Part III

In 1974 we moved to Simi Valley CA. I was seven and it was fun to be out of the city and into the burbs. Simi Valley is just over the county border into Ventura County. It is a pretty white-bread community which is mostly known as a retirement community for LAPD officers. It also made the news years later when ironically, it was chosen as the venue to try the four officers accused (and convicted) of beating Rodney King. Someone, somewhere, said to themselves, "hmmm, where should we try four white cops accused of beating a black motorist?" So they chose the whitest and most cop-friendly suburb they could. Riots ensued.

Sometime that year, I developed what would be years of shoplifting skill. I dont remember what I stole, only that I did not get caught. However, that same day I was caught sneaking into a movie theater. Well, technically, I wasnt caught sneaking in, I was busted by the ushers for being disruptive. The film was "the Shaggy D.A." a sequel to the Disney hit, "the Shaggy Dog." In this movie an attorney turns into a dog, I think I thought it was stupid at the time, just as I do now. Anyway, I was caught and they called my mom and Jay, her third husband. I do not remember the spanking for that day, but Jay was big on spanking us. He had one of those thick, 1970's leather belts with little eyelets all the way around. He would make us pull our pants down and he would hit us on the back of our legs (not our bottoms) leaving dime-sized red welts for hours. He always said the same thing before the spanking. "I would like to tell you that this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, but thats not true." Then he would chuckle and commence with the punishment. What a kidder, huh? Anyway, according to my Mom, she later found a love letter from my step-sister, Lisa to her Dad, Jay. It seems my step-dad was diddling my sister. I didnt find this out until the last few years and have no idea if it was true or not. My Mom tells me that soon after that, Lisa's aunt came to the house and took her away, that Lisa became a Christian and married a pastor and never spoke to her Dad again, and that Jay later died of cancer.

I had a girlfriend that year, her name was Cindy and she reminded me very much of Cindy Brady. She was very cool, no kidding, she had a wart which a doctor burned off of her. At seven that seemed so exotic. Easter day of 1975, my Mom loaded us all of a sudden onto my grandparents truck. They were visiting from Arkansas, and Mom sent us back with them. My grandfather built a wood covering for the bed of his truck, it only extended about 30 inches from the back of the cab, and otherwise was open to the elements. Darin and I rode to Arkansas in the bed of that truck, and while driving down the highway at high speeds, Darin would stand up and fight the wind. This has always seemed an apt metaphor for the life he led as a young adult, fighting the wind. Anyway, in one bout I guess the wind won, because he lost his hat somewhere in New Mexico or Texas. I know how unsafe this was, but honestly, being in the bed of a truck going across the country was one of the fondest memories I have. It was just me and my brother crammed in between the cab of the truck and some furniture Papa had packed in behind us. We did not call him Papa, when Darin was a baby, my grandfather had tried to teach him to say Papa, but all that came out was Popo. It stuck. We moved to Clarkesville Arkansas with Granny and Popo.

(to be continued)

Special Kids

I just got off the phone with my Mom and we were reminiscing about how I was as a child. The conversation began with a comment about how my son has some of the same struggles I did. "He is so gifted, he just doesn't apply himself." This comment sends anyone in my family into a remembering giggle, as it was said by so many teachers, therapists and others who dealt with me regularly. Now people say it about my son. However, to paraphrase a friend, saying you have unfulfilled potential isa compliment at 11 and an insult at 41. I will try to help him through this issue, as it is better to learn to apply yourself at 12 than at 35, which is when I learned.

Thanks to my friend

I wrote a letter to my pastor this week to thank him for addressing some difficult topics in church, something which is not often done. As such, I wanted to make my thanks public and this seemed the best way. So, following is my email in whole:

"Doug,

We had to run out yesterday (Cathy got sick), but I wanted to give you some feedback. You implied that you had some negative feedback, so I wanted to give you something else. I thought it was great! I really enjoyed the message as a whole, but of course, I want to talk about the final point.

