beckoning. Her arms moved back and forth in a 'come forth' gesture and a feeling of warmth and safety washed over us. We looked at each other wordlessly (Kevin and I, I mean), and sprinted toward the figure. About half way back, we both stopped and turned at the same time to witness a huge wave wash over the very spot on which we were just standing. That spurned our fear even more, and we continued our run back to the beach doing our best to fight against the howling wind.

We hit the sand breathlessly, and both turned in unison once again toward the north end of the beach. And there was the female figure yet again, maybe thirty yards away. Her stance was unchanged and her beckoning arms called us forth for a second time. Without words, we looked at each other just as before, and took off in the direction of the glowing lady. As we huffed and puffed, catching our breath, to the spot where we were sure the woman stood, we were at a loss. She was gone. We looked around and both found ourselves staring back at the edge of the beach where it connected to the pier and watched as another gout of water erupted over where we had been merely moments before. At that point we could do nothing but head back to the car in wide-eyed wonder as we were absolutely pelted with wind and rain.

We sat there, Kevin and I, in the car, drying ourselves off and just wordlessly nodding our heads. It took an hour or so before we could even talk about what we'd seen, and neither of us could be absolutely positive how or why we'd seen it at all. We certainly chalked it up to Heavenly intervention, and that's how I've always looked at it. It just wasn't our time.

And that, friends, is the truth.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part VII

This is the story of how I met my two best friends from High School. One of which I still regularly chat with on FaceBook, and the other who's wife I talk to on occasion because he might have fallen into a gorge or something... I don't know.

I'll start with Rolland Weekley, otherwise known as Rusty. Which is how I met him. If I remember correctly (and he might end up helping me fix this error), we met in an Algebra class. I think. Regardless of where it was, I do remember the circumstances. He sat on one end of the class and me on the other, and I had no idea who he was previous to our meeting, so it's not like we were glad we shared a class or anything; it was just a happy circumstance. A few of the class members began talking about movies; recently seen, new on video, ones we wanted to catch, and the like, and 'Total Recall' was brought up. Now, keep in mind this is the original starring Arnold, not the newer version that apparently sucks. How people can mess up a Philip K. Dick story so badly is beyond me. But I digress. Rusty mentioned that he wanted to go see it and it seemed that everyone else (people I assumed he already knew) were either busy or just didn't want to. So I said I'd go. And so it was. Literally. Just that simply we became friends. Isn't it sweet? We went to the movie, maybe held hands, shared a bucket of popcorn with a hole in it... okay, probably neither of those things happened, but we did in fact see the movie. What happened was we began seeing movies a lot. In fact, for a while, that seemed to be the lynch pin that held us in such good friendship. Soon, of course, we found we had more and more in common and just began hanging out and doing stuff friends do. It was nice because even at that point I didn't really hang out with anyone in my grade. Rusty was a grade ahead of me, which made no difference especially in High School. It was just nice to have someone to hang out with. And, in all actuality, we've been friends ever since. There is a ton more to our stories, but I'll save those incidences for other times.

As for Kevin Ray, he was a little different, as were our meeting circumstances. There was something about Kevin that appealed greatly to my awkward and goofy side. That side was always there, it was just never brought to the surface like Kevin could make it. When we were together all seriousness flew out the window, especially in school. As I said in the previous entry, I think we met in a Biology class, but it's possible it was an Art class... these things just get buried under far less important things, ya know so I can never be too sure. Either way, we met and it really was (in the most masculine sense of the word) love at first site. We were an unstoppable force of ridiculousness that when combined became its own living entity. It was different with us than it was with Rusty and I, because with Rusty and I things were just standard. Sure, we had our share of silly times and funny things here and there, and they were great, but with Kevin they just escalated into mass hysteria. Eventually they rubbed off onto people around us, including Rusty, but again: tales for another time. Kevin and I would get into copious amounts of trouble in school. Nothing too serious, mostly do to just plain stupidity and hijinx. I would break into a hallway display case across from the art room and Kevin would climb in and pose as I admired the 'Art Work' just as the teacher would arrive freaking her out to no end. We would purposely mess up experiments in Chemistry class just to see what kind of room-clearing mess we could make. We'd draw crude pictures, make rude noises in the library, and just be annoying. But we did it together and it was fun. Like I said: never anything too serious and we were never expelled. Maybe given detention once or twice, but so what. And that was who Kevin was. We were inseparable through High School, and far beyond it. I have to say: I sometimes long for those days with Kevin and Rusty. I really do.

Other than those guys, I had many other friends eventually. Most of whom I talk to regularly on FB (you all know who you are) and life in Paw Paw became a fair bit more comfortable. Ah, but it was just getting started. Stay tuned, there's much more to come...

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part VI

So, we moved to Paw Paw.

The real funny part was we had only just moved our stuff in and set up our rooms right before my mom and Bill's wedding, so our actual first week and weekend in our new, exceptionally creepy house was with a 'baby sitter' we'd only just met. In fact, I can't even remember her name, but apparently we met her (and by 'met' I mean 'saw and understood existed') at the wedding reception. So, yeah: weird lady, weird house, weird week. I don't remember much else since we didn't know anyone in Paw Paw and therefor didn't have any friends over. It was rough, but that's about all I can recall.

Fast forward a bit to a week or so later. We were settled in to our new house, though I know that the three of us kids weren't especially happy about it. And then came the big blow. Even though I was 15, I was deemed not ready to stay at home and watch my brother and sister while my mom and Bill worked. So, instead of just letting me stay at home, all three of us were forced to stay at a Day Care. Oh man was that about the most emasculating and horrific thing ever at the time. It was literally like a day camp for little kids who were all younger than even my brother, who was 13 at the time. The two of us would sit there and grouse for hours on end, dreading the day and hating the fact that we were made to stay there like some kind of trapped, elderly dogs in a kennel full of puppies. We rarely participated in anything they offered, which included things like crafts and eating with a spoon. And a few weeks went buy like this until we finally won the war and my mom let the two of us stay home. My sister liked it, as she was only 9, and content to hang out with kids her age and have fun. Eventually we became far happier during that summer and were even allowed to have friends from Kalamazoo over to hang out with.

And then High School started.

I'm sure many of you have had to switch schools before somewhere in your childhood (heck, my wife and I have had to do it with our own kids once), so you know what it's like. New town, kids you've never met, a weird building you've only seen driving past, teachers who haven't heard of you from your life at the previous school... just an agonizing event all in all. Oddly, there were two people at the school in my grade who I did know from Portage who had moved a year or so before, so they helped a bit in meeting people, but it was definitely a trying time doing all I could to find a friend I could latch on to. And looking the way I did (an afro-headed goof with poor taste in clothing) mad it all the more difficult. But, there were a few kids who did find me interesting. One of which I met in a math class, and the other in a biology class.

Stick around, because next time you'll meet my two best friends from High School: Kevin Ray and Rusty Weekley.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part V

The year was 1987. At least that was the year I remember, because that was the actual year my mom remarried. My dad wouldn't repeat the deed for another year, so for now, we'll stick to 1987. We were living at Pines West apartments when I remember getting the news that the marriage was actually going to happen, but I felt very odd thinking I barely knew the guy, let alone wondering how well my mom could have actually known him. As it turns out, it was pretty well because he was her boss at the company they both worked for. I had only really met him a few times, but he began coming over more and more often and really trying to integrate himself (more like acclimate) into our lives. His name was Bill McGraw and he was to become my step dad. Well, until his passing in 2005. But we'll hit on that later, too.

