Yesterday, I ceremoniously broke ground on a monument to be unveiled this fall, along with the rest of the Janeway Collective. The event was covered by our local newspaper and an award winning photojournalist who runs his own operation, aptly named The Bloomingtonian.
Roughly one year and three months ago two groups of people working on the same goal merged, forming the Janeway Collective.
What is this monument? It’s a future birthplace monument for captain Kathryn Janeway, from the Star Trek Series Voyager. The creator of her character Jeri Taylor, grew up in Bloomington and graduated from IU. She in kind, made the good captain’s birthplace the same.
James T. Kirk has one, why can’t she? Personally I think all of the Star Trek captains should have monuments. This seems to be a huge subject these days.
If you have not watched Voyager, it’s an inspiring piece of small screen cinema. Stuck in the delta quadrant, so far away from home that it would be impossible to make it back home in their lifetime. Through her strength in leadership and courage to think outside the box, they made it back.
An inspiration to scientists and astronauts, Janeway deserves this honor. In a world where women still make less than men on average. Where what they do with their bodies are often controlled and legislated by men, Janeway deserves this honor.
This monument is a dedication to women everywhere. Through the ages, you have been the giver of life but treated as less than. I am proud to be a member of a group who publicly states this is not the case. As a father of two daughters, these subjects are important to me. They should not be valued based on their biological functions but on their contributions to our world.
In this time where our country is seemingly divided on any issue there is, this is the singular thing that makes me happy to be a part of society. It is the only thing that reinforces that there are people who celebrate the good parts of life, instead of focusing on the bad.
After the ground breaking, the collective went to the secret location where the bronze bust is being held to view it. For most of us, this was the first time. It’s absolutely beautiful. However, we are keeping images of it a secret until the official unveiling on October 24th, 2020. It’s the most excellent birthday present I could ever receive.
I cannot end this post without giving thanks to other members of the Janeway Collective. Peter & Mary, for their undying love and passion for “making this so.” Mary M. (MAM), for your spiritual guidance and wisdom through all of this, always coming to the table with mindfulness. Adam, for your connections in the artist community that brought thoughts to reality. Melissa, for your abilities in helping us plan and reach out to the hospitality trades. Josh, for your wicked abilities in web building, marketing and showing me a different way to do things. And to all other members of the Janeway Collective, who much like me pitch in and do what we can to help this come to light.
Two days ago was a holiday to celebrate the fathers in our lives. It’s a hard day for me, as my father, grandfather and papaw were all heroes to me. With each one passing, my heart broke more, my optimism for the world vanishing. Let me tell you about those men, and why the loss of them continues to break my heart each and every day.
My Father
My own father grew up without his father. His brother, my grandmother and his own grandparents was his family unit as a child. My grandma worked at the Stone City bank in Bedford, walking to work every day. From the ways my father described growing up, they were poor. Regardless, they always had a roof over their heads and always had a meal to eat. If my father wanted something he had to work for it however. He and my uncle had paper routes and as my father grew up, he mowed lawns for money.
This is all you need to know to know the path my father took for the rest of his life. His number one goal in life was to not be poor, and to provide whatever he could to his family. Due to his “having nothing” as a child, he was also a closeted hoarder. When he passed away, I got rid of 500 pounds of “things” he had collected that were in the bed of his pickup truck.
When I started Civil War Re-enacting, dad jumped right in.
His faithful devotion to his job was something I always admired, and picked up after a hard start in adulthood. His desire to give his child (me) the best things in life, is the same thing I do with my own. Money is often no object, as long as those I love are happy.
Education was important to my father. He graduated high school in 1969, and immediately went to Indiana University, but never got a degree. Instead choosing a career in industry. It wasn’t until that career crumbled for all that he enrolled in Ivy Tech State College and achieved a degree in computer networking. When he passed away, he was a student in film studies at Indiana University while working 3rd shift as a custodian in the same building I would eventually start working in. He was tired, but he was also happy.
