1981 – Wichita Falls

The population of the United States was somewhere in the vicinity of 230 million people. That number was simply staggering to me. I counted as many times as my brain would allow, and the biggest number of people I could fathom was 176. I counted that group in the sanctuary at Faith Baptist Church in Wichita Falls. That was about as large a group of people as I could comprehend. When I heard the population of the world, I was fascinated. I spent weeks trying to count to 230 million but fell considerably short. Ryan swears he made it, but he “did it in his head.”

A postage stamp cost $.15 but would raise to $.20 by the end of the year. I remember my parents saying how expensive everything was getting. To be fair, all those stamps would be a little easier to buy with the new $3.35 minimum wage that went into effect that year. $3.35 for one hour of work. I couldn’t fathom that number either. At the time, I had a really cool change-bank in my room. It was made up of four, clear plastic tubes mounted to a flat plastic backing. Each tube was the same diameter as the coins it was designed to hold. Markings on the sides of the tubes indicated how much money was in each, but that was anything but proof for a scientific young mind like the one God put in my skull. I needed proof from my own eyes, so I dumped each tube onto the floor of my room and carefully counted each pile of coins. After nearly a day of primitive accounting, I concluded that I had anywhere between five and six dollars. (I gave up after counting the dimes!) My mind raced. If I dragged out my chores for two hours and charged Mom and Dad the new minimum wage for my efforts, I could double my net-worth. They re-explained the concept of household capitalism to me but I still feel as though I got screwed.

On TV, a new show called Hill Street Blues was first aired that year. I remember thinking that the show looked a little too grown up for me. It depicted a world I didn’t understand and was quite frankly a little scared of entering. I knew the crime and violence was out there. I assumed there were bad guys in the big cities I saw on TV and in movies, but they were there and I was in Wichita Falls, Texas. I didn’t need to see the graphic nature of a world in which I had no experience.

The Georgia Bulldogs defeated Notre Dame in the Sugar Bowl to win the National Championship. Oakland defeated Philadelphia in the Super Bowl and while I don’t remember the Super Bowl game, I do remember watching both of the conference championship games with Dad and Grandbob. I remember vividly watching the Eagles running off the field, fingers in the air, celebrating…..I thought  “I hope those guys get creamed.” Hey, if you’re and Eagles fan, tough! I’m a Cowboys fan and you’re all scum!

I was in second grade at Episcopal Elementary School by now and school was actually starting to get kind of interesting. Subjects with an adult feel to them were being introduced and for the first time, I felt like I was learning stuff my Mom hadn’t already taught me. Ms. Self allowed us to read newspaper clippings from various newspapers during what she called our “quiet time”. I have always suspected that “quiet time” was implemented shortly after my arrival in Ms. Self’s life, but I sure did enjoy reading stories from cities I had never set foot in. I remember getting to read the story of Philip Hazel in North Carolina. He was an air traffic controller who, when hearing the panicked calls from Judy Newton coming into his radio, took to the air to find her. Judy’s husband, the pilot, had died of a heart attack while in flight and she had no idea how to fly or where they even were. Philip not only found her in the sky, but talked her all the way to the ground. I get nauseous when I have to walk my mother through opening a file on her computer. Can you imagine the patience it would take to talk her through landing a plane?

It was during another one of these so-called “quiet times” that Ms Rodgers (The often visited, embodiment of evil that was my school principal) came into the classroom later that month and whispered something into Ms. Self’s ear. I was busy reading about Walter Cronkite and all of the things he had done in his career before retiring a few weeks prior. Most of the other kids kept their nose in their reading but the serious and agitated nature of their hushed conversation had piqued my interest. The usually solemn face of Ms. Self dropped even further and terror seemed to grip her before Ms. Rodgers backed away from her ear. By now, most of the kids were cautiously interested. After Ms. Rodgers left the room, Ms. Self sat there for a few seconds, gathering her composure before speaking. When she did, she spoke six words that I will never forget. Six words that very well may have changed my life, even if I didn’t really know it at the time.

“Kids, President Reagan has been shot.”

That night, after lengthy discussions with both parents about how sometimes, crazy people do crazy things, I was ready for some normalcy. TV wasn’t really a viable escape option but Mom and Dad were obviously glued to the set. They didn’t want to be the last to hear any breaking news about the President that we all seemed to love and trust. He was alive. We knew that. In fact, it was looking as if he hadn’t even taken a direct hit. The bullet that came within millimeters of ending President Reagan’s life was actually a ricochet. I learned the word “ricochet” by watching the news coverage of Reagan’s assassination attempt. Mom explained to me how a bullet can actually bounce off of things and change direction. Her explanation changed my entire scope of the physical universe! Still, I wasn’t finding the normalcy I desired. Instead, as coverage broke away from Reagan for a few moments to deliver “other news” I learned that Edith Wilson had died. Edith Wilson was the large black woman that played Aunt Jemima in the TV commercials. That was the anchoring bit of understandable news I guess my mind needed that day. Is it weird that I still think of Reagan every time I eat pancakes, waffles, or French Toast? Funny how the mind works sometimes.

There was an inordinate amount of discussion, singing, and acting about coal miners in 1981. Mom, who was raised in coal mining country in Kentucky, felt a deep, spiritual connection to these people that I simply didn’t grasp. My mom, as evidenced in the photo at the top of this article, was a happy, beautiful, always laughing or at least smiling, woman. The people that were depicted in the mining world were dirty, miserable and lived where it always seemed to be raining. I just couldn’t picture her in that world. Several mine explosions, collapses, and the movie Coal Miner’s Daughter seemed to rekindle her love of those she had known in her youth. I, on the other hand, had more questions about Crystal Gayle’s hair than I did about the mining industry. (Yes, the two go hand in hand. Loretta Lynn was who the movie was written about. She is Crystal Gayle’s sister. They are of NO relation to Dorothy Gayle of Wizard Of Oz fame, no matter what my mother tells you!) My questions about Gayle and all things mining were quickly forgotten when I heard word of a man in Saint Louis, Missouri who had fastened enormous tractor tires to a normal sized pick-up truck. Bob Chandler called his invention Big Foot and I got to see it roll over a bunch of cars in a field. Of course I watched it on TV as we are not rednecks who support such live events. It was probably during one of these televised events that I first saw a commercial for a new beer, Bud Light. The Anheuser Busch ads were well known in those parts……”Anheuser Busch Beer, brewed in Saint Louis, Missouri; distributed by Ben E. Keith Beverages North Texas.” I was always kind of fascinated with the logistics that must have gone into producing that much beer and getting it into the stores all over the country. They must have done it on Sunday mornings when beer sales were banned in Texas.