Oddly, the one major time I remember Bill really showing his cool side -really kind of the opposite of how I can only imagine how my dad would have handled the same situation- while we lived at Pines West is kind of a funny story. You see, Chad, Kerry (you remember them, right?) and I had been invited to stay the night over at Chad's dad's house, whom I'd only ever met maybe twice in five years. We thought it'd be fun to hang out, watch movies, and let his dad buy us pizza. So we went over there and had a really good time. Well, until we found out that Chad's dad was a bit of a (ahem) 'Porn Movie Afficionado'. Well, we wanted a big slice of that action since Chad and I had never really seen much in the way of porn on film, just layouts in magazines. So after we figured Chad's dad had gone to sleep, he cued up the movie and we sat awestruck as hairy, wet majesty played out before us. Sadly, we just weren't fast enough to stop it when we heard footsteps approaching the family room where we were camping out. He caught us red handed and laid into Chad pretty good. He only mildly scolded us, because, as he said, we weren't his kids, but he was angry and ashamed. So, the next day after he dropped us off back at our homes, we were instructed to make sure we told our parents what had happened. So, rather than hide it (a skill I wouldn't perfect till years later), I went straight inside, and burst into tears as I regaled the whole sordid tale to my mom and Bill. After a moment of silence, Bill looked at me and asked, "Well? Was it any good?" That was the extent of my troubles with that issue. How cool was that? Yeah. We had a lot of those moments once they were married and we'd moved. Oh, yeah. The move...

We found out a month or so after the preceding incident that my mom had found an actual house for us. Unfortunately, the house was 25 minutes away in a town called Paw Paw. You see, as 'worldly' as I might have been in my own neighborhood and the surrounding few miles, I wasn't even aware that there was a town called Paw Paw. Seriously. I mean who names a town that? Portage was a city for the upwardly mobile, the Yuppies of society, the people who didn't work farms or own moonshine stills. But Paw Paw on the other hand... well, that town was one major surprise coupled with a nasty taste of disappointment. Soon, my mom and Bill and the three of us kids took a road trip (the back way from Portage I would eventually grow to know like the back of my hand) to Paw Paw to see where the house was and how it looked. Now, if you've never been on a back roads trip from Portage to Paw Paw, you pass through a few towns (Kalamazoo, Oshtemo, and Mattawan) before you even get to Paw Paw, and the scenery just gets bleaker and bleaker the further from advanced civilization you get. And I say that in the kindest possible way. We arrived in Paw Paw... deep in Paw Paw, as it turned out, and found our to-be house on a long road with maybe five neighbors. Where I was used to, a mile stretch of road netted you fifteen or twenty neighbors, and a somewhat close-knit feeling of safety. This house looked like it was lifted from 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre'. As it turned out, we were meeting the Realtor there to have look around and pick out which rooms we'd like to have. It was a very old farmhouse, something like 80 years or so, and had a big barn in the back and a smaller chicken house on the other side of the sprawling, overgrown yard. Behind us, spreading a few acres or so, was a field of winter wheat that was apparently ours, too. It was so incredibly bizarre seeing a house like this off of a dirt road with a rutted driveway where the paint was peeling from the siding and the surreal din of insects permeated the air. It was a building out of time... a time that shifted in our heads so uncomfortably that you could almost feel the tension of the twisting springs. But I had no say... this was where we were moving. And so we divvied up the bedrooms, took another look around as we gingerly paced the rickety, squeaky floors, and just prayed that the place wasn't riddled with angry poltergeists. The time had come to really make moving plans, and to pack. I was really going to miss Portage.

Next: The Move and The Wedding, or: Tales of a Terrible Summer

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part IV

Sorry about the gap again, but another, and far better change in jobs has made me a tad busy lately. Anyway, you're not here to hear about that. Let's make with the goodies...

This little trip down memory lane is going to be a bit of catch-up. You see, over the course of this little blog I have come to remember a few more tidbits from the years I have pretty much already covered. So, in order to be as thorough as possible, I thought I'd retrace a few of my steps and drop in some of these recently remembered memories. Cool? Cool.

The first one I can remember happened on the playground while I attended Central Elementary. The logistics are a bit fuzzy, but I do recall it centered around my 'girlfriend' Jenny Motycka (I air-quote that because I'm pretty sure I only assumed she was my girlfriend). Anyway, there was a new boy on the grounds, I think his name was Bobby Something... maybe McSomething. Look, I can't remember everything. Anyway, he was all up in my territory and I wasn't really thrilled about it. So, it just so happened that I was wearing hiking boots that day... steel toe, even, and I decided to take it upon myself to shove him in the dirt and kick him square in the eye. That's right: the eye. I don't know if I felt good about myself or not, but I did manage to gather quite a crowd who cheered me on. I also don't recall if Jenny was impressed or not. I'm gonna say likely not.

Another time was a time I pooped my pants. That wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was that I was 12. Yup. That's right: 12. I was walking home from Junior High (Portage Northern) and I had stopped to get my MAD Magazine so I was a bit further from home than usual, and suddenly I was overcome by a horrible wave of nausea. You know what I mean: cool flashes, that sinking feeling in the pit of your guts that starts out rumbly and quickly escalates into a full-on Poo-Mergency (my brother coined that term, by the way). Well, I started speeding up my pace and clenching my butt, but time and the pressure of actually moving was having none of that clenching nonsense. And so, just as I hit the Haverhill playground -literally 1/2 mile from my house- the floodgates flew open and a very wet plop escaped and landed firmly like a moist baseball right into the mitt that was my pants. That was a fun one to try to hide in the laundry, let me tell you.

How about falling out of a tree? Anyone ever do that? That is not a fun time, let me tell you. Especially when you're about 20 feet up. There's more, but I won't bury the lead. So there I was, climbing up with one of my toy action figures in my hand, my brother just behind me (I think we were around seven and four because we still lived on Liszt). Suddenly, the branch I was using to swing on from one perch to another snapped clean of the pine tree, and I was a goner. I plummeted like a bloated corpse those 20 feet breaking several limbs on the way down. Sadly, they did very little to impede my descent and served only to really, really hurt. As I neared earth, I immediately realized that we had a really nice sandbox directly in my path... my path of my head. Luckily, I hit the ground at such an angle that the damage to my melon was limited, but it still hurt like hell. Knocked the wind out of me, too. I don't climb trees much, anymore.

Well, that's the skinny for now. See ya soon with a continuation of my life line... 

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part III (THE DREAM)

This at first didn't seem like the most appropriate place to write about a dream I just had last night, until it occurred to me that it kind of is. You see, I have a tendency to remember good sized chunks of my dreams and I have been able to for as long as I can remember. So, if you look at it that way, it is part of what makes me... me? Okay, on with this wacky nonsense...

For some reason it starts out in this epic, sprawling mall that always seems to make appearances in my dreams. Now I'm no Dream Scientist, but it's become increasingly obvious that this 'Mall' is what houses all of the little side tracks and stores to other dreams. Understand? It's like a way station to other dreams and it binds and connects every one of my dreams together, in a way. So there's the mall, and I'm wandering the middle of it through what appears to be some kind of show where sellers are peddling everything from cool action figures to comic books to art work. You see, this is my kind of joint. I love big, open 'Shows' like this and I'm particularly fond of Cinema Wasteland in Ohio where just such a thing goes on, only with a horror theme. Anyway, I was walking around and I stumble across a book that I really want. It appears to be some kind of graphic novel and the artist is right there at the table, so I get it signed.