He never pushed me, but gently guided me in the subject of education. When I got my GED at the age of 17, he told me to go enroll at Ivy Tech and not worry about the costs. He didn’t tell me, but he secretly paid for all the tuition and books. I’ve given that same opportunity to my oldest daughter. Education hasn’t been an easy subject for she and I.
There’s a phrase that circles social media that sums up my father quite well, “My father didn’t tell me how to live; He lived and let me watch him do it.”
My Grandfather
Born not too far away from where Will Rogers was, he was a free spirit in a way that is hard to understand if you aren’t close to native culture. Growing up in the dust bowl era Oklahoma, it was a new state – and for the most part, still Indian Territory. A radio operator in the Navy during WWII, who installed radar systems on the pacific fleet prior to Pearl Harbor, he met my grandmother in Washington D.C. while on shore leave from that post.
She nor him could decide on where to live. She hated Oklahoma, and he was not a fan of Indiana. He worked at RCA where they made radios at the time, and always stayed in the field of electronics. My grandparents split and he built a new life back at home. While there, he built a career and a new family. He was the radio & TV repairman for the entire area, back when that was a thing.
A soft spoken man, I can still hear the way he spoke with a bit of a southern draw but soft volume.
All of his electronic equipment made a young boy really fascinated with technology. A fascination that lives on to this day. Sadly, many of the lessons he taught me on his oscilloscope and other equipment have long since left my mind.
The first time he visited us in Indiana, I was awestruck.
A humble man, never one to boast or brag. I appreciated that about him. He named all of his trucks “Johnny Brown.” I was fortunate to own the last one for a period of time, Johnny Brown IV. A deeply spiritual man too, although I never got to see that side, he was a faithful member of the Assemblies of Yahweh.
His generation, much like mine saw tremendous amounts of change. Change in technologies and society. The world he grew up in was significantly different than the one he saw his later years in. I was fortunate to actually know him, I don’t think any of his other grandchildren did. I spent a week with him in 1996, just he and I. I would give anything to recapture that time with him.
Due to his influences in my life, I have always taken the Cherokee culture he provided to me seriously. Never doubting but sometimes questioning the mason jars of herbs and roots he kept in his kitchen. I also give him credit for the paths in technology many members of our family have decided to take. My uncle became a mainframe programmer in 1968, I began working in IT support in 2008 and my cousin does the same but with cellular phones and technologies.
My Papaw
This one is the hardest of all to write. He passed away when I was 7 years old. That said those years were very influential on me. He wasn’t my biological grandfather. He wasn’t my adopted one (yes I had one), no he was just the man who was married to my memaw when I was born, and took the job as his own.
Completely different than my own dad or grandfather, he grew up locally in Smithville, a 1957 graduate of Smithville High School. He was a “greaser” when he was young. His family name, well known in the area.
In her final years, my memaw gave me a few things including his class ring.
From a young age, we did things that are quite frankly hard for me to do even now because of the memories. We would spend hours “mushroom hunting.” My memaw would give us a bunch of bread sacks and he and I would just go walking in the woods, for hours. I’ve never been a fan of those mushrooms, but I’d give anything to spend that time with him again.
We spent countless weekends fishing. With him buying me my very first fishing pole. We would fish at Lake Monroe and several pay lakes in the area. On one occasion while at a pay lake I thought I had caught a fish. Once I got it reeled in however, it was quickly discovered that it was a bobber (a device used to keep the line from sinking to the bottom). We talked about that until my memaw passed away. One of the few things I have of my papaw’s is his tackle box, which is just a repurposed lunch box.
We would often catch a whole stringer full of bluegill and sunfish. Papaw and I would clean the fish, and then memaw would fry them up in a coordinated assembly line. They were wonderful times.
He taught me lessons of hard work, as their property had lots of trees. To mow, we had to pick up all of the sticks that had fallen, to ensure the mower would not get damaged. We would spend countless hours upon hours doing chores of little note really, but that time he spent with me will forever be priceless.
Their house was always a safe space for me, to the point that one time I even “ran away” and rode my bicycle 6 miles to their house. Completely exhausted, I slept for hours once I got there. That house was always my safe space as a child.
