Pages From The Memory Vault Part 4

I remember kind of being a shitty big brother at times. I suppose that's pretty common between siblings. Generally I was cool and was always very nice; my brother and I played together all the time without overly wanting to beat the snot out of each other. But there were those times... but that's another story for another day. Oh, and I do have a younger sister as well, and in case you could't figure it out by the context of this paragraph thus far, I am the oldest of the three. And this particular memory involves my brother, Brandon, and I specifically.

You see, growing up on Liszt was pretty special. We were really sort of in our own little satellite section of Portage. On the outskirts of or neighborhood we had a little corner convenience store that more or less supplied all the immediate sundries folks might need to just get through a week without having to plan a trip to the A&P (a store my mom swears we never had, but I know better) or the Jewel/Osco. It had candy, specifically. And it was this constant supply of really good candy (and occasionally pop) that kept my brother and I interested. And the best part? I was allowed to walk there when I was about 8 all on my own! See, these were the days when no one worried a lick about sexual predators or sick pricks with vans... Ah, memories. Anyway, I was allowed to walk there provided I returned with a treat in tow for my bro. And so it went, time and again.

But this wasn't the funny part. Oh, no. The funny part is the little nugget coming up that just reinforces what I said earlier about me being kind of a dick. You see, Brandon always wanted M&M's. He loved those things (I'm not sure if he still does, I haven't asked him) so very much that that was literally his only option. It was M&M's or nothin'! I was more of a Big Sweet Tart kind of guy, or occasionally like a sleeve of Now N' Laters. So, Id make my purchases, often with a few glass bottles (yeah, glass bottles) of Pepsi and Mountain Dew, and head home. Now, we only lived maybe a half-mile from the store, but that was just long enough to put my sneaky little plan into motion. First, I'd wet one of the corners of my brother's M&M bag, so later I could say I dropped it in a puddle (even if there weren't any) and it got wet. Oh yeah, I had this all worked out to the letter. Then, I'd rip a small hole in the bag and (here comes the dickery) and eat a few small handfuls. Good Lord I almost hate myself now for even writing that. But it happened... frequently; so, well, I kinda have to. I guess.

After Id gotten home I'd launch right into the story about the bag falling and the puddle and I'd toss in apologies and sound really sincere. When, in reality, I was laughing like a maniac in my head as though I'd just gotten away with a serious and particularly sinister crime. Oh, and Brandon would buy every bit of it. Likely because he was (and is) 2.5 years younger than I was (am) and me being 7 put him at 5.5, and not exactly the brightest bulb in the collection, if you know what I mean. Then, like clockwork, I'd suggest pouring the remainder of the candies into a bowl, and he'd grin thanking me for being so helpful... Damn, I was a dick. Just such a dick...

Wow. That was cathartic and particularly revealing. I feel much better getting that off my chest. And Brandon, if you happen to be reading this, you already know how sorry I am, but it never hurts to say it again. By the way, I owe you like six pounds of M&M's.   

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 3

As I sit outside and watch the grill light, for some odd reason my mind wanders to birthday cake. And since I mentioned such things in the previous post, I suppose it makes sense.
I remember one year -I forget which birthday party- I asked my mom to make me a Twix candy bar cake. And not only did she, but it has become one of only a few cakes in my life I really remember.
Oh, and it was 2 bars just like the candy and one... oh yeah baby... one was peanut butter!
Now that's a cake!

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 2

It just occurred to me that I'd be remiss without mentioning another one of my neighbors on Liszt. Ya know, while I'm thinking about it. You see, Jeff Hanson lived on Beethoven Street but we shared a common backyard fence. Kurt Hildorf lived across from Jeff on Beethoven, and the other neighbor, also on Beethoven, was the Motycka Family. The glorious and ethereal Motycka Family...

Okay, maybe that's over-stating it just a bit. Sure, the family as a whole was very good friends of ours (that is to say, the entirety of the Miller family) and they were particularly lovely people. But it was the eldest daughter of said Motycka family who truly caught my interest when I was a lad. Her name: Jenny. Her claim to childhood fame: cuteness and brutal coyness that bordered on prissy cattiness... but I'd never tell her that. She was, for the most part, my first real crush. I thought she was the cutest thing around back then and would go out of my way to hang around her. I'd ditch my guy friends and head to her house for snacks and some rousing games of Hi-Ho Cheerio. It was love, readers... deep and heart-aching love. Sadly, it was never reciprocated. Sure, I kissed her once or twice; kissed her in that awkward, childish, playful, giddy way where both parties close their eyes and just hope that no one burps. But we never dated or any nonsense like that. Fact is, I haven't seen her in years.

Oh, and she had (and has) a sister named Kelly who just so happened to be my brother's age and, thus, his object of affection as well. Weird how that stuff turns out.