I also remember the music of 1981. Grandbob had given me a small transistor radio for Christmas the year before and I kept it on my desk in my room as if top secret orders were going to come through for my heroic mission at any time. I realize now that the Army, the Air Force, and the Super Friends simply weren’t looking for 8 year old kids with virtually no experience but I protected that radio just the same. I remember hearing songs like “Betty Davis Eyes” by Kim Carnes and “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins. The music was so different from the country genre my parents listened to. I almost felt naughty for listening to such things. Like they would call an exorcist if they walked in and caught me! It was the first time I remember ever feeling like I was defying my parent’s authority. I would love to say it was the last but such a statement would be untrue in so many ways. It was on that little transistor radio that I first heard the music of Bob Marley. Of course, I only discovered his music when the station I was listening to announced that the Jamaican artist had died that afternoon. I couldn’t really understand all of the lyrics in his songs. He sang with a strange accent. Despite this, I found myself unable to suppress happiness as I listened. I remember it so clearly; like it just happened. It was a ridiculously rainy day in May. It was exactly one week before my Mom’s birthday and I was confined to my room for one reason or another. Most likely something involving mischief and most likely something that Ryan either started or loudly protested.

Despite my newfound love of alternative musical choices, I have to that I too fell prey to the musical masterpiece that won Single of the Year in 1981. That’s right; I’m referring of course to Elvira by the Oak Ridge Boys. Years later, when I was all ‘growed-up’ I ran into three members of that band in Lambert Saint Louis International Airport. They had aged considerably but were still instantly recognizable. I informed them proudly that I had “giddy up-uh-oom-papa-oom-papa-mow-mow” stuck in my head for most of the eighties. The guy that looks a little like Carla from Cheers just laughed, slapped me on the shoulder (about a nine inch reach for him. He’s kind of tiny!) and said “Thanks.” They didn’t offer to pay for my Starbuck’s as I kind of hoped but they are very nice men, and were very happy to be performing a free concert for soldiers on July 4th that year.

As much fun as it had been to discover my own budding musical tastes, the confusing world outside of Wichita Falls soon informed me that ‘Five Homosexual Men in California had Contracted a Rare Strain of Pneumonia” that seemed to attacking their immune systems. That one headline produced so many questions in my head. It contained the word ‘sex’ which to an eight year old boy is one of those words that adults say a lot but kids are not supposed to hear. But wait…..did he just say men? So…..men and sex? Wait….where does the…..umm….”morning rocket” go? I’m kind of glad no one was there to answer that one. Instead I moved on to the question of this immune system. What’s that? I felt so grown up when I actually understood what an immune system was. Maybe it was simply the fact that Mom explained it really well, but I felt like such a grown up for understanding such a complicated concept so quickly.

My curiosity didn’t remain focused on the first mumblings of what would later become known as AIDS for very long as advertisements for Raiders of the Lost Ark began to appear on TV with more and more regularity. Much like the Great Star Wars / Fingernail Challenge of ‘77, ultimatums were laid down that could have very easily kept me from seeing that movie on opening day. One of them was most likely something along the lines of “if you don’t stop asking us about homosexual use of the ‘morning rocket’ we won’t take you to see it!” I dropped the issue, and was able to see the movie. There is not a man in his late thirties who doesn’t still get the urge to slide heroically under a closing garage door because of that movie. In the same vane, there’s not a 35-45 year old man alive who doesn’t get an overwhelming sense of adventure when being chased down a tunnel or cavern by a big ol’ fat gal, a gargantuan dung-ball, or Bruce Jenner’s hair. I remember the day we finally went to see the movie was the same day that Dad heard about the maiden flight of the new age of “stealth” jets. The Night Hawk (F-117A) made it’s first publicized flight the day before I got to see Indiana Jones for the first time.

As much fun as seeing that movie and hearing about futuristic, almost Star Wars-esque jets soaring silently through the night skies of our enemies had been, my youthful naivety soon accepted more confusing news . Adam Walsh was a six year old boy, kidnapped out of a Sears in Florida. He was later found brutally murdered. The emotions that must have run through that entire family were emotions I knew I didn’t possess. My little heart felt for the first time like reaching out to someone outside of my own family, but I simply couldn’t imagine the kind of misery they were experiencing and I certainly couldn’t do anything to help them. I still feel mesmerizingly drawn to John Walsh whether it be on America’s Most Wanted or just one of his frequent appearances on Fox News Channel. As sad as Adam’s kidnapping and brutal killing was, I found myself more able to relate to the news that Datsun was changing it’s name back to Nissan. Grandbob had a Datsun, so naturally the same fears that had risen to the surface with regards to Granny’s VW Bug were now dancing across my brain again. If Grandbob’s car was destroyed by some unrelenting force, would he be stuck riding a bike all over Albuquerque, or would he be able to find parts for his soon to be obsolete vehicle.

That summer, MTV launched. I know it was summer because I remember escaping the oppressive heat by sitting in the Whitmire’s living room where Jennifer and her sister anxiously awaited the initial broadcast like it was the second coming of Christ. I was still trying to wrap my head around Jennifer’s obsession with The Blue Lagoon as she had brought it up yet again as we all sat there and waited. Why did she care so much that Brooke Shield’s used a “butt-double?” And just what the heck is a “butt-double?” Anyway, MTV came on the air at the pre-determined time. The very first video they ever played was “Video Killed The Radio Star” and I still think of the Whitmire home every time I see MTV or hear that song. They’re the ones that had their roof lifted, turned, and set back down during the tornado. I also remember the launch of another show that year……The People’s Court. I was once again at the Whitmire’s house one afternoon when that show came on. Jennifer and her sister were absolutely enthralled with the reality of the show. I was bored to tears.

Home Depot had it’s IPO that year. Opened at $12 a share. I did the math because I’m a nerd; if I had invested $5,000 in Home Depot stock in 1981, it would be worth over $6,000,000 today after the numerous stock splits and consistent returns. Not too bad! Caller ID was also invented in 1981. That technology still fascinates me. I remember hearing about it and thinking how cool it would be to see who was calling before you answered the phone. That would save me from always having to use the dreaded “Giles residence, Jason speaking….” greeting upon which my Puritan parents insisted. In an interesting side note – when I was in my mid-twenties, living in Denver, Colorado, I rented a house owned by one of the men credited with the invention. Never met him but it was widely known that the guy owned 13 different homes in our subdivision.

The band, Metallica was formed in 1981 when Lars Ulrich answered an ad in the newspaper by James Hetfield. They were the original two members and they’ve been together for the last 30 years. Their music still gets me ready to tear something up when needed! Usually it’s at the gym these days, but hey…..Metallica’s wearing suits and selling video games! Times change.

That’s 1981 As I Recall……oh one more thing…..we almost nuked Scotland on my birthday that year! (Yes, that’s sarcasm. That story provided me my first taste of liberal lunacy corrupting the news I receive!)