Summary
These three men all provided me with gifts that made me who I am today. They all provided me with a stable, solid foundation of what it means to be a good man. Their losses also haunt me each and every day. I’m surrounded by my fathers things, my grandfather is always on my mind and in my spirit. His grave is the one grave I have to visit. I’m sad that my papaw didn’t get to see the next 10 years, where the family exploded with babies and happiness.
While I know death is a part of life, nothing prepared me for it. I feel ill prepared to give those gifts to my children and this next generation of humans. I feel stuck emotionally and spiritually. To me, Father’s day is a day that brings me immense sadness on a level that my vocabulary simply cannot describe.
I hope this period of my life provides me with the tools to cope, and the tools to break out of this shell of continual penance I seem to be putting myself through. I somehow feel to blame and/or destined to follow the same paths my literal forefathers took. It’s wearing on the soul.
I’ve been in IT at Indiana University since 2008. In that time, Bradley Wheeler has always been the CIO, head of all technology.
I really don’t know where this post will lead me, but I feel I need to write it to get it out of my head, the subject matter bothers me.
Recently, and shockingly it was announced by the president of IU that he would “retire” his role, take a sabbatical and then return to his roots as a professor at the Kelley School of Business.
Replacing him? The head of my very own department. A person that has went from essentially a nobody that I had never heard of before, to being the head of IT in just a short 2 years. It doesn’t pass my sniff test. Not by a long shot.
When I was just beginning to really make a name for myself in the pit of nameless souls called IT, Brad would come to the office I worked at and talk to me on a level that was personal. He would talk about how the office in which I resided was one of the first big projects he had been in charge of. My office at the time had a long curved desk, with a meeting area that was turreted with long vertical windows.
He spoke of that office like it was his baby. Genuine care and pride. He never made me feel like the hourly nobody that I was, and never did. I appreciated his vision and I appreciated his leadership.
As time marched on, and I did create a name for myself I was given a bonus and a letter from Brad. It was for being a IU Brand Ambassador, in my work in helping other centers of the School of Medicine across the state. I hold that letter in the highest of regard. It sits framed, right next to my degree from IU.
To get to my point however. I don’t think this is something Brad wanted to do, I think it’s internal university politics at play, with him paying the price.
The current lead of my division came to us more like a blue collar person, not a white collar leadership person. His speech was rough, his ideas even more obtuse. Overtime it was like he went through a makeover for executives. I found it very odd, and still do.
At the same point, we are all working off campus and working on paths to return to a new normal. My leadership are pushing unreasonable expectations to migrate our computers to a different build, regardless of what problems this causes the users of said computers. Users who have little to know real computer / operating system knowledge, medical research labs that are working hard to fight cancer, and computers that are accessed remotely by users that need them for their job.
They don’t care, they just want their dashboards to say X numbers of computers have this. There is no security threat, there is no significant reason for the change other than the change itself.
I sent a message to several of my research labs and faculty members to make them aware of this today. What came out of that message was one thing, consent. That’s what is missing here, consent.
My people rely on these computers to do work, and store data important to their work on them. If I were to blatantly rebuild these machines, there is a possibility that data that is important to them would be lost. To me, an unacceptable risk.
I haven’t connected all of the dots yet, but there has been increasing measures to combine IU and IU Health’s computing resources. Those measures didn’t increase until the head of my division started his role. Coincidence? I really don’t think it is.
I sent Brad an email, not expecting a response. I had to air some of my grievances at what is going on. He replied in kind, and thanked me for my kind words. I know he will be okay, I know I’ll be okay. I just do not like the direction I see the world of education going. A world that welcomed me in where the real world never did.
On Saturday, I went to my first meeting as a member of the Indiana Chapter of the VCCA. What is the VCCA you ask? It’s the Vintage Chevrolet Club of America. Why did I join? My father was a member for well over 25 years. I went with him to many meetings over the years, tapering off my attendance as I got older.
Since I am getting to a point where the Camaro is now drive-able, I felt it proper to join in honor of this club that meant so much to him. I was sure at least some would remember him, and possibly remember me. Boy was I surprised.
