Chapter 1
My early youth was seldom exposed to dangers or unknowns. I
was free to bounce from the safe haven of the maple, to the softness
of my mother's heart, to the security of my father's strength.
Never far from comfort. Always loved and protected. I was the
center of my own universe; anxious to grow, wide-eyed, alert
and basically full of it. The recollection of the birth of my
sister, Susie, is a fuzzy, out-of-focus picture. At two and a
half years, all that's remembered is walking down the sidewalk
of my grandma's to the car where my mother was holding her. I
do recall thinking she came out of Mom's stomach through her belly
button. I just figured that was the closest way out! To my amazement,
the attention I was so used to never seemed to waiver. Jealousy
was never an issue. I had a little person to play with, teach,
and love. Upon Susie's arrival, I was able to progress one step
on the growing up scale. In addition to having the added responsibility
of helping take care of her, having a younger sibling meant I
was no longer the littlest in the family.
My mother, as I perceived, seemed to think the sun rose and set
in me. I could do nothing wrong. I was always "cute".
Thinking now, I believe most all mothers feel that way about
their children. Dad, on the other hand, was interested in having
a son carry on in manly fashion. Doing chores, helping with the
livestock, and handing him wrenches were proof and reinforcement
that he had a son capable of growing into manhood. In order to
please all parties, it became necessary to develop multiple personalities
. Learning not just what to say and do but how to say and do
it was a long, arduous process. Despite years of practice, it
never becomes a reflex action. It must always be well thought
out in order to succeed, and unfortunately, to deceive, as well.
The small steps to manhood seemed to drag on for an eternity.
While real men could spit straight as an arrow, my attempts were
poorly controlled slobbers. The hands of hard-working men were
always dirty and callused. I couldn't get dirt to stick to mine
and Lava soap was scratchy. And talk like the men? Only if I
wanted my mouth washed out.
Sitting on Dad's lap, I would steer the tractor, most times,
without him correcting my far-from-straight progression. I remember
watching the tires when making a turn, noticing the one on the
outside always had to travel further and faster to keep up with
the inside wheel. I always wanted to be the inside wheel, the
one with the advantage. Why couldn't I be turned loose to drive
on my own? After all, I knew where the clutch, brakes, throttle,
and gearshift were. Then one summer day my dad opened a gate at
my grandpa's place and told me to drive the tractor through.
By myself!! Driving an eight-foot tractor through a twelve-foot
gate demanded the utmost skill and attention to detail. I slowly
crept through the gate with room to spare on both sides. Had
my buttons not been sewn on so well, my chest would have exploded.
What I don't remember is hearing how proud my dad was of me.
I'm sure he was. I just knew that, from that day on, the expectation
was I would always be able to drive through that or any gate;
regardless of size. Later gates, I would discover, would become
progressively smaller and some, despite my confidence and tenacity,
truly impassable.
While proving manhood held such a place of importance, I still
had the need to be nurtured. Falling down and scratching my
knee meant instant sympathy and major medical care. I always
thought of my mother as a nurse. She could make anything better.
The iodine put on cuts always burnt like crazy, but Mom would
blow on it to take the sting out. The stain on my skin was there
to draw attention to the fact I had been severely injured, yet
I was still walking and running around as if nothing had happened
at all. I remember thinking that people probably thought I was
a brave, strong individual, and surely wondered how I could even
function with an injury that serious. Nowadays, I grin and shake
my head.
Injuries to real men, on the other hand, never required attention.
Wiping blood off on pants legs and continuing with the work was
the manly way of dealing with pain and bodily damage. Displaying
an untreated scratch was my way of showing "I could take
it." I really don't know if that made much difference to
anyone at all . . . maybe just myself. I was fortunate throughout
my childhood to win out over the risk of deadly infections (a
warning from my mother) and retain all my appendages. Invincibility
was mine. I truly had the best of all worlds. Picture perfect.
Oblivious to what was happening during this early portion
of my life, I never realized that, like the maple, my roots were
reaching deep into the earth which bore me. Only now do I comprehend
the extent to which I was and remain attached to that holy ground.
The master blueprint called for a foundation set deep within.
The Architect and Engineer worked in perfect harmony . . . as
though they were the same person; and, after researching from
the inside, I discovered they are, indeed, One. The project,
still under construction, is proceeding on schedule despite setbacks
caused, not by foul weather, budget cuts, or shortages of material;
but by my own internal squabbling and foolishness. This project,
I've come to realize, was intended to last a lifetime . . . .
.