To Be Continued……..

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1980 – Here Comes the Eighties

After the tornado and the other confusion of the late seventies, especially in North Texas, everyone in my little world seemed more than ready to usher in a much calmer, more respectful, era. Enter the eighties……not exactly what the doctor ordered but hey; that horrendous decade made us who we are today. For better or worse.
As Wichita Falls continued it’s rebuilding efforts throughout the often harsh winter of 1979 and welcomed in the new decade, changes could literally be felt. It was the first time I remember ever feeling like an “American”. The Iran Hostage situation had been going on for a while and the images of Americans being held by these strange people in a strange land made me angry. They dressed differently, they spoke another language, they believed in a different God……and they were holding people that looked like ‘me’ against their will. Why couldn’t we just give the poor, dust covered people what they wanted and send a plane for our hostages? It didn’t make sense to me.
The other story capturing the minds of Americans in 1980 was the infamous shooting of JR Ewing? Who shot JR? Of course, the show that brought us the entire Ewing family was Dallas. I didn’t really understand why everybody seemed so obsessed with this JR Ewing character. Even as a kid, he seemed like an exaggeration of character. He seemed like the Hollywood vision of Texas. Of course, I never watched the show that I remember so he may have been exactly like a dirty oil-man. On the night that the world was set to find out the answer to the question posted on billboards, TV ads, magazine covers, and minds, Mom and I delivered cheesecakes. Yeah, that’s right. I’m not real sure how the relationship came to exist, but somehow Mom and Dad met a family of Brit’s that had just moved to Wichita Falls, Texas from England for some reason. They had opened up a restaurant and somehow, Mom had accepted the request to make cheesecakes for them to sell on their dessert menu. She did this for a few months as I recall. Anyway, I remember her carefully driving that piece-of-crap, orange Toyota across town, with cheesecakes in round, buckled tins in the back. I remember the excitement in the voice of the DJ on the radio as they talked about the big episode coming up that evening. I think one of our friends even wrote and sang a song about the Ewing family crisis that was played on the radio that night. I could be wrong, or simply imagining that though.
On Mom’s birthday that year, May 18, 1980; Mount St Helens erupted. I was in first grade at Episcopal Elementary school by then. I remember learning all about ashes, and ash clouds, and lava. I was fascinated, but I was also a little bit nervous to find out that a lot of volcanic activity takes place in Hawaii and my grandparents liked to go there every year.
As brutal as the weather had been the previous year, it seemed to come in bursts. We had the tornado, but nothing that seemed to last too long. Obviously, every time a Springtime thunderstorm rolled into Wichita Falls in 1980, people got a little bit nervous. The few times that the tornado sirens were activated, there was a state of near panic, but we got through tornado season unscathed. No, 1980 didn’t deliver a crushing blow like 1979 had done. 1980 was more like a drawn out battle in terms of weather. The summer of 1980 brought record setting heat to North Texas. 27 days in a row of 100+ degree heat with a ONE DAY break before another 42 days in a row above the century mark. The highest temperature ever recorded in the state of Texas was 119 on June 26th AND June 27th 1980. As ridiculous as those numbers seem now, I remember playing soccer and being a happy, 7 year old kid all summer long. Couldn’t pay me to go outside and play in 119 degree heat today.
As summer gave way to the much welcomed cooler temperatures of fall, outdoor exploration was increased. One day, probably in late September sometime, Ryan and I were walking down the alley behind our house. It was a poorly paved, one lane road that separated the backyards of the houses on Sherry Lane from the backyards of the houses on Chuck Drive. (No, I have no clue who Chuck and Sherry were.) It was where the city garbage trucks came to pick up garbage on the assigned days. It was also where a large number of tornado shelters could now be seen, built into the ground beneath some of those aforementioned backyards. Anyway, Ryan and I were walking along and all of a sudden we heard the tiny voice of a kitten. After listening for a few minutes, we determined that the source of the panicked ‘mew’ was the roof of the tool shed just behind the fence on the Chuck Drive side of the alley where we were standing. I climbed up the backside of the fence, and pulled myself up onto the roofline of the shed. What I found there was a defenseless kitten.
She was tiny, but old enough to have quite a voice and an equally impressive set of claws. She came to me rather easily, but on the way down the fence, her claws dug into me pretty good. Ryan was very excited at the prospect of a new kitten in the house as we scampered down the alley to our own backyard. We burst through the gate in the chain link fence and sprinted across the expanse of the yard to the house. Ryan was now holding the kitten and seemed to believe that she would stop being so scared if she could just go for a nice, relaxing swim in our above ground pool. I couldn’t argue his logic. Swimming always relaxed me, so in she went. That was the day Ryan and I discovered that cats don’t really like water. She swam the diameter of the pool pretty quickly, but as soon as she made it to my waiting arms, the flesh-shredding began! Finally, after somehow getting her to calm down enough to let us dry her off, we brought our quivering new friend inside the house to meet the rest of the family. Dad was sick, so he was laying on the couch in the living room. Green and white paisley couch on red shag carpeting. Nice! Anyway, the kitten must have been cold because she cuddled up to dad and forced her way between his chest and chin. She fell asleep instantly and we had ourselves a new cat! Not sure how she survived, but we had Sunshine for the next 15 years.
The cooler temperatures of fall also brought about another significant and memorable change. 1980 was the first presidential election that I clearly remember. I knew that there was just something that didn’t seem right about the whole Iran hostage thing and the way our bunny fearing Commander In Chief was handling it. I didn’t understand many of the things that happened in a grown up world but I knew it was time for a change. Man did we get it!
I clearly remember sitting in a Burger King on Kemp Boulevard with my Dad on the morning of November 5th. Ronald Reagan had just won the Election and Dad explained to me some of the terms that excited men and women were murmuring all over the place. A ‘landslide’ for example, as I learned while eating my first Croissan’wich ever, was when someone wins by a lot. President Reagan got 489 electoral votes, which dad tried to explain to me. It was the first time I had ever felt like I was having a somewhat grown-up conversation. I actually understood what he was talking about. I understood something from the adult world. I couldn’t wait to rub it in Ryan’s face later that night. I had just celebrated a birthday after all. I had been 8 years old for all of two days, and I felt like my political lesson that morning was kind of a rite of passage. I was now entering the downward spiral into maturity. Time to start reading the paper, drinking coffee, and staying up late to watch the news. There was work to be done and metaphors to learn.
1980 was a good year.