The Indiana chapter is based out of Lafayette, but events happen all around the state to be inclusive of those who don’t live in the northwest portion of the state.
Where we met and held our meeting.
At first I was confused, as I thought we were meeting outside. There were several old Chevrolets in the parking lot – but I didn’t see anyone who I suspected were part of the club.
A Pair of Chevelles
That’s when “John” if I remember his name correctly walked out the side door. I sat with him and his girlfriend and we chatted up a storm. It was nice.
A 50 Chevrolet
The director of the chapter walked up to me not too long after we started talking, and said, “Yep, you’re definitely your fathers son.” He remembered my dad! Score. I also talked with a man who got along well with my father, named Gordon. He has a nice 70 Chevelle convertible.
61-64 Impala
We then went for ice cream at a place just down the road, based on the name alone, The Frigid Frog. They had some pretty good ice cream, it definitely lifted the old folks spirits, ha.
After ice cream, we then went to Hunter’s Honey Farm in Martinsville. Taking long and winding county roads in a cruise. While there, the owner gave us a tour of the place, and explained many things about bees that I didn’t know. He explained the whole process of making honey and candles from wax.
We then ended our tour and everyone was checking out the store. My back was really hurting, so I told everyone that I had a wonderful day and I couldn’t wait to see them again and drove home.
I then mentally crashed, it was a long day. A good one however. I finally understood fully why it was so important to my dad.
Interestingly enough, while they were all interested in the Camaro there were many questions about dad’s truck. I hope to show it all to them one day. I’ve been working hard on getting the Camaro into presentable shape for them. I hope to bring it to the next meet in Anderson.
This week I’ve been working on recovering the sail panels and headliner on the Camaro. I had purchased fabric and glue weeks ago, but just made a realization. I bought the wrong color.
I’ve already cut the fabric, and I’ve already placed it on my sail panels. So there’s $50 down the drain.
The interior of this car is technically called “Medium Dark Grey.” Finding it however is not an easy task. The material I bought is called “Dark Grey/Charcoal” and per the image on Amazon and the review that stated it matched perfectly to a camaro with “Medium Dark Grey” interior, I was sold.
Images can be deceptive however. It’s actually a lot darker than this image shows.
Here is an image of one of my sail panels covered. I told myself it would lighten up.
Here’s the original headliner. Notice the dark grey area in the middle. That’s what I’m going for. To me, they looked very similar.
So where do I go from here? A part of me says to just stick with it. The perfectionist and person who wants to make this as accurate as possible says no.
So I’ve just ordered more fabric. Listed as “Light Grey” but with a online swatch that looks identical to what it should be.
I don’t look forward to taking the fabric off of those sail panels, but it must be done. I was really looking forward to enjoying the car this summer. That goal keeps becoming further and further away it seems.
Period. Normally used as punctuation to end a sentence. However, I’m writing about the other commonly used meaning of the word, menstruation in the female of our species.
I was told the other day over text by my ex wife that our daughter, “is no longer a little girl.”
I’ve missed her significantly, as I haven’t seen her in over 3 weeks now. It could be why I’ve been feeling so down lately.
With my oldest daughter, mum was the word on the subject of her growing up. I wasn’t to know anything. With my youngest, things are different. It’s okay for dad to know. She’ll always be my little girl, but she’s now onto adolescence.
I’m nervous and scared at the same time. I just hope she knows that she doesn’t have to hide this part of her life with her old man.
This “new normal” has really been getting to me lately. My mind went through a period of depression as it normally does when it comes to change, but I am finding my escapes from it now. Those being my vehicles and my home. I have a laundry list of things I want to accomplish and that gives my soul energy.
Friday I was working as normal, then lunch time came around. So I ate something, watched a little TV and decided to take the rest of the day off. But what do I do? The day started out raining and gloomy but the clouds parted and it became beautiful outside. I know, take that Camaro out for a cruise!
Driving on I-69
So I did. I stopped to see several people who are important to me and this car. Namely my stepmother, my girlfriends parents and my car bro, Ira. He has a 87 IROC.
