A Fork In The Road

The last two years of elementary school hadn't been all that bad. I wasn't exactly popular, but no one really bothered me, either. I was an avid, if somewhat flamboyant dancer, and the girls seemed to like me, in a brotherly sort of way, but when I got to junior high all that changed. I was big for my age, but my smiling countenance and somewhat effeminate mannerisms made me a ripe target for any badass wannabe with something to prove. And there was no shortage of applicants…

Somehow or other, I made it through seventh grade physically unscathed, but the taunts and threats had begun to take a toll. Fighting seemed a no-win situation, but avoiding the battle also carried a heavy price. Once again I retreated to my basement dream world. Then fate intervened, not once, but three times…

A new family moved into the neighborhood – a Jewish couple with two boys and a young daughter. Robby was my age, and Steve was a year older than my brother. Our entire families became close as the friendships between us blossomed. For the first time in my life, I had someone whom I could call my best friend. When summer came, we both joined the same baseball team…

The neighborhood kids, and some of the adults, had played softball in the street for a number of years. At first, I wasn’t very coordinated, but by the age of 12 I could swing a bat pretty well, and I had a decent throwing arm. I ended up playing first base that year, hit well, and had an impressive first outing as a pitcher later in the season. I almost felt like one of the guys…

Around the same time, a neighbor man took a paternal interest in me. Lucian had a growing family of his own, but he became a big influence in my life throughout my junior high and high school years, offering the encouragement and guidance that I sorely needed. Much of what I’ve done in my life has been done in the spirit of repaying his kindness. I don’t know how I could have survived those years without his intervention…

Eighth grade was an emotional hell. There’s no other way to describe it. I’d always been an indifferent student; I did well in subjects that interested me, and barely got by in others. The things I read and studied on my own were far more interesting than memorizing dates or struggling to read the kind of books that made reading a chore rather than a pleasure. At the beginning of the year, I was chagrined to find that I had been assigned to honors classes, amidst a sea of unfamiliar, aloof, and socially condescending faces. By mid-semester, I was demoralized and ostracized, and my grades suffered the consequences. More and more I retreated to my basement enclave…

Songwriter Don McLean would later immortalize February 3, 1959 as “the day the music died…” He was wrong. Buddy Holly died, Richie Valens died, and Texas Deejay J. P. “The Big Bopper” Richardson died, but the music lives on to this day. I’ve played Buddy Holly’s music for more than four decades at this writing, and people still enjoy the rhythm and the plaintive heartfelt melodies. Among my earliest 45 r.p.m. singles were Peggy Sue/Everyday by Buddy Holly and Oh Boy/Not Fade Away by The Crickets (with Buddy as lead vocalist); all four songs have a permanent place in my musical repertoire, though I generally play the B-sides more frequently. A few years later, English bands like The Beatles, The Searchers, and The Hollies would lead me to search out and discover the entire Buddy Holly catalog. Well, Alright…

The music didn’t die in 1959, but it was definitely ailing. With Elvis Presley and The Everly Brothers in the army, Chuck Berry in prison on a politically motivated charge, and Jerry Lee Lewis in moral purgatory after marrying his 14-year-old cousin, the charts quickly filled with the work of manufactured pop stars and one-hit wonders, but there’s always quality stuff available if you have the perseverance and the means. One of my favorite records that year was a beautifully harmonized ballad by The Fleetwoods, called Come Softly To Me. Another huge radio hit that year was Running Bear, by Johnny Preston; the song had been written by J. P. Richardson. Hello Baby…

At some point that year, my folks decided it was time for me to learn about some of the mysteries of adult life. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, myself or them. They gave me a stack of library books on sex and reproduction, and basically said, “don’t do it”, with an additional admonishment that I should avoid “playing with myself.” I was clueless as to their meaning, but I soon figured it out, with a little help from a friend…

When my dog had been killed near the end of my eleventh summer, a neighbor had given me some guppies and a fish bowl in an effort to console my grief. At first, I was disinterested, but I eventually did get hooked on the aquarium hobby. As with my other interests, I read every library book on the subject from cover to cover, and my collection of aquaria grew in time to include several fish tanks of assorted sizes. I began raising livebearing fish, particularly mollies and guppies, and various aquarium plants. I later traded some of my surplus live stock for an HO Scale train set, and met several others who shared my interests…

At 13, I was in an awkward growth stage. My big feet and prominent nose were easy targets for those who sought to inflate their own social presence at the expense of another. I had always been shy, but under a barrage of insensitive comments, I became convinced that I was destined to be a social paraiah, unattractive to anyone. The mocking laughter from a girl whom I somewhat fancied hurt worst of all, as I had thought that she, at least, was a friend…

Amidst all this emotional turmoil came another event which would carry long-lasting implications. An acquaintance from school who was also a tropical fish hobbyist invited me to see his aquarium. He was a little strange, and not the sort of person I would normally seek out as a friend, but we did have that one common interest. Eventually, the conversation turned to sexual matters. My library texts had not prepared me for the scene that ensued…

Though I had heard derogatory schoolyard talk of “homos” and “queers” for a few years or more, I only had a vague idea of their meaning. Now came the revelation that I might be one of their ilk. I had enjoyed the touch of another human being, and had been turned on by the verboten nature of the activity. Did that make me one of “them”? The question would come to haunt me for years…

As the year progressed, I gradually acclimated to the changed scholastic environment. My grades improved, and I slowly gained a grudging acceptance among my peers, though I never quite fit in. Throughout high school, most of my friends would be underclassmen who shared my passion for baseball and other sports…

Thank you, Lucian…