I turn around and head for one of the stores where, oddly, I spot my mom. She tells me to go on in, and as I do, it instantly turns into a vast college campus and I'm climbing an exterior set of stairs into my dorm. My two roommates are people I've never seen before, but seem to be made of several people I used to know, like high school friends and such. So there we were, sitting around our dorm when the two of them begin smoking weed. I tell them I can't because I have to get a drug test for a job as a camp counselor at a Summer Camp where my kids are going. But the smoke gets heavy and I have to leave. At this point I just know that I breathed in a bunch of smoke and I need to think fast because the test is later that day. So, miraculously, one of my roomies pokes his head out and hands me a container of pee from a student that no longer goes to that school. He says they use it all the time to past tests. So I grab it and head out.

The next scene picks up apparently right after the test because there are a bunch of us college-age kids who have applied for counseling jobs sitting around a half circle of picnic tables watching an older lady talk about the job at hand. I'm listening, but also absently flipping through that book I bought at the Mall part of my dream. Suddenly, I'm surrounded my three cops who ask me to come with them and proceed to harass me about the fact that I am not who the pee test says I am and I'm no way a med student and not working at a hospital, and so forth. Everyone is staring as they escort me to their car and drive me 'downtown'. I was pleading with them that I didn't actually DO anything, but I had to use the fake pee because I was worried I'd not be able to counsel my own kids. They didn't listen, and I was brought to 'Jail'.

Well, 'Jail' definitely wasn't a Jail in the traditional sense of the word. In fact, it was more like a run-down doctor's office waiting room. Yeah, there were 'inmates' who were grungy and standard 'TV issue jail folk', but it didn't even sort of look like a jail. I the office of this jail was a lady who was handling all the cases. She was a no-nonsense woman who frequently called out numbers and told the riff-raff to 'Shut up!'. I was a little worried because I knew that if my wife found out I'd be in serious trouble. So, the woman came out and asked for my paper work and told me to explain to her what happened. I told her the story and she seemed sympathetic, but told me to wait anyway until a judgement could be passed. So I wandered back to the waiting room, and suddenly all of the ruffians from within were super friendly and we all sat around and read my book. Seriously. That's how it ended as I woke up. Wow. Bizarre.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part II

It's exhausting taking such long breaks between posts because I lose track of what I was talking about and kinda get the wind sucked out of my sails. So, to recap, my parents were divorced, and my mom and the three of us (my brother, sister, and I) moved Fescue in the same neighborhood presumably to finish out the school year before we pressed on to a different location. I remember being in 7th grade... or at least the tail end of it, but this is the point in my Junior High career where I literally remember nothing about school. The fact that much of middle school is a blur doesn't help much, but the latter half of 7th and probably all of 8th are just not there. And I think it's because I was doing my part to balance a shattered family with education, and wrapping the whole mess in a bag full of personal demons and self aggravation. This will eventually lead to me visiting a shrink... but that's not for a while.

In the background my mother quietly began dating a member of my Dad's softball team. I think I mentioned that before. His name was Joe Nardelli, and he was built like a 'fire plug'. Stocky, barrel-chested, and slightly gruff... but all in all a decent guy. I'm not sure what my mom's plans for him were within the family structure. He already had two daughters of his own, right around my age, and there was just something about him that didn't really scream commitment. In fact (though he was around a bit) he never really tried to take on a paternal roll with the three of us, and that might be due to the fact that he new my dad pretty well and it was just really uncomfortable territory. Whatever the case, he wasn't there very long.

One thing I do remember is he took my brother and I out shooting once. Just into the woods with a shotgun and maybe a rifle. Up to that point I had never even held a gun that wasn't either loaded with plastic darts or BB's, or transformed into a robot, so I guess it was pretty exciting. We stood around some big trees and stumps and shot stuff. Seriously. That was it. I guess the guy was a pretty avid hunter, so that was why he had guns and wanted us to learn how to be men. Or else he was a bizarre serial killer with a conscience. Oh well, doesn't matter now.

But all the while, especially during weekends and vacation breaks, I was never home. I just didn't feel comfortable around anyone, especially my mom. It was whispered to me (by my dad, unsurprisingly) that it was her doing that they were divorced and that it was a big surprise to him. Well, since my dad was my dad, and just about the most prominent real-father figure I'd had (even aside from my best friend Kerry, who pretty much stayed out of the divorce advice territory) I believed him and began blaming mom, too. And it was right about then I began to realize that my parents had begun to use me against one another.

At first I didn't catch on. I'd just casually report messages from one to the other like some kind of twisted mailman. But then messages turned into little bits of information that I really didn't think I ought to be knowing about. But then I wised up and started using this little sick tennis match to my advantage. I became manipulative like you read about. I could, nearly every time, get what I want just by making myself seem upset and torn up over the messages I was relaying. And it worked. No divorced couple wants to see their oldest child -the one they were using as their own personal parrot- upset over what was essentially their fault in the first place. Well, I milked it for all it was worth and I got just about anything I wanted. For a while. Because eventually they did wise up. But the ride was fun while it lasted.

So what's next for everyone? Well, let's just say I acquire two Step-Parents in pretty rapid succession. That chapter's about to open wide, kids. Stay tuned...

Pages From The Memory Vault Book III Part I

So, let's catch up to just where I sit at this point. As you know, if you've been keeping up, my parents have just gotten separated, and I think it's sometime in the fall of 1987. This makes me about 13, and a decision has been made that I am going rogue. Yeah, I made the conscious choice to become kind of an elusive jerk. In fact, after my dad moved out, my mom and the three of us moved with my mom to Fescue, which was a street on the complete opposite end of the exact same neighborhood. Which in and of itself, was great because I still wasn't too far away from my friends... especially Kerry Frieben. I say this because it was there where I spent the majority of my time both after school and on vacations from same. He really kind of took me in and became like a surrogate 'older brother' to me. And Chad was there on occasion as well, but it was most often Kerry and I and we did so much stuff together.

Oh, and it was also at this time that my mom got us a baby sitter. Yeah, one of those. Fortunately, he was a really great guy from a family that my Grandparents knew named Rick. He wasn't strict in the least and pretty much just let us do what we wanted to do... within reason. I am convinced, however, that my mother told him that I was skating through a rebellious period and to just let me be. Rick was cool with it, and I was so infrequently home that he hardly had to deal with me anyway. So all was good.

Kerry and I would go fishing, hiking, bike riding, out to movies, and spend countless hours wasting life away on his myriad video game systems like the Atari 7800. We were inseparable. We were, in fact, just like brothers and that was just fine. But what about my real brother, you might be asking yourself? Well, sadly, I honestly do not remember. I do know during our tenure on Fescue he got really big into pets. He had a rabbit, a snake, a lizard, and probably some fish. So I'm assuming this was he release from the stress going on round us. And as far as my sister went, well, she was 7, so as far as I know she was the real reason for having Rick around. She had a few friends, as well, but beyond that... I just can't remember much more.