This is the first real drive I’ve ever taken the car out on, and I’ve got to say it was wildly different than the last time. The vibrations from braking are now gone. Due to my modifications to the proportioning valve, braking is balanced and effective.
While on the highway I did notice something that bugged me however. I was going the speed limit according to the speedometer, but was being passed like crazy. It seems the speedometer is off by about 10mph. This car has a mechanical speedometer. It involves a counterweight attached to the meter, and I think it is out of sync. It will take some tricky work to get this where it should be – but that’s one thing I have to get resolved as soon as possible! It’s going to drive me insane.
Yours truly, photo courtesy of my girlfriend’s dad
While at Ira’s he noticed something I hadn’t. The door moldings were gone on my car. I can only assume my uncle removed them when he painted the car. When I get the orange peel removed and the paint is where I finally want it, I will have to get these installed. I’ll probably have a body shop do it, to match the paint color and ensure proper installation.
While on the way back, I picked up my girlfriend on the side of the road and said “I normally don’t do this sort of thing, but your beautiful. Want to take a ride with me?” I think she loved it, and I did too.
With that cruise, a lot of the pressure I felt to get the car to a certain point before I did any driving suddenly removed itself. I still need to get the new struts installed but I’m going to take every opportunity I have to get out and drive at this point. I’ve had this car long enough to not enjoy it.
Another one bites the dust. Another piece of my childhood, my memories and my life, gone. I drove by today, and the lot is flat. No remnants of the building remain.
Such has become so frequent locally that it’s normal. It kills my heart and breaks my soul.
1301 South Walnut Street
I lived in this home for a period of time. It had been converted into four apartments. I lived in the two that are facing this google street view image.
I was shoved into this new living situation because “Kathy says you can’t live here anymore” according to my father. Kathy is my stepmother. I don’t know how or why he allowed that to happen. I certainly wouldn’t if faced with a similar situation.
My mother had just moved back from her years long sojourn with her husband at the time, on a drug and alcohol fueled run from the law. They ended up in Lubbock, TX as they ran out of gas to make it to their original destination, Oregon. My mom had spent time there working at a nursery, while they lived in a camping trailer. She had come back alone, trying to get away from him.
So here I was, essentially thrown at my mother like the garbage. It was odd, it was scary and it was traumatic. It was only a 1 bedroom apartment, my bedroom was the living room. I had no place to keep things, even clothes. Such was my life for that period of time.
It was during this period that I got into some of the most serious trouble I had ever gotten into in my life. It was the summer between 5th and 6th grade. I, like my father had matured physically earlier than my peers. I was six feet tall by then. I met some of the neighborhood kids and started to form bonds, as the move meant going to a new school (that also doesn’t exist anymore). It was a nice summer bonding with those guys, we got into a lot of mischief.
There was a new gas station one block away, called Bigfoot at the time but now a Circle K. Back then, they used to store all of their cases of soda right outside the front door. We hatched a plot to take it all, and take it all we did. With two lookouts, we would run across the front making sure to keep our heads down to not be seen by the employees. We would then drop off our load at the back of the gas station, in an alley. It was a circular pattern that we repeated until we had met our goal. We then split up the spoils and took our booty home.
I, through the connections I had made found out about these things we called “bullets.” No, they were not the item a piece of ammunition fires out of a firearm, but something used on cable TV systems to block premium TV channels. This was before the wave of “digital” everything in our lives. These “bullets” would give you the channel if you placed it on the back of your TV however. So, we banded together to harvest as many of these as possible – to sell on our neighborhood’s black market.
There was a trick to harvesting these “bullets” however, as they were installed on the distribution blocks that fed cable TV access to each home, roughly fifteen feet in the air. Most of the electric poles in the vicinity had steps embedded in them however, making access easier. Those steps didn’t start until about six feet, causing some issues. We would often use trash cans and other items we could find to help us reach our goal. We obviously couldn’t do this during the day, so it would always be late at night when we did this. We didn’t want an unsuspecting person to start looking out their windows when we disconnected their cable service to remove these items, just to connect it back a minute or so later.