Anyway, we hung out a ton thanks to our families being pals and such. We were always at one another's house playing games and doing junk kids do. We had our Birthday Parties and invited the other... and no I don't remember her's. Possibly October... can't be sure, though. It was on one particular birthday where I decided it was a great idea to puke at the movies. Yeah, that's right... puke. Not on her, mind you, but it was at the theater and I managed to barely make it up the aisle of the Plaza 2 showing of E.T. before spraying it through my fingers. It was in July of of '82 when that flick was in theaters and we went for my birthday. My friends and I... just after consuming an epic amount of cinnamon apple sauce at my actual party. And by epic I mean EPIC. I was shoveling that mess in like it was never going to be bottled again. And that's what did it. Threw it all up.

I still can't eat cinnamon apple sauce. Haven't in 30 years.

And ya know what? I still haven't seen E.T. all the way through, either...

Sad, really.

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 1

As I was coming up with the blog itself and the layout and opening paragraph... I realized I already had something to write about. Go figure.

So I grew up (as it were) on Liszt Street in Portage, Michigan. For those who don't know, I still live in Portage, but not on Liszt. We moved away from there when I was 8 or 9. Like I said: I have a Swiss Cheese-like memory.
Anyway, I really do remember spotty occurrences on Liszt. I remember my friends (if you're either Kurt Hildorf or Jeff Hanson on my FaceBook page, well, you remember me, too). I remember attending Central Elementary and, very vaguely, the goings on in that school. But as for my childhood adventures, well...

My memory might be full of holes, but a few key moments to stick out pretty readily. Strangely, they seem to be the moments where -generally- something major went down. Ya know, like a birthday party or when we built a fort... stuff like that. In this particular case, there was a swamp...

Way back in the day (and by way back I mean the early 80's) there was nothing at the end of our street. The end that wasn't attached to Beethoven, anyway. And what encompassed the 'nothing' was a decent sized field full of overgrowth, some small farmland, a little wooded area, and in the middle, some pretty impressive swampiness full of primordial ooze and probably snakes. And it was really, really cool. Scary as hell and dangerous, but cool.

So, as adventurous boys will do, we skirted the swamp pretty frequently and, for the most part, avoided going too near or, especially, in it. We had a really amazing tree fort on the outskirts of the bog made inside a huge, fallen tree. Right inside the branches. We had, somehow, removed enough of the branches to actually serve as an opening for a fort. We actually hung pictures of things we'd found in magazines like Tiger Beat and whatnot (and no I don't mean pictures of dudes... unless said dudes were awesome!). I remember getting a spray bottle of Armor All and actually cleaning the planks of wood we'd nailed up for ascetic value. Although I can't figure out why we'd do that...

Anyway, the point is, someone got a foot stuck in the swamp and left a boot there. I really don't remember who, and I guess it doesn't matter, but I do remember it being either the end of winter or very early spring because the swamp was still coated with a thin veneer of ice. One of us dared the other to step on the edge right where the thawing ice was beginning to flake away from the matted vegetation. And sure enough, stuck! Right in the ice. Ya know, it might have been me because I sort of remember tromping home with a frozen sock and equally frozen tears. I think my dad might have intercepted me (this was long before my parents divorced and he was likely home on this particular weekend day) and quite likely marched me back (with different shoes on, obviously) to intercept my slowly sinking boot. Like I said, my memory is like a poorly played Tetris screen and there are definitely a few missing pieces.

Now let's not forget this particular lead-in and scenario, since both are likely to bring up a few more buried gems. Oh, and here's a shot of my street how it is now. I'll have to find one from the 80's for next time.

So what's happening here? You are all doubtlessly asking yourselves. Well, it's pretty simple actually: I realized suddenly that I need to leave some kind of legacy. Well, some kind of legacy that doesn't already include my children and various bits of artwork that may or may not survive the decades and somehow, some way, turn a pretty profit once I've shuffled this mortal coil. This legacy to which a refer is a legacy in the form of an auto biography. But... it's so much more than that.

I'm not one for sitting down and serving up a heaping helping of past life. It just won't work that way because my thoughts are very similar to a disorganized filing cabinet. I know where some things are stocked, and a few things are alphabetized, but for the most part it's a desk under duress and disarray. So, the best way for me to gather my thoughts is to just lay out pages as I recall them; bit by bit and page by page. Hey, its what works and hopefully, at some point, it'll be cohesive enough to gather into a volume or two.

And there it is, folks: As much about me as I can remember no matter how piddly or unimportant those things may seem. It'll be funny sometimes, and others it'll probably be melancholy and heart-wrenching. But so goes the catharsis of yanking bits of one's life out by the piece. Besides, I have secrets even I've chucked into the mildewed basement of my mind that have gone forgotten and seemingly lost. So, as most catharses go... this'll be good for me, too.

Anyway... that's how it's gonna go. So, hop board because, who know, the ride might be kind of exciting.