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.