Officially called a “Positive Trap Filter”
They were a very popular item, which we would sell for $20 a piece. They worked for Cinemax, Showtime and Encore but would not work for HBO. For HBO, the cable company installed a device that blocked the network and would have to do something in their office to enable the service.
It was during this time that I also became addicted to the act of being a “peeping tom.” There was a piece of my sexuality that was becoming awakened. My stepfather constantly had porn videos playing, or old fashioned pornographic magazines around. It wasn’t all about the sexual end of the spectrum for me however. It was about doing something I knew was wrong and the rush of adrenaline it gave me.
Those were the good times. That was when life was good and my innocence was being chipped away slowly. Then my stepfather came back, looking for my mother. I was actually spending the night at my best friends house when we heard a very loud clatter. It was him, he had driven back from Texas, pulling that camper he and my mom had lived in the entire time.
Soon enough, he had moved in with my mother and we moved into the apartment downstairs. It was “larger” according to the adults, but again I had a couch to sleep on and not much else. My clothes were kept in a cardboard box in the bedroom. The bathroom was so small that only 1 person could stand in it at a time.
The kitchen was straight out of the 1950’s, with metal cabinets and countertop. The stove looked like a 1959 Cadillac, with curves galore.
I had heard a tale from neighbors about that apartment. A trucker and his wife had lived there previously. He came back from a run to discover her in the act of cheating on him with another man. The neighbors said that he shot her in the head in the bathroom. There was a bullet sized hole that was covered by a piece of foam backed plastic and a couple of blood spatters high on the wall. I believe that story to be true.
Eventually tales of violence and sexual conquests would come back to the apartment, and they would leave their mark on me forever.
That summer, I had made a girlfriend of sorts. She lived by my best friend and we would talk here and there. Eventually we started talking on the phone a lot. We then began going to each others houses. There was one large difference between us however, she was 17 and I wasn’t 12 yet. Physically, I had the stature of a 17 year old, but wasn’t matured emotionally yet.
One night she came over, my stepdad filled her thoughts of being his secretary of his “company” that he ran (he always worked for himself, but was by no means rich), gave her alcohol and started massaging her. Before I knew it, they were in the bedroom, having sex. I couldn’t believe what was happening, right there basically in front of me. I was crushed on multiple emotional angles. I didn’t even know how to process it. When they finished, she came and offered to perform oral sex on me, but I wasn’t even sure what that was and I didn’t even want her near me. My stepdad paid for her to take a cab home, I never heard from her or saw her again. She and I had been playing “footsie” before everything transpired.
When school began, I was suddenly forced to realize how much of a different area I was in. There was originally two 6th grade classes, but one of the teachers quit. After multiple substitutes, we were finally provided with a teacher who was supposed to be there the rest of the year. I don’t know if she finished the year or not, because I was expelled from the school in October.
Before I get to how, I must explain why. Being the tallest kid in school, I became a target of anger from all of the other boys in my class, except for one who was oddly enough the smallest in the 6th grade class. He was one of the kids I befriended over the summer. I was chased, beaten and terrorized in and outside of school.
One day, while walking home from school the entire population of 6th grade boys followed me, in an attempt to beat me up. This was when I refused to be a victim any longer. My mother surprisingly showed up in an attempt to pick me up from school and witnessed this, along with the single friend I had made. As these boys were throwing rocks and other items at my back, I turned around and threw one of them into the path of a car. He almost got hit.
That however didn’t stop the attacks. A few days later, a group of them came with BB guns and knives, shooting up the apartment and bursting holes into every window. I grabbed the keys to my mom’s Dodge St. Regis and ran them down (no I didn’t run them over). I did however, run over their bicycles – all of them.
Those kids still weren’t deterred. My stepdad had bought me a cheap Daisy BB handgun. I carried it with me anywhere and everywhere I went after that. Anytime I saw one of those kids, I would shoot at them. I had hit a few of them, it’s aim wasn’t exactly precise.