I still enjoyed Scouts and my dad still took the time to make sure I made it to and from my meetings, though at this point he was no longer actively involved other than to assist me on projects and the occasional weekend gig. And speaking of my dad, it was this time he moved away from his own parents' house... again, and found an apartment at the then-new Candlewyck complex.And it was also this time where I witnessed a few things from my dad that as an impressionable youth... well, I was pretty disgusted with and damn frightened. You see, he had been on a local Softball league for a few years and one of the things they did after a game was to go get pirate-drunk. Look, I'm not blaming him for that... far from it. What I am holding against him is taking us to the very bar in which he'd slowly fall into inebriation because the whole team knew the owners and did the same with their kids. And it was at this time when he'd drive us, drunk, back to his apartment and I'd lie awake nights listening to him regurgitate his sorrows. Is it any wonder I'd taken on a slightly angry air? I'm asking you like you were there... yikes.

Oh, and before I finish this entry, this was also the time my mother began dating a member of my dad's Softball team. Just so bizarre.... but I'll get more into that next time.

See ya then...

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 15

Divorce. It's a pretty common occurrence, actually. And I've seen quite a few of them in my time. Sadly, the first of which was my parents. In fact, of all the things I can readily remember from life on Suffolk, this was not only the biggest memory, but also likely the biggest bombshell at the time (and, according to the therapist I used to chat with, might still be). Anyway, I still relive the moment sometimes in dreams; the moment when I saw what I assumed was a pretty stable marriage collapse right before my eyes. Little did I know that there was a lot going on behind the curtains that framed the facade, but I don't need to get into that. But I will share how it went down. It's cathartic, ya know?

If I remember right, it was 1986. I was 12. My dad and I used to do work-outs in our basement together. He had a weight bench and a few other pieces of exercise equipment, and we would kind of putz our way through some reps and what not and it was fun. It was me and my dad time, and I remember it pretty fondly. So one day -it might have been late afternoon or even a Sunday (maybe both, I guess), we were in the basement pretending like we were training for an Olympics that should never exist: one where slightly doughy fathers and boys with no muscle tone vie for aluminum foil medallions and chicken wings. He sat me down, my brother, too... he was hanging about being 9 and not caring about biceps or cal's. And he basically told us that he and mom wouldn't be living together any more and that (and this part is necessary for any divorce talk involving children) it wasn't our fault. Well, my brother didn't quite grasp the concept, but it hit me right away because my buddy Chad's parents were separated, too. I knew what it meant: divorce. He then told us that they just didn't feel any love for one another any more and that he'd be moving out very soon. Needless to say, I wept.

Soon, we went up the stairs to talk to my mom and I can remember it -the ascention- feeling like I was climbing into a filthy house I really didn't want to be in. It felt dank and nasty. I knew my siblings and I had nothing to do with what was going on... I knew it but it still felt like somehow not being the best kid ever was a partial catalyst for their marital destruction. So I went up into a home that wasn't a home anymore and the agony was palpable. I could feel and taste the gorge rising in my throat, and I knew it would burst forth into a torrent of crying the very second I saw my mom. You see, crying in front of my dad (I bet a lot of guys will understand this) was weird. I wasn't like I'd never done it, but there was never that kind of matronly protection one gets from a mom. So I knew, the moment I saw my mom it was going to open the flood gates. And I wasn't wrong. She held me as she pretty much replayed the same words my dad had already told us as she cried as well. Finally it sunk in to my brother, and he, too, began to sob. I'm not sure if my 6-year old sister ever fully understood it at the time, or if she just cried because everyone else was. But she cried just the same.

The rest of that day is a meaningless blur. I don't know what happened after and I don't really care, either. But the next day, which I do remember being a Monday, I walked to school just like any other day and met Chad at his house. He was the first friend I told because I knew he'd be the one to understand. And he was. He told me that it sucked and that life would go on. And that was enough for me, because if Chad could move on, so could I. Well, it did suck. Especially when my dad actually left. He lived with his parents for a while before finding his own place, and those days were weird going over there for weekends and just seeing him so morose and broken. It sucked a whole lot.

We eventually moved, too. And that will bring us to the third book of this little ride down memory lane. Stay tuned!

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 14

Well, I have to apologize up front for the large gap between posts, here, but a new job takes it out of a guy. Seriously, 10-hour days literally sap the energy from a body and a mind. But I did think of something yesterday that fits right into the puzzle, and I figured I'd get it down before I nod off again...

People often ask me, "When did you learn to draw and write?" And you know what? I really don't know. I don't really remember a specific time when I wasn't drawing something, honestly, but I do know that it was during this particular time of my life (my days on Suffolk) where I really began to share my artwork with other people, specifically friends. I had always been something of an artist in school, and I frequently had artwork displayed in art class or where ever, but that was scholastically and it never really sunk in that those times were the real kick-starters. However, at home I really kind of just doodled here and there and was praised, ya know, much like any other kid would be when their parents proudly hung their pictures from the fridge. But when it came to really showing my friends that I had some kind of discernible talent... well, that was the big moment, I suppose.

I guess I was just born with some kind of artistic ability. I think most people are, it just takes practice and enjoyment to retrieve it, and a desire to want to turn it into something helps, too. So? Who were my influences? Believe it or not, I had two major points of interest who really sparked my love for cartoons and illustrations: Jim Davis (Garfield, U.S. Acres), and Don Martin (MAD Magazine). There was just something about these two that really piqued my interest. Maybe it was their balloon-y appearances to their characters, or maybe it was their expressions and mannerisms that came out in their work. Most likely, it was a combination of these and many other things, but whatever the case, I fell hard for the works of these guys and voraciously fed off and copied their designs. I wanted to draw just like them, and so, I did. I had no real style of my own at first, but eventually, copying became cues, and cues blended into the work I created on my own. I think this truly is the way any artist starts his or her work: mocking and adapting. Eventually, over the years, my style has become my own.

As for writing, it's a bit less of a story, really. I think once you realize you're and artist, may other forms of art just kind of come naturally. For me, it was writing and, weirdly, cooking. I took up a love for poetry and even writing book reports in school because I tended to add my own spin to them. I began writing along with my artwork, and, eventually creating comic strips and character bio's and silly things like that. That, soon, led to writing in semi-professional manners and, well, to this, I suppose.

So there you have it: a very brief synopsis of how and why I like make pretty pictures and words. Neat!

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 13

Hey! How about some pictures! Yeah, that's right... good old embarrassing pictures.

Before you see them, though, let me just say that they are both Middle School pics -you can easily tell by the sweatshirt I'm wearing. I think we're looking at 6th and 7th grade here, but I don't know why I'm not wearing my glasses in the second one. As for the glasses in the first, well, they are roughly the size of windshields. Look at those things! I was obviously a kid and the place at which we acquired one of my first pair obviously hadn't heard of children's sizes yet. Those things were so big I could see what was happening behind and above me without even moving my head! Yikes. Apparently I really enjoyed that chair as the backdrop, because being the Rattan King is nothing to scoff at. And please, don't even get me on a tangent about my hair. All I know is I had to brush that nonsense with a pick and a prayer. And that's the very reason why I shave my head now. That hot mess never needs to see the light of day again.

Anyway, here ya go...