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1979 – Life after Terrible Tuesday

I don’t know if we knew anyone personally that lost their life in the tornado. All of the people making up the limited world in which I lived were present and accounted for. Mom was understandably a bit clingy for the next few days. Dad let me help him on the roof of our house as he replaced shingles that had been sucked off the roof in the storm. Our neighbors across the street were not as lucky. The roof of their house had literally been lifted, turned, and set back down. The entire thing had to be taken down and then replaced. Debris was eventually cleaned out of the streets. Leaves eventually returned to the stripped trees. The drumming of Army Huey Choppers surveying the damage from the skies and delivering supplies where needed was eventually replaced by the constant sound of hammering. That too eventually dissipated but it took far longer. Life eventually returned to normal as far as anyone could tell by looking, but stories of surviving that day are still told to this day. 
The Cowboys ended that season beating the Giants, the Eagles, and the Redskins in order. The man named Staubach my Dad followed so closely retired at the end of the season. The man that had served his country as a Navy Sailor and then became one of the first sports names I truly knew, retired. The Cowboys provide so many

of the memories of my youth. It was one of those things that could be considered a tradition even though I didn’t quite understand what we were celebrating. Whether it was sitting in the living room at Grandmama and Grandbob’s house watching a game on the TV; watching one live in the seats at old Texas Stadium; or rushing home from church on Sunday mornings to catch the kickoff, the Cowboys have always been a part of my family. In that part of the country, they are part of a lot of families. The tornado had taken so much from so many, but life was getting back to normal as we prepared for what Texans like to call ‘winter’.  That spring and summer pretty much flew by. The tornado had wiped out the sanctuary at Faith Baptist Church, so we spent the summer meeting under tents. I remember thinking how cool it was to be outside, but in church at the same time. The oppressive heat was just a minor detail for a kid. I believe the thermostats in kids have entirely different settings than the ones in adults. I don’t remember ever being as hot as a kid as I feel now when I’m in Texas during the summer. For some reason, I remember the setting of our tent-church being in a park somewhere. I’m picturing flowers and trees, but there’s a good chance that’s just a coping mechanism of some sort. Wichita Falls, Texas would not have had green grass and flowing streams in the summer months!
The news that year was somehow distant. The world around Wichita Falls had been crushed and had required all the attention of the community. We didn’t have the same kind of time to lend the news outside of our small community as we had previously been able to give. The rebuilding process was painful, yet cleansing in a way. I remember hearing news of a hairy little man in the dessert ascending to power and executing people at an alarming rate. I had never heard of Iraq, or Iran before that summer. I believe Iraq was once called Mesopotamia. At least that’s what they said in Church. That’s where the Garden of Eden was. Now; some of the stories in the Bible seemed a bit far-fetched to me as a kid but it wasn’t the kind of far-fetched that has you believing you know better. It was more like a sense that I must be stupid if I’m not getting this. It’s in the Bible, it has to be true. The things I didn’t quite grasp I just chalked up to lack of experience. I assumed that they would make sense to me at some point. With that thought in mind, I couldn’t fathom the garden, as described in the Bible, being set in a place like the disgusting, dusty, hellhole that they kept showing on the news. When the news broke that sixty-three Americans had been taken hostage in that part of the world, I had a hard time wrapping my brain around that one.  So much of what I had learned in Sunday School was based on an image of peace, in an almost tranquil, fertile land. Sure, there was mention of the dessert, but to a young kid hearing about the miraculous events of the Bible while possessing a shockingly vivid imagination, these stories took place in a paradise. The men and women discussed were regal and clean. These images they kept showing on the news of angry mobs seizing control of the US Embassy just didn’t make sense. Why would Jesus have chosen to live in such a place? Was it because that seemed to be where help was needed the most? Was it because that was pretty much as far as exploration had taken mankind to that point? Where were the dinosaurs? I had a feeling Sunday School was going to make mention of Jesus fighting a dinosaur if I just hung in there. I may have had a few chronological misunderstandings, but you see my point. My belief system; so much of what my parents had worked so hard to instill in me was being questioned by the lunacy unfolding in that part of the modern world. Then you toss in the complete ineptitude of a President that was causing Americans to lose not only their global credibility, but a few of their lives and it was time for a change. My world needed to be revitalized. Too much had happened in 1979. Too many confusing emotions to deal with. It was time for something to come along and clear out the fog that seemed to be embracing America. It was time to find a legitimate reason to celebrate.
That reason was right around the corner.

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Wichita Falls, Texas (1976-1983) continued….

1979: The year started out with confusing news to a kid my age. What the heck is inflation? Why can’t we get more gas? Who keeps raising the price and can’t someone tell them to stop it? So much of what my parents assumed I was ignoring on the news each day was very confusing to me. Mom was more of a creative type that despite her assertions to the contrary, was the one that always seemed unaffected by negativity in the world. Where panic was depicted on the TV screen, Mom carried out her daily duties with a smile on her face. By this time she had gotten a job at Perkin’s Department Store in the only mall in the town of just over 100,000 people. Sikes Center. (They now spell it Sikes ‘Senter’, but that’s just stupid!) The job was just to make a little money so she could pursue her real passion and natural aptitude – painting. She had even managed to get herself enrolled in the classes of Dmitri Vail. Now, in those days, I knew nothing of the art world and probably know even less now, but I knew that my Mom was extremely excited to be learning oil painting techniques from what she considered to be a master. His paintings were usually of people that I had not heard of, but their lifelike representation made Mom’s excitement hard to discount. The fact that the classes were in Dallas, over two and a half hours from home, didn’t seem to bother anyone. I was just six at the time and my navigational skills already far surpassed my mother’s but she seemed confident in her abilities to get herself there and back whenever the classes met so I didn’t let my fears take too much of a hold on me. Seriously though, the woman could get lost in our own driveway. It’s an impressive void where most people have at least a basic sense of direction. These days however, GPS technology has opened my mother up to a level of bravery and exploration she never thought possible! Interestingly enough, the first GPS satellites had just been launched a few short months prior but none of us had a clue what the heck they were.

1979 was just as confusing as 1978 had been to me. So much of the grown-up world with which I was surrounded seemed to make no sense at all. Three Mile Island was something that made a lot of news, but I couldn’t understand what radiation was. All I knew was that there had been an accident at a place with the word “nuclear” in it’s title. The little bit that I knew of nuclear technology led me to believe that “nuclear” meant “wiping out the planet.” I had no idea there were positive uses. President Carter continued to make my father crazy and I’ll admit that even I felt a little uneasy with that man being in charge of our country. I had no grounds to make such a statement on my own, but somehow in my little brain, he was responsible for everything that was going on in the world. I believed  he was a wimp. I believed the man with that soothing southern drawl reminiscent of Huckleberry Hound was a big old bushel of weakness. In my mind, the President needed to be someone tough. All I knew of kings, leaders, and great military men of history at that time was that they had all performed some kind of heroic deed. They had all been men like my Dad who flew planes, and built railroads, explored uncharted lands, and fought off determined enemies. Jimmy Carter was none of those things to me. When the story of Jimmy Carter beating a terrified rabbit that was swimming toward his boat in an attempt to escape the hounds pursuing him hit the airwaves, I was convinced that change was needed. Nobody would fear a country whose leader was afraid of a rabbit. Change was needed and boy was it on it’s way!