Eventually, I decided to take that BB handgun to school with the intention of shooting everyone I could. The stresses from the horrible life I was living in addition to the constant attacks I was facing from the school (both students and administration) were more than I could bear.
So I loaded it up with all of the BB’s it could handle, and brought an extra tube of BB’s with me. I showed that friend I had made right before we made it to school. I was going to leave it in my backpack but chickened out and hid it in a bush instead. Someone saw this and reported it to the principal. Within an hour they had called the police and placed me under direct supervision.
The police talked to me about how that BB handgun looked like a real one, and how they would shoot someone with real ammunition if they saw someone with it. I was expelled from the school (Templeton Elementary School) but I was advanced to the 7th grade with only having 2 months of my 6th grade education. Much like the majority of educators in my life, they were just passing the buck.
When I got back home, my stepfather surprised me with a beating with a switch that I’ll never forget. I was then driven to Terre Haute to stay in Charter Hospital under lock down for the 2nd time in my life. This experience was much darker than the previous time. I was there for 3 weeks.
I don’t know if there were other complaints made about me to the police or what, but I was eventually put on probation for a term of 6 months. I distinctly remember my father taking me to the homes of each of the boys who’s bikes I had destroyed. He paid their parents for my destructive defense.
So, goodbye 1301 South Walnut. You brought a lot of misery to my life. While I certainly didn’t have a good time while being a resident of your neighborhood, you did leave memories and impressions on my life that I will carry with me to my dying day.
Postscript: That single friend I had made while in that school turned out to be the biggest bully of them all. His mother died when we were in middle school, and he was put into the foster care system. I eventually lost contact with him. It wasn’t until the age of Myspace and Yahoo! Profiles that we reconnected. It was great for the 11 year old me, who always appreciated how he stood by me when it felt like the world was against me. He eventually moved back to Bloomington, but lived a life on the edge. Sleeping on friends couches or making girlfriends just for a place to stay. I offered him my garage for anything, and did whatever I could for him. I even enlisted my dad’s AAA service when his car broke down. He constantly pressured me to let him stay at my home for free, but my wife at the time wouldn’t allow it. I eventually got divorced, and when I began dating again, he started harassing me about it. I had to block him on social media and cut him out of my life on the request of the police. He has a lengthy rap sheet, with multiple convictions but seems to always slide between the cracks of the justice system. Funny to call it that, as his first name is Justice. As of late, he began harassing people making comments on The Bloomingtonian’s Facebook page. The website is operated by an award winning photojournalist who is trying to keep local journalism alive. I’m happy he’s no longer in my life, but sad that he can’t let go of his own sadness enough to not bully and intimidate others.
Heat has always played a peculiar role in my life. As a child, I spent summers outside in nothing but a pair of shorts. That has since progressed to a point where I can barely stand it.
Last year, I was unable to mow my yard. I hired a guy to do it for me, and I appreciated the service he provided to me. I didn’t enjoy spending $50 a week on something I had done for years however.
Last year, I could barely stand being anywhere above 70 degrees. Indoors or out. I felt that I was a hostage to my body, trapped within the confines of air conditioned spaces.
Today, I mowed my yard for the first time in over a year. It’s a little victory, I just hope I can continue to do so. We haven’t reached the peak of heat in the year yet. I didn’t use the bagger this time, but I hope to eventually. My yard is still healing from the basement repair work and from where the gas company removed my gas service.
It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, so I felt it was prudent that the grass be mowed.
Yesterday, I randomly discovered something that touched me deeply. I’m not much for vlogging, even though my own YouTube channel is essentially that. That’s where the great algorithms google has created said “hey, you might like this video.”
This is the exact video that was recommended to me
At first, my naughty side was engaged. Then I realized this was just a small piece of a much larger and deeper engagement. This woman was reading the secrets every teenage boy wanted to know when we were young, she was reading her diaries!
So I circled the wagons, and started at the very first video and kept the videos playing. It was around midnight when I stopped last night, not realizing the time. There were only two more videos of the series left, my heart full of those emotions I felt as a middle school / freshman boy.