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 12

As promised, today I'd like to talk about a few other friends of mine from Portage North Middle School: Jamie Francis and Mike Thompson. I think I met them in 6th grade, though it might have been 7th, and from the get go we became pretty good friends. Jamie was the more laid back and chill of the two, whereas Mike tended to be wacky and far more extroverted. Mike was also an artist, which immediately appealed to me since at that time I was really getting into cartoons and illustrations (and yes, I plan to take an entire Memory to cover how that all came to be in the near future). So the three of us -occasionally with a third member by the name of Jay Hansen, who also happened to be a great artist and eventually ended up working with me at the Tower Times at KVCC back in '93-'95- began hanging out and doing stuff quite often after school as well.

Which brings me to the summer of 1986.

Now Crossroads Mall had been around since the early 80's (maybe '81 or '82), but it was the once-called United Artists movie theater (now Celebration Cinema) that had just gotten built by the summer of '86. It was a beautiful 10-screen multiplex that easily dwarfed its next closest competition in town, the lowly Plaza 2 that was across Westnedge near Toys R Us. Now don't get me wrong, I loved me the Plaza 2. It was the one place in town where I saw the original runs of all of the following movies: The Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi, E.T., and the wonderful Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie (three nights in a row, as it ended up only running there a week) and The Kids In The Hall: Brain Candy. Those last two are the really important ones, since their run nationally was severely limited and we were really lucky to get them at all, especially MST3K. Anyway, where was I... oh right, the Crossroads UA Cinema...

The first summer it opened it ran Tuesday movie matinees for a whole $.99! That's CENTS, kids! You can't find squat for 99 cents these days. Try, I dare you! Especially first-run flicks at a theater! It just doesn't happen! So, obviously we spent every Tuesday going to the movies. It was either Jamie or Mike's parents who'd drop them off at my house and we'd walk to the theater, since it was literally built 200 yards from the back playground of Haverhill Elementary, maybe a total of 2 miles away. Sure, there was (and is) Constitution Boulevard that bisected the two, but back then it was never that busy. So we'd hoof it to the theater with like twenty bucks between us and see a couple flicks and still have enough for drinks! Man, I sound like a guy waxing nostalgic about the 50's when I talk like this, but it's true! Cheap entertainment and lots of great movies that year. And the best part? For some unknown reason the employees really weren't into checking ID's back then, and we got into R-rated movies as well! We saw killer stuff like: Top Gun, Crocodile Dundee, Star Trek IV, Back to School, Aliens, Ferris Bueller, Cobra, and Stand By Me. It was an epic summer to say the least.

Beyond the movies, we hung out at one another's houses. I seem to remember Jamie living pretty close to Mike, but I can't for the life of me remember where in town. Oh, and I just remembered another memory that featured these two knuckleheads....

This brings me to life at Star World...

If we weren't seeing movies or otherwise hanging out doing other stuff, we were at Star World. Star World was the most epic arcade we had in town. This was long before Putters (then Putt-Putt Golf) had the array of games it has now, and when arcades ruled both in the malls and out. In Kalamazoo alone, at one time, we had 5! There was the granddaddy, Star World, there was Pocket Change in Crossroads, there was The Fun Factory off of West Main, there was Tilt in Maple Hill Mall, and there was Show Biz Pizza that had quite a few decent titles, as well. So, Star World was the joint. And we loved it for three simple reasons:
     1) It was DARK. Only neon for this place, and just enough so you didn't fall and bust your skull.
     2) It had easily 100 games, not including pinball and ski-ball.
     3) Wednesday mornings from 9-12 was OPEN GAMES for just 5$. Yup: all the games you wanted.
It's hard to get much cooler than that on a hit summer day when all you wanted to do was get a high score on Kangaroo. Star World was our place for birthdays, school magazine sale winnings, and just about any other thing you'd want a noisy place for. And it seemed that Jamie, Mike and I were there just about as regularly as we could, when we weren't seeing movies. Just so much fun.

Back at school, Mike and Jamie and I would doodle and create funny pictures including, for whatever reason, a superhero Jamie and I came up with called Captain Corn Turd. Why do I remember that? Basically because I could probably still draw it if I put my mind to it.

So that was Mike and Jamie.

I don't think I've seen Mike in 25 years or more, but oddly, I ended up working with Jamie at Bravo for three years. Small town, this Portage...       

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 11

I've talked a lot about my three really close friends from those years on Suffolk, but there were definitely others. In fact, I had a couple of really good friends from middle school who became almost as integral to my life as Chad, Jayesh, and Kerry. So, for this installment, we'll talk about two of them: Brock Rotkowski, and Andrew Mautz.

I met Brock at Portage North Middle School. He was the one exception to the odd rule of good friends living in my neighborhood; he resided down Oakland almost to Parkview on a street I've since forgotten the name of, but still currently sits kind of near the new Valley Family Church. There would eventually be others who didn't live near me, but we'll get to them another time. So Brock and I had a few things in common, such as our love of Transformers, MAD Magazines, and his then-recent fall under the warm, dark blanket of horror movies. But I think the one major thing that brought us together was skiing. Back then I had decided to take up downhill skiing. Our school offered a Ski Club and I decided to join, as did Brock. So, every Wednesday and every-other Friday we'd head to Bittersweet Ski Lodge and learn to schuss our way down the slopes without snapping a leg bones in the process.

Before I go on, I have to yank out the images in my head of just what Brock looked like... or at least what I remember. You see, I've only seen him once since I left Middle School and that was way back in like 1993. Anyway, he was a pale kid with fiery-red hair and freckles. Kinda short -well, shorter than me at the time- and just an all round cool kid. I think he had glasses, as did I (I first started wearing mine during the transition from Elementary to Middle School), if I can remember right. When I saw him years later, he might have had contacts and I seem to recall him having shot upward in height quite a bit, too. Anyway, he was a good friend for quite a number of years and was definitely one of the sadder ones when it came time for me to move away... but we'll get to that later.

Anyway, I remember sitting in the back of Mrs. Bunce's English class creating our own MAD Fold-Ins while she droned on about prepositions and dangling modifiers. It was fun and it killed the time. Oh, but don't get thinking I got bad grades in her class, oh no. If there was any subject I excelled at, it was English. Despite my disdain for organised classrooms and their epic doldrums, I was the king at poetry, book reports, and sentence creation and functions. But making Fold-Ins was just too much fun. Also we made Ninja Stars, we both had really nasty Asthma getting us out of gym class a lot, and we both had an affinity for really cool mechanical pencils. How's that for crummy grammar? HA!

So we skied a lot, we hung out outside of school, we even went camping together with his family once and the only piece I can remember is being on a big pontoon boat fishing and Brock getting something gross in his eye after we'd swum for a while. I don't know why just that piece of memory surfaced, but there you have it. Brock was a good dude, and sometimes I miss him just a bit...

Now we come to Andrew. And sadly, I remember very little about him. Maybe because we didn't hang out as much, or maybe I don't remember if he even went to Portage North with me. Now I know he was in my Scout Troop. but school... hm. My suspicions say he did, since he lived in my neighborhood, but I'll be damned if I can remember him being there at all. But then again, a lot of Middle School is a big blur and it's only now just starting to rearrange itself into cohesive memories. In fact, the more I think about it the more I want to say he was on the swim team with me. Yeah... I was on the swim team. We'll get more into that later, too.

The one thing I do remember is sleeping over at Andrew's house quite a bit during Summer break. I seem to remember him having an Atari 7800 and we'd stay up all hours playing that. I think he had a ton of LEGO, so I think we did a bunch of that, and maybe remote control cars, which eventually led to me getting one a few years later. Either way, I was there a bit. And Andrew taught me one really cool thing when sleeping over. And no, it's not that...

