Getting to know me: Part 2

(Thanks to Jared for prompting me to continue...)

I don't remember exactly when I realized we were poor. It may have been when I began to notice the difference between my home and the homes of some of my friends. I remember watching "The Brady Bunch" and other TV shows and thinking how rich those familys were...because they lived in homes that were clean and had real, unbroken furniture. Understand, we weren't exactly dirt-poor. I always had clothing, food, and such. But our house had one bathroom, no closets, no AC, no central heat, etc. It was very hot in the summer and mostly cold in the winter.

My brother and sisters were mostly cyphers to me. The age difference was a generational wall. My brother and oldest sister were both married before I turned six. Another sister married not long after that. Time created a wall between us that I still haven't really been able to breach. We get along, but "family" seems a bit strong for what we are.

When I started school, I remember thinking, "Ok twelve years of school and then I can go back to playing all the time." I watched a lot of TV.

Somewhere in my youth, I began to lie. I'm not sure when or why. My life wasn't that bad, but it was bad enough so that I felt the need to enhance the truth. It would be a very long time before I came to terms with my lying. I still have to make an effort to stick to reality.

Part of that (I assume) has to do with my self-esteem issues. I can't say why, but I've always thought that no one would really want to know me, be my friend, or love me if they knew who I really was...what I was really like. As a kid, I was shy and that shyness often manifested itself as being stuck-up. I certainly wasn't an easy person to like.

In school, I would never have more than one or two friends. Often just one best friend. Often it would be a new kid..someone with whom I had no history. Having friends meant sometimes having them over to your house. That was hard for me as my house was a dump. I had to like someone an awful lot and trust them to ask them over.

Getting to know me... Part 1 (Warning: Life Details Ahead)

I was born in Wellington, Texas in 1956, the youngest of five. One brother (the oldest) and three sisters. My brother is 15 years older and my nearest (in age) sister is seven years older.

We were poor. West Texas is cotton country. My father farmed family land and took a small part of the profits. (When there were profits.) Most of the year, we lived on credit. One of my earliest memories is of my maternal grandmother picking cotton by hand, with me sitting on the long cotton sack, riding it as she slowly moved along the cotton row.

My father. A mostly quiet man. The enduring image I have is him sitting in his worn, green fabric rocker, chain smoking and staring into space. He would sit there for hours. Saying nothing, just staring. I have no earthly idea what went on inside his head. Cateract surgery had left him dependent on coke-bottle glasses. He wore the same pair for as long as I can remember. His grizzled hair was always buzz-cut short. He collected and sometimes repaired guns and clocks. A life-long Republican, he liked baseball, loved western stories and anything related to the old west, but didn't care much for John Wayne (He considered him inferior to Alan Ladd...I have to agree). I know practically nothing of his early years. The only picture I have (of those years) shows him as a weak-eyed child. Overall he was not so much cold as simply disinterested, as if he had already done what he wanted to do or had given up ever doing it. There's a moderate amout of resentment in me about things he did or didn't do. In many ways, he was an excellent bad example.

My mother. Not quiet. Always asking , always looking, wondering if I was ok. Pictures of her as a young woman show a quiet, serene beauty, with soft eyes and a gentle, caring smile. She had bothersome false teeth. There's no one image of her that stands out. She was always doing something, always busy. She had no hobbies other than reading and watching soaps. She had written several unfinished but good short stories. Within her power to do so, she gave me every material thing I desired. Perhaps it was an effort on her part to make up for an existence of which she was somehow ashamed. Don't know for sure. She often spoke of leaving or divorcing my father. She never did. Our relationship was reversed in some ways. It was a given that she would give me or allow me to do anything I wanted. She seemed to spend most of her time appeasing everyone.

My childhood was hardly traumatic. We were poor but always had food and clothing. Our house was a dump, but that was more from neglect than anything else. Neither parent had little interest or motivation in mainting a clean home. I never worried about bringing home bad grades, staying out too late, or telling them where I was going. My father didn't seem to care and my mother didn't want to make waves.

Wellington was a very small town. Nothing to do and all the time to do it. I can't remember a time when I didn't want to leave. My aunt Minette lived in Dallas...the big city. That's where I wanted to live. For whatever reason, I was always, somehow on my way to Dallas.

First...

The big question is: Why blog? And the apparent answer is: Why not?

Not a great answer but the only one I'm prepared to give. (at this time)

Rest assured, I've no great insights to share. None. Not a single one. There's no doubt in my mind that any feelings I've had, any personal insights I may have experienced, any ecstatic peaks reached or depressed depths fell have almost certainly been experienced by countless others and documented and\or worded better.

You have been warned.

I will try not to be boring. I will often fail.

J.