By her own words, she came from a stereotypical middle class family, had what can be only described as a “normal” upbringing, yet only wanted the love and affection from a boy (or girl) that would make her feel complete. This moved me, down to the core of my being.
At the same age, I never felt liked, wanted or needed by anyone in my age group who was of love or sexual interest. Middle school was the time of my life in school, but much like Rodney Dangerfield I didn’t get no respect! I didn’t know what made girls like boys, but I wanted to be one of those boys they liked.
My 7th Grade picture, middle. They infamously spelled my name wrong.
Back then, I really wore my heart on my sleeve. (Who am I kidding, I still do.) My two go to’s with the opposite sex were cheesy lines and deeply written heartfelt notes of affection towards the ones that made my heart go pitter patter. I still speak with and know several of those girls, and those lines have stayed as memories of way back when.
One was to a girl who I instantly felt comfortable with, we will call her M. I would always ask her if she wanted to “take a magic carpet ride with me?” while passing her. Another girl, we will call her A, I used to essentially harass by asking her if she knew “what the other white meat was.” This was a play on the pork industry’s marketing at the time. Another girl, her first name is the name of one of the boats Christopher Columbus had, so I would ask her were they went? She’s now a professor at the same university I work at. When I took her course (you know I had to), I would bring this up, and even wrote it on my final exam “for bonus points.”
The notes, or letters or whatever you want to call them, I’m not sure if I’ll ever know how they were received by their intended recipients. I don’t even know if they got them. I would pour my heart and soul out to these girls, but never received a response in kind. Never.
But still, NOBODY WANTED ME. It seemed as if all of the girls I wanted actually wanted someone else, or a guy of more social significance had “laid claim to her” as if she were a piece of property. I didn’t understand, I still don’t.
I had my guy friends, people I had known quite literally since I was born, but it wasn’t the same. I wanted someone to fill my heart with joy. Bring smiles to my face just because they exist, all of that romantic stuff kids of this age think of.
I went through a lot of struggle during this time of life. My mother ran off with my stepfather as he was wanted by the police, leaving me alone in a trailer. Eventually I was living there with no electricity, no heat, no water – nothing. I was surviving through the money my dad faithfully paid for me to have lunch. When he discovered this, a new change began. He and I started living with my grandmother, 30 miles away (because my stepmom wouldn’t allow me to live in her house).
A girlfriend would have helped my soul, significantly. I will digress on me now.
Her YouTube series just highlights the struggles that most if not all of us must sadly endure. Those cringeworthy years where we want something – but don’t know how to get it. Don’t know how to understand the signs that someone is interested or not interested in you. They are times that leave an indelible mark on all of our souls.
You could say those times were fruitful for me, as I’ve always been what I call a “social chameleon.” Being able to fit into all sorts of social circles, it has enabled my continued connections to many of that time.
After a 11 year marriage, I ended up reconnecting with many from that time as a method of healing my wounded soul. I wanted to see how life had treated all of those that I genuinely cared about. I eventually started spending more and more time with one of them. At the age of 35, I was still unsure if she was giving me signs of interest, if she liked me, etc. It was like middle school all over again.
On the advice of a trusted friend, after we went to the drive-in (her kids, she and I) I planted a kiss on her as I was walking her to her door. I didn’t want to be in a state of confusion of where I stood in her life. I had to make a move. I was also legitimately worried that I had just ruined this excellent friendship she and I had been forming.
My girlfriend, also 7th grade at the same school. Middle image. We never spoke. WHY???
The constant pessimist, I assumed I would never hear from her again. I was wrong. In a couple of weeks, we will be celebrating 4 years as a couple. It’s been a wild adventure with her, but I think my life would have been much less interesting without her in it.
Had I realized I could look back on my writings 20 years later, and see the inner most thoughts of a younger version of myself, I would have started writing way back then. I hope you are reading this Gretasaur, and I hope you are smiling.
I sent Gretasaur an email and facebook message, just to say thank you. I deeply appreciate those gifts she provided the world, and I want her to be aware of that.