If you're a fan of fans, like I am, then this is really neat: First, take a sheet and put a few couch cushions or big pillows on one side just on the edge. Second, flip the sheet over the cushions so it covers them and all the rest of the sheet is now on the opposite side. Third, lay another series of cushions or something on the inside of the un-cushioned side, effectively making a weird igloo shape. Then, lay one last pillow (or whatever) on one end to seal it up, like a mini tent. Now, with the open end, spread it around a box fan (assuming you have one handy - this works best if you're already inside the tent getting ready to sleep) and drape the sheet over the back just enough so the suction from the fan blowing into the 'tent' keeps it 'sealed'. Turn on the fan: enjoy! If you do it right, it inflates the sheet like a weird balloon and you can sleep right inside! Yeah, it has to at least be on medium so it makes enough air to keep it blown up, but it's fun! Perhaps you should use the bathroom before attempting this, because once inside, it sucks getting out and then rearranging it all over again in the middle of the night.

Well, that was Brock and Andrew in a couple of nut shells. I wish I could remember more, but writing this one has definitely opened up a few previously sealed memory doors, so that's nice. I think next time I'll cover Mike Thompson and Jamie Francis. Maybe with a sheet fort!

Oh, and I've been doing some funny lately, here, too! http://saidnobodyever.blogspot.com/

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 10

So, I suppose it's finally time I tell the story of the day I got my face smashed in. And it's every bit as colorful as you're likely imagining. It all starts with my once monthly pilgrimage to J. Rollin's books to acquire my MAD Magazine...

I was 11 or 12, so it was fall of '84 or '85, and, as I did once a month every month (typically on a Wednesday) I would walk home from school in the opposite direction of my house so I could cut through the South Land Mall parking lot to the John Rollin's Book Seller. Just to acclimate you with where South Land was, just in case you're reading this and you aren't from the area, it used to be where the Office Max/Barnes and Noble galleria is now. South Land was an indoor mall, but it had a few outdoor stores such as the J. Rollin's and a few clothing shops and I believe a T.E. Murch's. At any rate, this is where I'd walk home from school on those great days when the MAD's were released.

So I went in, made my exchange for American cash, and left. As I was leaving, I took the alley that ran between the store and the Hodgeson's Light and Log (that's still there, by the way) and cut to the back parking lot so I could cut through the wooded area to our neighborhood. Oh, and that wooded area is now a Menard's, a Brann's Steak House, and the old Sam's Club. As I was cutting through, a car drove by. And it was this car that ultimately caused all of the issues that day.

If I remember right, it was a VW Rabbit. Well, at one time at was a VW Rabbit... when I saw it, it looked like some kind of psychotic clown car: a myriad colors, rainbow paint job, and a mad, psychedelic theme that was as disturbing as it was fascinating. I couldn't help but stare.
Big mistake.

So there I was, gawking at this prismatic hatchback like some kind of child... mostly because I was some kind of child... and the car slams on its brakes about fifty yards down the back lot. I was instantly petrified, but, like in most movies you've seen, my legs didn't want to make me run fast enough or even work properly, for that matter. So I just stood there and watched as the car backed up, stopped a few feet from me, and emptied its contents of three very punk-looking and angry individuals. And still, as though I were frozen to the asphalt like some kind of shuddering statue, I just stood there, and waited for the inevitable.

Now I don't remember what any of them said, except for the fact that they asked what I was staring at. I don't think I said anything in return, either, mostly because at that very moment one of the three punched me right in the mouth. My lip split right open and I fell onto my butt. I'm not sure if I cried (believe me, I'd admit to it if I did) but I was definitely stunned as I watched blood drizzle onto my shirt. They laughed, flipped me off a few times, and made their way to their car... but that wasn't the end of it.

There just happened to be a delivery truck dropping off goods at the Murch's, and the strapping lad (a decidedly older dude) saw the whole thing go down. He immediately sprinted to the punks and their car, and got right in their faces. In a odd twist of ironic fate, those three jackasses were just as frightened of this guy as I was of them! He had some kind of tool in his hand, I don't recall what it was, and he whacked at their trunk and brake lights a few times, breaking one. The guys jumped in the car and took off. Just then, the Samaritan came up to me and made sure to clean me up as best he could, offered me a drink of water, and sent me on my way making sure I didn't need any help. I thanked him, and left the parking lot headed for home.

Now what I don't remember is if I ever told my mom what happened. I don't know if it's just because my lip didn't look that bad, or if I just avoided her... I don't know. But what I did learn that day is: clown cars are never funny, especially when they aren't filled with clowns.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 9

I've been in a bit of a slump lately. I don't know why, precisely, but for some odd reason I can't seem to make any cohesive thoughts out of the memory bits I have floating around. My wife asked if I'd written anything lately and I had to tell her that it's not that easy when you're trying to gather decades-old memories. I can't just force it; they have to come by themselves with as little formatting of my own. You see, when we as a species attempt to search our brains for memories, the brain itself can be our worst enemy. As you think about things you have seen or instances you have been involved in, the brain will fill in any gaps with things that may or may not be right. To you -or me- they might seem accurate, but there is a good chance those spaces are just being filled with other memories, or even things that you -the rememberer- never even actually experienced. So you have to be careful.

So I think I'll use today as just a vacuum bag of sorts, and just toss out a few small pieces and see what comes of them.

One year in Scouts, I want to say maybe 1985 or '86, we took a very cool trip to Shiloh, Tennessee. Apparently we were studying Civil War battles or something (you see what I mean? I don't even remember why we went- but I know for a fact we did), and wanted to do a march similar to the soldiers from the 1800's. Anyway, for what ever reason, we spent ten days on the battle trail and just camped where we could, and hiked and stopped at historically significant spots. As far as I remember, it was fun, aside from the one point that, since I was the biggest and tallest of the scout, I had to lug the most stuff in my pack. Boy, I can just imagine that work out now! That gear was heavy! I had the cooking supplies, some bed rolls, and nearly all the food. Oh, and guess how hot it was doing this in the late Spring? The answer is: very. Regardless, we had a ball and that is definitely one of the coolest trips we went on while I was in scouts.

Some of the other trips I remember: Washington DC, Gettysburg, VA, The Michigan UP a few times, and a bunch of Jamborees in Ohio, Illinois, and Michigan. We had a lot of trips.

I remember the deck around our pool was some kind of really crappy stone. I can't even describe it properly, but the way it was made left hundreds of little, sharp ridges that never got worn down and we learned in a hurry that if you didn't wear some kind of sandal from the sliding back door across the fifteen feet to the pool, you's slice your feet to ribbons. Some of us never got the point and there was always a bunch of blood and equally bloodied feet whenever we had company over. I seem to remember at one point we replaced it with a more foot-friendly deck, but it'll always be that horrific mess that I'll never forget.

One summer I broke my brother's arm. Don't worry, it was an accident. We were playing football with my dad in the front yard because, as I said, the backyard was 85% pool and demonic deck. Anyway, we were really getting into it; dad would throw it up, and my brother and I would fight over who would catch it and try to score a touchdown. Well, I was (and still am) bigger than Brandon by a fair bit, and therefor had a size advantage over him. I was taller, too. Now, we're pretty even on the height issue, but I'm still twice his size. Kinda sad, really. So, dad chucked it up, we positioned ourselves... unfortunately Brandon's position was right behind me. Well, I caught it all right, and I fell directly on Brandon and his outstretched arm. Whoops! Broken. I'm not sure if we knew it right away, or just when he finally caught his breath and wailed like a sick banshee. Either way, I broke it real good.