 

April 10, 1979 – It was a nice afternoon in Wichita Falls. Mom was in Dallas, painting with the aforementioned Mr. Vail, so Ryan and I were enjoying a rare afternoon with Dad. Our Grandparents were coming into town the next day, so Dad decided he was going to run to the bakery  just up the street and get some of the cinnamon raisin bread that Grandbob (Dad’s father. Bob Giles = Grandbob) loved so much. There had been intermittent interruptions all afternoon long as Ryan and I tried to watch Popeye on TV. Apparently, one of those intense storms that frequently pop up in that part of the world was heading our way. Again, Dad didn’t seem too worried, so neither were we. Tornadoes had hit in several towns around Wichita Falls earlier that day, so we figured the worst we would get would be rain, maybe some hail, and wind. Besides, we had TV Dinners to eat, and cartoons to watch. Dad had not been gone all that long when the skies literally closed above Wichita Falls. It went from a calm, spring afternoon to an eerie, greenish hue in a matter of seconds. Then the Tornado Sirens began blaring. In Texas, as well as other parts of the Midwest, tornado safety is taught in schools and it is not taken lightly. I didn’t think anything of the acts I performed when I heard the sirens. It was as natural as breathing and required no thought. There was no fear…… yet.  I scampered down the hallway as soon as a commercial break allowed. With 4 year old Ryan in tow we grabbed the mattress off of my bed and pulled it out into the hallway, leaned it up against the wall just as we had been told to do, and hid underneath it’s protective cover. The end of our makeshift fort was open, and provided a clear view of the TV in the den. Still, there was no fear. There was no panic. Not yet. The hail started falling first. I sneaked out from under the mattress, much to Ryan’s chagrin, and took a peak out the sliding glass doors down the hallway. 

The sky was black. Not black like it is at night, but black like it would be if someone threw a thin blanket over the sun. There was a grayish luminescence letting me know that this was not the calm afternoon I had been enjoying just a few hours prior. The trees outside were bowing to the incoming force in such a manner that their leaves were all turned over, exposing their lighter colored bellies and completely altering the appearance I had come to expect from that vantage point. I remember watching a large bird struggling against the powerful wind and wondering why it didn’t just land and protect itself. Their was debris flying everywhere. Suddenly, the bird was gone. The wind was blowing so forcefully that I couldn’t see what it was that hit the bird, but whatever it was it was big, and it ended that poor bird’s flight immediately.

As suddenly as it had all started, it stopped. All the debris that was flying around in the air outside dropped as if someone had just turned off a giant magnet in the sky. Literally, stuff just dropped from the sky and calm was restored. The wind stopped. The hail stopped. The sirens stopped. The only thing that made this day seem different from any other afternoon was the fact that every hair on the back of my neck could be felt standing at military attention. There were goosebumps up and down my flesh, yet I was not cold. That’s when panic set in. This was not the kind of calm that people pray for in harrowing situations. This was the kind of calm a dying man Christian feels as he draws his last breath. I hurried back into the safety of that mattress as all hell broke loose.

The sounds that we heard will never be forgotten. I hugged Ryan close as what sounded like a fleet of locomotives hovered over our heads. The electricity went out and Ryan began to cry. He was only 3 at the time, almost 4, but he was terrified. Rarely does a little brother admit that he’s relying on big brother for anything but that was the first time I ever felt like Ryan’s protector. It was the first time I ever felt like it was as much my responsibility to save Ryan from harm as it was my parents’. Speaking of which, as the glass windows around the house began to shatter, and noises I hope I never hear again began to fill my head, Dad came bursting through the front door. I wasn’t sure at first that it was him. I hoped it was, but it was just as likely that it was the front of our house being removed by angry skies. Dad ran immediately into his own bedroom and came back out with the king sized mattress from their bed. He had two strangers with him that he had apparently pulled into safety. To this day, I still have no idea who those people were, but I know that they survived something they wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for my father’s bravery and generosity. We huddled together, pulling each other close under that mattress. I was so relieved to have Dad home. Not because I was afraid he would get hurt out there on his own, but because now that he was there I was free to be a terrified six year old kid. I cried with Ryan as if I had been holding it in for more years than I had lived. The sounds of utter destruction could be heard all around us. It wasn’t like in the movies. There were no distant screams from unfamiliar throats. These were horrific sounds. The sounds of brick, wood, and metal being ripped apart by an unstoppable force. These were the sounds of people we knew losing everything they had. These were the sounds of my comfortable little neighborhood, which quite frankly was my whole world, being permanently altered.

Then, just as quickly as it all started, it stopped. The sounds of destruction and mayhem could still be heard but they were somehow distant. They were now filling the ears and minds of people in distant neighborhoods. People we didn’t know and were powerless to help. Our small, huddled group of terrified souls cautiously emerged from our cover, unsure of what we would find. I had been so deeply buried in my Dad’s comforting chest that I didn’t even know if there was a house above that mattress. The calm was just as eerie as it had been before the storm hit. Was another one coming? Was the house about to collapse? Was Mom still in Dallas and if so, did she have any idea what had just happened? There’s not a man alive that wouldn’t like to say they could get through something like that without being scared but they’d be lying. You don’t come out of something like “Terrible Tuesday” without a few life altering memories.

April 10, 1979 - Terrible Tuesday

 

I can remember as if it happened a few seconds ago the feeling I felt when Dad finally let me and Ryan emerge from our heavily damaged home. The strangers that had survived the storm with us were already gone, no doubt on their way to what was hopefully a standing home of their own but chances are good that was just wishful thinking. The look on Dad’s face said it all. There was nothing he could do to hide the damage from us. There was no soft edge he could put on the story. The complete devastation was all around us. The house across Fairway from us was completely gone. Even the pipes had been ripped from the cement foundation. The silence of confusion was the only sound to be heard. The destruction was so widespread that emergency response teams were not even sure where to mobilize first; their sirens were noticeably absent. With each passing second, the sounds of life after disaster started to hit my ears. First came the sounds of animals. Birds chirping, dogs barking, cats being useless. (I’m not a fan of cats. Their eyes are like staring into the pits of hell but that’s just my opinion. If you own a cat, don’t get all offended. Save your energy for when you have to constantly escape Satan’s grip in your rather warm afterlife.) Next, the sounds of first responders heading out into the carnage. The storm itself could still be seen in the distance, but it was as if it were now happening to someone else. It was like watching a movie. Trees and debris filled the streets. Power lines were everywhere but with no electricity running through them, their danger at the moment was limited.

