Pages From The Memory Vault Book IV Part II

So it's nearly June out there and I've come to the realization that I have gotten really bad a blogging. In fact -if I want to be brutally honest- I've gotten pretty bad a writing as a whole. Sure, I used to knock out a few of these every other day or so (not to mention the fact that I'm shirking my duties over at GUNAXIN... I'm sure Phil's just thrilled about that...), but lately it seems I'm just drained. I don't know what it is... work, seasons changing, laziness... something. Regardless this complacency has to stop and there's no better time than the present. Right? Right. Okay, on with it then...

So where were we? Right. College. Northern Michigan University. I'd be lying if I didn't say I had an absolute ball up there in Marquette. I was never one of those kids who longed for their parents when I was away on lengthy Scouting camping trips or other various periods of time I was away from home, so getting out of the house for a year was no big deal. In fact, I knew right away that I likely wasn't going to live back at home for any extended length of time anymore. Which turned out to be mostly true, but we'll save that for later. So Andrew Boldt (my roomie) and I became fast friends with quite a lot more in common than we figured right away. We both liked comics, we both like good music (though of varying genres), and we both liked horror flicks. Seemed good to me and we got along famously pretty much from the get-go. I was a smoker at the time, and back then smoking in the dorms wasn't the damnable offense that it is now, so he even let me do that as long as I had the window open and a fan blowing out. And I, in turn, didn't mind when he dressed like a woman and tried on wigs. Wait... I don't think that ever happened.

Anyway, we had our classes separately since we were studying vastly different things: he wanted to be a doctor, and I was heading in either the direction of either graphic design or journalism. So while he'd have a veritable library of tomes on becoming a physician or a surgeon or whatever it was, I loaded the room with canvasses, easels, paint supplies, and artist sundries of every shape a style. And then I was asked to begin writing and drawing for the Wildcat Weekly: a publication for, of, and by college students covering all the news and op-eds fit to print. And thus began my first real foray into the printed word and seeing my little doodles in a local publication.

Andrew had a computer, something I pined for but had yet to acquire at the time. It was mostly used for games and drawing silly pics on Paint, but it also offered a very archaic modem and the ability to email on the campus. After all, it was 1992/93 and the prospect of sending electronic information via phone lines was still in its infancy on college campuses, and all that one could really do was send text. Which, as it turned out, worked perfectly for a guy, like me, who was writing for a paper. Andrew let me use it when necessary and I ended up kicking out maybe twenty articles and a dozen or so pictures. It was great and I made enough scratch on the side to supplement the cash I got from my parents. It was pretty sweet.

And the visitors came. Oh did they. I was far enough away that monthly visits were pretty common: My dad and step-mom, my mom and step-dad, my grandparents, and best of all, my best friend Kevin. In fact, were it not for him, I might not have made it back to Portage on a few vacations. You see, he took it upon himself to come up and visit, and bring me both home and back several times. It was a pretty cool set up and my parents even supplied gas money for him. Seemed good to me. One time, he was able to stay a few days since Andrew had gone home for a long weekend. We got pretty drunk and more or less smoked and wasted the weekend away doing nothing. It was pretty cool. Ironically, he hated traveling over the Mackinaw Bridge and would become a sweating, frightened, stiffened zombie the entire distance of it. It was pretty funny.

Next: A Year Is All I Could Take... and I'm glad for it. 

Pages From The Memory Vault Book IV Part I

Hey, folks!

Yeah, it's been a minute, I know.
When I set out to do this originally, I had intended to update it at least a few times a week. And for a good long while, that was what  was going on. But then, right after Thanksgiving, it became apparent that it was time for the Miller family to pull up stakes and move to greener pastures. So much of the time between then and our moving date of December 8th was spent locating, securing, and getting into our new digs. And for the most part, everything went relatively smoothly with only a few potholes.

So, after that, things needed to settle down, and then Christmas, and then sick kids, and then this, that and the other... and I just lost track of time and, subsequently, this blog. But, now it's time to rekindle the rapidly dying embers.

In fact, it's time to move forward into my first year of college circa 1992. I graduated from Paw Paw high school that previous May with a pretty decent GPA of 3.2. Nothing amazing, but I got through. I blame my slight underachievement on both Spanish class and my then-recently diagnosed ADHD. Yeah, that's right, it took all of high school before I was formally diagnosed with something that really could have helped me through a tough 4 years. Oh well... hindsight and 20/20 and all that. So it was time to head to higher education, and Northern Michigan University in Marquette MI was it. Road-frikkin-trip like you read about.

So, if I'm gonna start from the beginning I might as well do just that. I arrived after being moved in by my dad and brother. They helped me lug my meager belongings into Halverson Hall at the pretty sprawling campus of NMU. Since I chose to skip out on orientation that past summer (I forgot why we couldn't make it), I had yet to meet my roommate. This is when I was very sorry for only having heard his voice. His name was Bob something-or-other (yeah, I've forgotten his last name, but there's a good reason why coming up). This kid was a waste. Just a full-on drug whore whose first sentence after greeting me consisted of asking if I tripped and/or did blow. I'm not even kidding. Well, I knew right away this was destined for failure. And thank God I was right.

After about a week it rapidly became apparent that I could NOT live with Bob. Fortunately, through him (and really the only good thing he ever offered me) I met a really cool cat named Andrew Boldt... the dude who would, within a matter of days, become my new roommate for the remainder of the year. Andrew was simply amazing (especially compared to Bob); nice, funny, a great ass.... just kidding, but it was starting to sound like I was describing a chick. Anyway, before this gets weirder, we hit it off and, since his roomy was moving into a house, I moved in with him into Gries Hall. And all was well with the world.

Since it was our Freshman year -and as it is with most campuses- we weren't allowed to have a car. I was cool with that and decided to bike it all over the place. It was perfect, and I had a decent bike, so many of my classes that were located all the way across the grounds didn't seem so far away. I took a photography class, a model sketching class, and a painting class, as well as the far more boring History and Algebra classes. But I did alright, an having a roommate that wasn't actively shilling dope from my room made a huge difference.

Luckily, NMU isn't huge (compared to say U of M or even WMU), but it does encompass nearly half of Marquette. It sits pretty closely to the center of town and all the rest kind of wheels off the middle. Near campus was a Circle-K, a gas station, a sporting goods store (natch), and a... COMIC BOOK STORE! This was epic because, at the time, I was a huge collector and having a shop within spitting distance was ideal. So I secured a job at the College Paper writing and illustrating weekly what-not to support the cash my parents were sending me. This little income instantly became comic fodder. Well, that a and beer money.

Up next: Part II
Or: I get visitors... Often! 

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!