As I said, my sister, Kristy, had her own room at the end of the upstairs hall. I did forget to mention, though, that there was an additional room upstairs that was, for a time, used as my dad's office or den or whatever, until it eventually became my brother's room. Anyway, Kristy's room ha a window that looked out over the backyard and the pool, and this was a bad thing. It was bad because it turns out Barbie dolls can dive pretty well! Yeah, we (and by we, I'm only assuming Brandon and maybe my cousins) used to chuck them out, completely naked (the dolls I mean, not us) directly into the pool. Days later we'd find their separated heads bobbing around in the filter... and it was about this time that she'd run screaming to our parents. Yeah, that was fun.

My friend, Jayesh Mehta lived just a few houses down from Chad on Bellaire (the street adjacent to ours) and we used to all meet up at his house pretty early in the mornings and then walk to school together. The only reason I could think of for meeting at Jayesh's house was to watch Three Stooges at like seven a.m. That and maybe it took him forever to get ready, because I really only remember Chad and I sitting in his family room laughing at the Stooges. That's about as much as I can dig up of that memory, but that little bit is there, at any rate.

Okay, there's a few little nuggets for ya! See ya next time!

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 8

Today we are going to talk about pets. During my time on Suffolk we only had a handful of critters living around the house, but there was one in particular that was a veritable psycho.

But we'll get to him in a little bit.

First, let's talk about hamsters.

You see, my buddy Kerry had what one might call a 'zoo' under his care. That is to say, his room was lined top to bottom with terrariums and tanks, cages and aquariums, from floor to ceiling. Literally. The boy had some animals (and these aren't even including his yellow lab -why I remember that is beyond me- and his super irritating cat. I hate cats). His menagerie was complete with lizards, Cichlids (semi-tropical fish. This is where I gained a certain appreciation), a tarantula, rats, snakes, and a parrot. All of which were located in the confines of his bedroom. With all of this and his impressive collection of LEGO sets, I'm still surprised he found anywhere to sleep... but I digress. I used to watch him feed his pets, and I'd even get to hold the lizards and snakes (no spiders for me, thanks) and watch his parrot do some tricks and vocalize all the bizarre stuff Kerry taught him over the years. It was cool, but it made me long for a little animal of my own.

Up to that point all my brother ever had were goldfish in simple bowls. Nothing even slightly more difficult or time consuming than that. And even then we had to be reminded to change the water ever so often, and even to feed the boring little boogers. But one day I pleaded to my mom for something a bit more active; something I could really hold and play with and watch do... anything. She and my dad talked and they agreed that, though they were more high-maintenance, we could either get a hamster or a gerbil a piece. Well, that decision was ridiculously simple: My brother got a tan gerbil, and I got a black and white Teddy Bear hamster. Even the names came easy, as I recall already having them picked out the minute we got to the car from the Mall Pet Store: Mine was to be Gizmo (after the Mogwai, of course) and Brandon's was Cosmo. Couldn't have been better choices. Oh, and we even got really nice round cages with the plastic bottoms, a ton of bedding, boxed food, chew sticks, wheels, clear plastic balls, and a big HabiTrail we could set up in my room for the little guys to play around in! It was awesome!

Well, we finally had our pets. We played with those rodents constantly, so much so that they became likely the two tamest hamsters and gerbils in town. Gizmo would would sit on my shoulder and let me play without having to even worry about him (especially if he had a hunk of food to gnaw on), and Cosmo loved to make little singing sounds that Brandon could induce just by rubbing his belly. The gerbil's I mean, not his own. The pets were great and we had them in perfect health and activity for a year or so. Until tragedy struck in a big bad way. First, Cosmo escaped. I don't know how it happened, or when, but I think it was on a day Brandon decided to take him outside for some reason, and he just bolted, never to be seen again. As for Gizmo, he lasted a few more months until the winter hit. You see, I used to (and still do) sleep with my window open a crack even in the dead of winter. I used to put Gizmo's cage under my desk near the heat register where he stayed nice and warm. I think you can see where this is going. Let's just say one night I forgot and we went away for the weekend. I came home to a Giz-Cicle. So sad.

But these were not to be our last two pets. Oh no. We also got a dog. Quite possibly the most high-energy, wacky, mentally unstable dog in all the canine world. And his name was Sonny. It was a Lhasa Apso we got from a breeder I believe, because I remember that damn thing being really expensive, and completely untrained/untrainable. He was little and squat, and he might have been a runt because its memory capacity barely rivaled Gizmo's... and I'd like to believe Gizmo wasn't only smarter, but had a far better personality. What I'm saying is this dog was hyperactive to the N'th degree, and as dumb as you read about. And trust me, it wasn't for a lack of trying! My parents put in the effort the were able, and so did my brother and I. But eventually we had to try obedience school. Yeah, fat lot of good that did. It served only to make him angrier and prove that some dogs are just naturally idiotic.

On the long list of things this demonic dog used to do were things like hiding under the good couch in the living room (before we gated it off) and chewing the lining off, pooping all over the place, peeing in our beds, destroying our shoes and toys, and plain and simply becoming so enraged that he was all but impossible to deal with. And yet, we kept the little bastard for a good long time. Oh that dog will haunt me for the rest of my life.

In a little epilogue, we ended up giving Sonny away to some family my grandparents knew shortly after my parents divorced. I feel sorry who ever that was that had to deal with him in the prime of his life. He probably caused their divorce, too. I kid... probably.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 7

As I mentioned a few stories ago, I was a very avid little Scout. I started Cubs some time around 1980, and I went all the way through to Eagle Scout in 1989. At first, my dad was a huge part of my troop, and even went so far as to be Den Leader when we'd have our meetings at the United Methodist Church and eventually Haverhill Elementary School. Sadly, I don't remember many of my friends from Scouts in those days, save for my buddies Andrew Mautz, Kenny Aldritch, and Timmy Baldwin (the son of our future Boy Scout Troop Leader). Other than that, it's very much a blur. But a good blur, because there are a few camping trips I remember over others, a few Jamborees I can pretty readily piece together, and certainly a decent slew of other Scouting activities I can definitely coalesce into remembrances. The following tale will cover one of our camping excursions that we went on over a weekend when I was working to become a WeBeLo Scout.

Our standard camping locale was Camp Rota Kiwan off the Appledorn Trail just behind Kalamazoo Valley in Texas Township. It was easy to get to -still is- and far enough into the woods to have that feel of distance and lack of civilization, even though it was less than five miles in either direction from... stuff. But, it was a favorite and we planned trips on as many weekends as we could; setting up games for badge earning, and scheduling hikes for nature experiences. Those trips were always so wonderful and it didn't take much to walk away with a sash full of new advancement fodder and even little adornments signifying your achievements in hiking, swimming, teamsmanship, and gamesmanship. It was, at its most basic essence, what Scouts were all about.

But below the surface of what Scouts do to be Scouts, was the seedy underbelly of what makes kids, kids. And when night fell and the bonfires were lit, it was time to attempt to out-scare your fellow campers with the most nightmare-inducing tales we could come up with. Fortunately, I was friends with one Kerry Frieben, and he told me all about the Pin Man. No, not the be-studded demon from Hellraiser, this was an entirely different story... and apparently a pretty damn frightening one, too.