Mom eventually made it home that evening. I can’t imagine the level of helplessness she must have been feeling as she pulled into town and started to see the destruction. The fear she must have felt. There were no cell-phones in those days. There was no way for her to know, until she got home and could put her hands on each of us, that her young family had survived. In fact; I’m quite certain there had to have been a few moments where she assumed the exact opposite to be true.

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That’s enough for today. Kind of a painful research exercise. Lots of memories from a day I go back to every time I hear a storm is coming. People ask why I’m so fascinated with storms to this day; why I stand out in the open, watching as dark clouds begin circling. Gazing skyward with the defiant fascination and stubborn fury of Lieutenant Dan.

to be continued……

Wichita Falls, Texas (1976-1983) continued…..

1978 – By this time Wichita Falls was our home. Dad was getting the hang of this Financial Planner thing, and was happy to be working with the deserving families of the United States Air Force at Sheppard Air Force Base. He had turned in his flight suit and the keys to the jets he used to fly with such fervor. In the place of these pieces of heroic gear, he was given a supply of hideous paisley ties and a couple of suits that didn’t quite fit him like they were tailor made, but gave him a definite air of maturity that military life just won’t condone. I know he regrets the fact that his new job with United Services Planning Association & Independent Research Agency (USPA & IRA for short) kept him away from the house as much as it did, but the impact these actions had on the lives of his two young sons is far more negative in his mind than in reality. 

Ryan and I were young at the time. We didn’t know that Dad was gone any more than any other father. If Dad did it, it was normal. That’s how kids see things. Unfortunately, that fact holds true in the case of very bad fathers all over the place too. Ours was not one of those. Besides, Dad’s long hours gave me and Ryan a lot of time with our mother. Her creativity, her sense of humor…..they are the traits that she gave to us that no one will ever take away. Without her truly unique way of looking at things and then handling them, our family would’ve collapsed and withered right there in the oppressive heat of North Texas.

I remember the confusion that went through my head as I heard news that Volkswagen was going to stop making the Beatle. My confusion came not from the fact that the bubbly vehicle was such a cherished part of society, but more from the fact that Granny (my mom’s mother) owned a powder blue Beetle that I believe she had driven since Christ was a kindergartner. There were holes in the floorboard allowing Ryan and I to watch the pavement pass below our feet as we scurried around Albuquerque with her over our summer trips to her home. The car had very few functioning gauges so Granny used to turn the radio and engine off, let the car roll down the hill in front of her house and then slam on the breaks. If she could hear the gasoline sloshing around in the tank, then she didn’t need to fill up. Times were simpler back then! My confusion on the subject came in the form of uncertainty that so often runs unaddressed through the limited scope of knowledge in young people. I was genuinely afraid my Grandmother was going to have her car taken away from her since it was no longer being made. The thought of her trudging up to the church where she worked for many years was more than I could bear, but yet again, my parents didn’t seem too upset so I had no choice but to assume that preparations had been made.

I distinctly remember the day I heard about Jim Jones and the tragedy he caused in British Guyana. The photos that I saw on the news were probably a bit too graphic for a child my age to be seeing, but it was a pretty big news story. There was no way I could have avoided the sight of all those bodies lying in that jungle clearing. My mother explained to me that sometimes people are not strong enough to think for themselves. Sometimes people just give up and start relying heavily on others for their opinions, morals, values, and futures. In the case of the Kool-Aid sopping lot over in Guyana, doing so cost them their lives. Mom explained the dangers of worshipping a ‘man’ because men are always corruptible. Jim Jones had proven this to the utmost certainty. After ordering the ambush of a plane carrying US Congressman Leo J. Ryan, the subsequent murders of everyone on board, and realizing that the end was in sight; Jim Jones ordered everyone to carry out what they thought was another suicide rehearsal. Mom was careful to explain that they all gave their lives willingly because they believed it was what God wanted them to do. I remember the great care and patience she took in explaining to me the vast differences between the God and the earthly lessons to which the People’s Temple subscribed were entirely different than the one, true God we spent so much of our time loving. Her carefully chosen words were so different from her normal mannerisms that they left no doubt in my head that she was not giving me an opinion but rather stating a fact to which I needed to adhere forever. I think that was the first time I ever comprehended the concept and dangers of peer pressure. Just because someone says “drink this” doesn’t mean you should always do it. God is merciful. God is forgiving. God is loving. God specifically forbids suicide and I imagined, even in those days, He reserved a special place in hell for people like Jim Jones. I remember trying to wrap my head around the emotions that the surviving family members back in California must have been feeling. Having never experienced any real sorrow, loss, or tragedy in my life to that point, it was unfathomable. To this day, I get a strange, uncomfortable feeling every time I hear someone casually toss around the phrase “drinking the Kool-Aid.” The phrase is most often used in association with an opinion with which I agree, but I still don’t feel it’s an event that should be mentioned in jest.

Even at a very young age, I was fascinated with all things electronic. I firmly believe that love of gadgets is something that is encoded in a male’s genetics. If it had buttons, I wanted it. It didn’t matter if I understood what the heck the thing actually did, or not……I wanted it! When I heard the story that Illinois Bell had introduced what they called a Cellular Mobile Telephone, I was fascinated. I understood nothing of the details but I knew for a fact that being able to talk to my Mom back at home while Dad and I drove to Albuquerque would be the coolest thing ever. In those days, I had no idea how in the hell we were going to get a cord that long into Leroy, but apparently some guys in a lab somewhere had just figured out how to make it work. 

 

When it came to TV in those days, there were very few things that rivaled CHiPs. I’m man enough to admit it. Don’t get me wrong…..Erik Estrada was a complete douche and the show itself was just a big bucket of awful, but I remember being so jealous of Ryan when he got the battery powered, indoor motorcycle. The fact that it was a toy designed for kids his age mattered very little to me. I wanted so badly to be like the guys on CHiPs.  I was willing to whip around the dangerous terrain of that red shag carpeting if it meant that I got to be as cool as the guys on the show but upon realizing that the thing couldn’t even move as fast as I could crawl, I was glad to relinquish my self appointed “turns” at Ryan’s toy.

1978 is not really all that memorable in my head. The following year would bring more memories than any child should ever have, but 1978 was a fairly calm year. Technically it happened in 1979, but the Cowboys capped off the 1978 season with a 4 point loss to the Steelers in Super Bowl XIII.

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Wichita Falls, Texas (1976-1983)

I can honestly remember, as if it happened this morning, the feelings I felt as Leroy (similar to the fine piece of automotive machinery shown below) carried his loving occupants away from the Moseley’s house that morning. I remember thinking that it was just like any other time we had vacated the friendly confines of Big Spring. We had piled into the ultra-seventies, burgundy interior of that silver Monte Carlo at least a million times in my four years on this earth. There’s a better than average chance that number is slightly inflated but the fact that the damn car had a name should tell you we were in the thing pretty often.