The story goes like this: Years ago, Kalamazoo Valley wasn't a college, but an insane asylum. It harbored the most diabolical and insipid criminals in the state who were deemed to 'crazy' to be placed in prison. Some were people who heard voices, some were people who worshiped the Devil, and still others were so twisted and evil that they just had to be kept in padded rooms far away from anyone else. One man in particular was a serial killer with one calling card to his profession: when he was about to kill you, he left a pin on your pillow as a symbol of what was to come. You see, he wasn't called the Pin Man only because of his gruesome ritual, he was dubbed the Pin Man because that's what he jabbed into your eyes and ears while you slept. And not those little sewing pins, but those giant hat pins that are several inches long! 
A few years before he was scheduled for a rehabilitation program, he escaped the asylum and fled to the huge woods that encompassed the many acres behind it. In fact, it was the very woods we are in right now. You see, after they gave up attempting to find the Pin Man, and eventually assuming him dead, the asylum closed and a college was built in and over its remains. But soon, stories of locals being murdered with gigantic pins began appearing on news casts and in papers. The community was once again under the fear of being killed by the Pin Man. 
The murders came (maybe a dozen over a few years) and finally ebbed, and the Pin Man was once again forgotten. But some still say he haunts these very woods even today, seeking out campers and leaving pins in their beds...

Now, this story was scary enough. It would definitely get many Scouts looking behind them and scooting closer to the older Den Leaders. But it was made all the more frightening by the fact that I would choose one camper at random and put two pins on his pillow as he slept. Yeah, that caused a few screams and bed-wettings, I don't mind telling you. I think maybe once some boy was so scared he had to have a parent come pick him up. I suppose if this didn't all go down in the 80's when 'Friday the 13th' was in full swing, it might not have been as bad. And yes, I would let everyone in on the joke the next morning and either win applause and accolades, or else a private scolding from my dad. I think he secretly thought it was funny, but he couldn't let on.

Just be careful if you're ever camping Rota Kiwan... Pin Man might still be out there. Or maybe he's dead. One can never be too sure.

Ha ha ha ha ha...

* 

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 6

I think it's time for another spooky tale, don't you? And yes, as always, it's 100% true.

This little story takes place on Halloween I believe in 1985. Halloweens were always the best in our neighborhood because it was (and is) just so sprawling and inviting. Everyone participated; the yards were decorated, Jack O' Lanterns were lit and set on porches, Haunted Houses were set up in people's lawns, and hundreds of kids marched from house to house barking their Halloween mantra and getting their requisite treats. It was definitely one time of year where the whole neighborhood came together and enjoyed the evening.

This particular year was to be a bit different, though. It would become one of the most frightening Halloweens I have ever experienced both before and since. And maybe it was because I was only 11, and likely because I had yet to fully and truly embrace horror and fear as more of an exciting feeling and less of a stomach-churning terror. Either way, the events that unfolded that night are very hard to forget.

As was per the norm, regardless of how old the kids got (as I said, I was 11 and my brother was 8 and 1/2), the dads from all over the little community took them out Trick-Or-Treating. In our case, my little sister (5) stayed at home with my mom and handed out candy. It wouldn't be till the next year that she would join us on our annual pilgrimages. Sadly, however, I don't remember what our costumes were that year. I have pictures of various outfits we wore over the course of those years on Suffolk, and it might be safe to say that that particular year I was a werewolf (gee, maybe I kind of did dig just enough of the creepy to pick out a cool costume) and my brother was a giant spider. What ever the case, it was time to fill our pillow cases with the delicious treats of the season.

Unlike the Trick-Or-Treats of today (it's amazing what a difference 27 years make) we always waited until it was dark out... like fully dark, none of this 'sunset' nonsense of today. Sure, we had flashlights because hey, no one wanted to trip and everyone wanted to see each other's costumes; it was never because we feared weirdos walking around or creepy people with evil intentions. Well, maybe we should have, in this case.

This particular year, we walked with Matt and Rich Durian and their dad. Our fathers had gotten close enough to partner up for Halloween, and they seemed like they had a good time, anyway. We met up at the edge of our yards on the sidewalk, and took off on our merry way stopping at every house we could. Now, our house was (and still is) only a few houses from the west end of Suffolk, and by the time we got there, a few other groups of dads and kids had made their way to our six-person party and had slowed enough to chat up my pop, as well as Mr. Durian. The conversation was slightly muffled, and we were excited to move on, but we clearly heard 'stranger' and 'Frankenstein'... and no, I am not making that up. My brother and I surmised that there was a 'stranger' in the neighborhood dressed as 'Frankenstein', and we were right.

My dad gathered the Durian boys and us together, and told us to stay close because there might be something weird going on, but there was nothing to worry about. A father telling his kids something 'weird' was happening and not to 'worry' immediately caused the opposite reaction. I was instantly scared, and my brother basically had one foot heading toward home. But the dads calmed us down, and said we needed to remember the fun we were about to have and to just stick close rather than wander too far ahead. It must have worked because we went on about our business, only a little more wary and a lot more paranoid.

It seemed the further we worked our way into the neighborhood, there were more and more dads informed of the potential situation. Soon, it seemed so many people knew, that even some of the older kids we walked past were talking about some huge guy stumbling around who either looked like, or, in fact was, Frankenstein. Our fears were piqued and we were on high alert as we weaved up and down driveways and walks, and in and out of lawns getting our gains and trying to maintain a level of fun at the same time. But it was difficult as the evening progressed, and we couldn't help but check over our shoulders just to make sure we weren't being pursued by some giant creature. We got our candy supply, and gradually Trick-Or-Treated around the connecting streets to the east end of Suffolk.

It was a melancholic mix of happiness to finally be close to home, and exhaustion from being on monster watch all night, as we finished up the last few houses and prepared to end our evening.

And then we saw him.

Walking with a perfect hitch and a stuttering gait coming up the west-end of our street was Frankenstein's Monster. His echoing wails could be heard over the terrified caterwauling of the kids that were fleeing in all directions into the arms of their collective fathers. We stopped dead about fifty yards away, still too far from our house to simply make a run for it and slam the door behind us. My level of panic was so far in the red a could literally feel my legs getting weak and that tell-tale buzz arcing through my head that attempted to trigger my Fight-Or-Flight response. But my dad was right behind me only pressurizing the situation by asking us what we thought it was, and if we were scared.
Scared?
I was petrified and if I, for one second, thought that dropping my candy and careening through people's yards just to get back to the safety of my house would get me there faster, I would gladly have done it. But just then, he turned, and began working his way to the other side of the street and moving away from us toward where ever else he could frighten the Hell out of some more kids. That was enough for us, and I'm pretty sure my brother was in sobbing hysterics at that point.

Once inside, it was all we could do not to jump into our mother's arms and rapidly attempt to regale the events of the evening. She was soothing, but a large smile played on her face and there was just something not quite right about it. My dad just hung back and laughed, admitting that whomever it was definitely look an awful lot like Frankenstein's Monster. And the more I think about it now, the more I have to assume it was all set up by someone on the neighborhood and just trickled to every father's ear throughout the night.

Ironically, any piece of candy I got that night that featured Frankenstein was immediately discarded. Cuz ya never know what might have brought him back...