 

The drive from Big Spring to Wichita Falls is about 250 miles. A normal person could most likely make that in just about 4 hours. My mother has many talents but travelling a great distance without stopping every fifteen yards to empty what I can only assume is a very small bladder made of a cheesecloth material is not one of them. Couple that with the fact that there were two young boys in the car and I’m sure that drive took almost the entire day. Not quite the sound barrier stretching speeds at which my dad was used to travelling, but it was the first leg of a journey that would span a lifetime. It was the first of many such journeys the small Giles clan would make across the country.over the next several decades. Hard work, unyielding support, and an inherent sense of adventure would prove to be our family’s greatest assets. The unique senses of humor, all that Zig Ziglar sunshine up our butts, and general curiosity kept us sane throughout the nomadic adventure that would have driven a weaker family to madness.

4600 Sherry Lane – I can’t honestly say that I remember the day we moved into what seemed like a mansion at the time. I don’t remember much about the house in it’s original state, but from late 1976 to the winter of 1983, my mother worked very hard to transform that house into the place in which so many of my childhood memories were formed. Sadly, a lot of those memories involved bright red, six inch, shag carpeting, (Again, there’s a miniscule chance the length and vivid color of that carpet has been slightly exaggerated in my head throughout the years) orange curtains, and wood paneling.

Wichita Falls itself seemed like such a thriving metropolis to me at the time. There were people everywhere and the house we now lived in was on the corner of our street and one that would have seemed like an interstate in Big Spring. A four lane, paved river of constant traffic. We had a tree in our yard that Mom promised me I could climb, and Dad was wearing suits more often. Either we were moving up in the world or dad was going to a LOT of funerals.

1977 – Jimmy Carter took office as the President of the United States. I couldn’t really figure out why that caused my father so much anguish, but it seemed that every time that man’s face appeared on TV, my father would clinch his jaw and turn his attention immediately to something a little more uplifting. I remember hearing my mom and my dad talking one night when I was supposed to be in bed. They were discussing something about ‘pardons’ and ‘draft-dodgers’. Neither of these things meant much to me at the time so I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t think much of it at the time, I should say. It’s amazing how little, innocuous things like a conversation with words and concepts you don’t understand, can have significant meaning later in your life, isn’t it? Anyway, despite the fact that my father seemed to view Jimmy Carter as some sort of nemesis, I remember thinking that there was something soothing about the way that droopy faced man talked. It would be years later when I finally realized that I wasn’t being soothed at all, I was being subdued by the liberal enemy. My dad was impervious to such tactics.

The Church that we attended in those days felt like just as much of a home to me as the structure in which we slept. Going to church in those days was more like a family reunion than a chore. Mom was in the choir, and everybody seemed to know us at Faith Baptist Church. In fact, it makes me pretty proud that so many of my childhood memories, especially the ones that took place in Wichita Falls; took place either at that church, or with people who were fellow members. It was no surprise that we were driving into the church parking lot on a Tuesday night. We were there almost every night it seemed. Tuesday night……not a normal worship night and we’re not catholic, so there was no confession or anything…….must’ve been choir practice. It was raining. I was always lulled by the rhythm of the wipers, and remember being abruptly pulled from my hypnosis by the sound of my mother crying. It was the first time I had ever heard that sound, but it wouldn’t be the last. I had probably heard it before, as I have been told I was a bit of a “nocturnal” baby, but this was the first time I actually remember the details surrounding her tears. Elvis Presley had died.

I know my Mom was a fan of Elvis. She had been a devoted follower long before I was born and the news of his death seemed to upset her in a way that I didn’t quite understand. I knew who Elvis was, but I had never met the man. He sang songs that made my mom happy, but as far as my brain could tell me, Mom was on her way to choir practice that night to practice singing songs that also made people happy. Elvis wouldn’t have given much of a shit it if the roles had been reversed, so at the tender age of four and a half years old, I got my first living, breathing, example of the fact that women are sometimes street-rat crazy for no reason at all. Don’t get me wrong, I now know why Elvis’ death was more of a news story than I could comprehend at the time, but I still don’t understand the need people have to cry when they hear news of the death of a celebrity. Back then though, all I knew was that I loved my mom and if she cried over the death of this man they call The King then I better not question it.

Nineteen Seventy-Seven wasn’t a bad year overall. Looking back at some of the headlines, it may seem hard to remember it that way, but remember……the only memorable headlines are the ones reporting tragedy. The happiest memories are yours alone. I remember watching news of the New York City blackouts. Mom explained to me, in what I am sure was a disturbingly graphic manner, what it meant for that many people to be without electricity. I couldn’t fathom a city the size of New York in those days. Air Conditioning and food refrigeration meant nothing to me. The concept of such a place intrigued me though and that’s why I remember perking up and paying attention when I heard a story about the World Trade Center building and a man known as the Human Fly. First of all, the sheer size of this building was unfathomable to me. Men who could build buildings like that could do anything. A country that could have buildings like that within it’s borders was a country worth protecting. Even more fascinating than the building itself was this man they called The Human Fly. Just the sound in the anchorman’s voice as he read the report gave a sense of awe and intrigue. This man climbed the outside of the building from the bottom all the way up to the top of the 110 story structure. Awesome! Years later, when I stood in the observation deck of The World Trade Center and looked down at the rain covered civilization below, I couldn’t help but think of that man and what it had to have felt like to crest the roof above my head.

The most memorable thing in my life from the year 1977 came when I finally made a real attempt to stop biting my fingernails. Apparently it was one of my favorite pastimes and I remember my dad just saying “Star Wars” every time he would catch me chewing on my fingertips. Not only had I been told that I would not be allowed to go see the movie until I stopped this activity, but I would most likely get some kind of imaginary disease. By the time the movie was actually released, I was so excited I couldn’t help but bite them. For every second that I had not  seen that movie was a second I had wasted. I gnawed at those things like a Rottweiler on a hambone. On the day I was finally driven to see the highly anticipated film, it’s hard to imagine that anything else could have made it’s way into my brain, but I distinctly remember my mom buying me my first pair of Nike’s on our way to the theater. They were white, with a red swoosh. I was so proud of those things! The line to get into the movie was all the way around the theater and i was terrified the entire time that someone was going to step on my new shoes.

1977 Star Wars Promotional Advertisement

to be continued……..

Webb Air Force Base – Big Spring, Texas (1972-1976)

November 2, 1972 - On what I can only assume was a gloriously sunny afternoon in the desolate plains of West Texas, I came screaming into the world in early November of 1972. Stories have been told to me, from various sources of varying reliability of that day. From what I can gather, I was pretty much the second coming of our Lord and Savior in the eyes of my family. I assume that most babies are viewed as heroic in their arrival but I get the feeling that my heroism was actual.

During the pregnancy which ultimately granted our planet with my presence, my mother was diagnosed with rheumatic fever. Now, I have never done any research whatsoever on the topic but have instead pieced together a story over the years based on limited medical information and my genetically enhanced ability to add a certain degree of bullshit to any situation. Rheumatic fever kills 4 out of 5 fetuses. Those numbers may be slightly off but in Europe, where diseases of all kinds have been appropriately handled throughout history, Rheumatic fever is allegedly to blame for Hitler, Boy George, the hairstyles of Flock of Seagulls and British Parliament, George Michael's compulsive masturbatory habits, Napoleon, and all manner of hooliganism. When my mother was diagnosed, the medical staff at the Hospital on Webb Air Force Base warned her that she would be giving birth to a creature with the mental capacity of a wet Nerf Ball. They did their best to prepare her for what life with a severely deformed child would be like.

From day one, I have felt the need to prove people wrong. After what I assume was a pleasant birthing process for my mother; (you're welcome, Mom) I was whisked away in one of those plastic display boxes in which they like to seal babies for the first few hours of their lives. My mother, while exhausted in every meaning of the word, was thrilled when the doctors told her that I would probably only eat a quarter of an ounce of food and I ate 2 ounces. She was thrilled when  I pushed myself up on my arms and looked around the room in my first hours on earth, Mom seems to think that was God's way of letting her know that I was okay. I tend to believe it was my way of telling the doctors to go screw themselves! I would spend decades proving my retardation but it would NOT be on their terms.
Obviously, my time in the thriving metropolis of Big Spring, Texas was not confined to the hospital alone. I was eventually deemed beautiful and healthy after a battery of tests confirmed what my proud parents already knew. I was perfect. Had all my parts, wasn't oddly shaped, had a mythical sea serpent between my legs, and I was cleared for departure. Again, as I picture it in my head and therefore share with you as fact; it was a glorious day in West Texas as I arrived at the majestic home that the Air Force so graciously built and donated to the parents of this long awaited child. In a sense, that house was the modernized version of the Bethlehem Manger. In reality, it was a tiny duplex that most likely looked exactly like every other house on the street, Regardless of its size, or the fact that we lived in an area of the country that eerily resembles the surface of Mars, it was where my first memories were created. I would never call it my hometown, but I guess in the truest sense of the word, that’s exactly what it was.

I’ve managed to piece together the first couple of years based on pictures I’ve seen and stories I’ve heard. I have also made up a bunch of crap, so just enjoy the story and stop being a dick about it, okay?
Anyway, I have very distant, very fragmented memories of that home in Big Spring. I remember that there was a brick wall in the front. I don’t know if it bordered the driveway or if it led up to the front door. I just remember that it was a light colored brick and I was sitting on it with my Dad when I found out I was going to be a brother. In all honesty, it probably wasn’t even a wall. It was probably more of a divider between the yard and the walkway to the front door, but to a two year old kid; it seemed like a fortress. I remember sitting on that wall and flying a kite, and I remember sitting on that wall just waiting for my Dad to get home from another day of unfathomable heroism. Oh, I could fathom it; you can’t. See, there are a lot of kids out there whose fathers get up and go serve this country in whatever way their particular branch of the Armed Forces asks them to, but my Dad was different. See…..my Dad protected not only the country, but planet earth as well. His plane was faster, his bullets were bigger, and his muscles were stronger.  I believed every plane I heard fly through the endless expanse of West Texas sky was being piloted by my father. Such details as differing types of jets…..two planes flying over at once….the fact that my Dad was sitting next to me…..none of that crap mattered. He was my Dad and he was magic. Deal with it. He also had the girl you'd expect such a hero to have, but their love was not flaunted like seems to be the case in movies.

My mother, with her long blonde hair, quick-wit, and infectious laugh complemented my dad perfectly. Where he had absolutely nothing to teach me when it came to anything artistic, sanitary, culinary, or profane; my mother had achieved expertise in all these categories and more. She was the one that stayed home with me and guided me through this world while Dad took care of evils in the sky.

It’s funny the things you remember from your youth. I don’t remember anything about my bedroom in that house. I don’t remember a single childhood toy, and if it weren’t for pictures and later reunions, I wouldn’t be able to pick half the people from this era of my life out of a lineup. I wouldn’t be able to describe the house itself with any great detail, and I couldn’t tell you what we were doing on the day Watergate became a news story. On the other hand, I can recall some of the events as if they happened yesterday. I recall the sweet smell of my baby brother’s head on the day they brought him home from the hospital. I can describe the green and white, distinctively seventies couch on which my Mom laid him down with extraordinary accuracy, but I can’t for the life of me remember why I called my little brother “Ashley” for the first six months of his life. His name is Ryan but in my head, for some reason he looked like an Ashley. I vividly recall the world’s dumbest dog over which my parents so often reminisce and I recall just like I was watching a movie the time he got his head stuck in the sprinkler while trying to wrestle with the spitting intruder. In my head, I see a very red, very shiny, Irish Setter with a LawnBird sprinkler stuck around its neck, running through the yard, biting at the water as its spray made its inevitable return to her face. Even at the tender age of two and a half years old, I remember thinking “what a dumbass!”

I don’t remember hearing anything about the Munich Olympics at the time the terrible event was happening, but then again, I was only a month old at the time. Still, for some reason, I have always felt a strange, inexplicable interest in that horrible story. It’s as if that particular tragedy is somehow lodged in my psyche. I don’t recall ever hearing anything about Bill Gates and Paul Allen launching Microsoft, but then again I was three at the time. However, I do recall exactly what I was wearing one rainy day when we stayed inside and my Mom let me sit up on the counter and make chocolate chip cookies with her. I remember what it smelled like, and I remember the feel of the wooden spoon in my hand. I think I rode that dumbass dog like a horse that day too. Anyway, I was wearing red shorts with a yellow Winnie the Pooh stitched into the leg. I had a sleeveless red and white striped shirt on and brown shoes. The seventies were a disgusting time, weren’t they? That memory may be why I rarely wear brown shoes to this day.

Reading the headlines from this period in time would lead a person to believe that there was not any happiness to be found. Our President resigned amid scandalous circumstances, terrorists threw a grenade into the helicopter full of nearly freed hostages, and hippies still refused to bathe. In my head though, they were happy times. They were the years and moments that were truly the seeds of so many of my core beliefs today. I have no way of knowing which events from that early stage in my life formed the man I am today, but I do know that right there, in the West Texas plains launched a pretty damned interesting life.