It took courage to address that issue and I really appreciate you doing so. I asked the question on Thursday and never answered myself, “what is a Christian mystic?” My answer is, “someone who is able to live in the tension.” I think that the reality of life, both as I experience it and as I understand it scripturally, is full of tension. We live in an enigmatic universe and attempts to define every element can sometimes bring us to a firm dogma, but rarely one which encompasses the whole of the scriptural concept. While each of us can embrace a stance, the more dogmatic we become, the more we will have to leave out some scripture which does not conform to our position. I am not suggesting that we not try, just that we not get firm in areas which one could argue its opposite from scripture as easily and clearly as we argue our position. Assurance of salvation and security of the believer … on these I am fairly confident. I live my life based upon the assurance which scripture gives me, but I would be remiss if I did not include those passages which seem to contradict my belief or at least question it. If we are to embrace this love letter from God, we must do so with all of it. That is in itself sometimes a difficult process and we live in that tension.

Your willingness to approach this subject was very brave. I admire you for it and it is one of the reasons we love you and love this church. Thank you, brother, for taking that chance and for a great message in whole."

too hard to view?

So, my mother-in-law tells me that she is no longer reading my blog. She said after crying two days in a row, it was too much. So I have a couple of questions. First, what is so tear-enducing about my story? Also, What is wrong with being moved by it? Why not read on, maybe it gets better?

I will give an example of why I think this is good stuff. I grew up in a family who not only were committed to lying, but one was somewhat valued by their abilities in dishonesty. This is important to understand why perhaps I struggled for so long with lying, but also why I honor accuracy and truth so much now. It is not good enough for me to be nearly true, when it can be for some others. The personal reaction comes from my personal past. In order for Cathy to understand why it bothers me so much when she sees me as unreasonable, she has to know what an unreasonable environment in which I was brought up. In order for my kids to know that any fear from them hurts me, they have to (someday) know that I grew up in constant fear. I tell my story not to revel in its problems, my failures and difficulties, nor to obtain pity (indeed, I usually don't think of it as that bad). Instead, I tell my story to shed light on who I am today.

My past made me who I am today, both the good and the bad. While I often regret the stupidity and foolishness I have exhibited over life, I also recognize that I have been taught by these circumstances. I also write to commit to memory my past. My family likes to rewrite history to fit the current situation. I want the objective facts to be told, to be placed in print so it can not be changed. This is not to say that these stories are all that objective. They are memories and stories put together in the most honest way I can. They are, by their nature, subjective. I would be willing to believe that some of my memories are not accurate, but some others are burned in my memory and I believe they happened just that way. I am open to someone correcting the record, in fact I would relish it.

Some stuff from my life was bad, most of it is just odd. I think it makes an interesting story and I enjoy the honesty of committing it to record. I guess if Mom does not want to read, I will honor that. She does not understand that she invalidates me when she sees some emotions as too difficult. It makes me feel unacceptable and too hard to be around. Maybe she feels that way, I don't know.

back to improv

Okay, so after a long wait, it seems that the improv company from whom I am trying to license shows wants to move on to the 5th step in a two step process. On Tuesday, I will be calling into a conference call to speak to their board about the possibilities of them accepting my plan and application. I was told to bring fresh answers. Since I have not answered any questions, would not all of my answers be fresh? Anyway, I am not sure what God is doing with this as I was so discouraged by the pace of this process and some of the comments that I had pretty much given up.

I will admit that my heart was a little lighter at the thought. I value humor so much and it is such a big part of how I live life and see the world, that the thought of pursuing humor as a business is very enticing. The shows they promote are a good construct of clean comedy which works both personally for me and for this market. It has the unusual benefit of being both good business and something about which I am passionate.

So, why the angst, you ask? Because life is hard. Decisions are hard. Deciding what "right" path on which to walk is at times excruciating. These are not the big questions of life, but the little ones. Not does God exist, do I have a soul, is the Bible true...these are all answered. These are the little ones. Is it okay that my kid isnt having fun at school? Would it be better to live in a slightly cheaper house to reduce debt? Is suffering through a job right, or is striking out on my own right?

These seem big questions, but they are not. They are the little things, the nuts and bolts, the daily trials. I often think that they get in the way of the big picture. Nonetheless, I am again facing one of these small dilemmas. The easiest situation would be if they rejected me outright, that is a clear answer. But it won't happen this way. It will be, we accept you with the following caveat (X). And then the problem is different, do I stand up for something? Do I walk away? Do I persevere? Do I do it on my own? There is another option. They may accept me outright, without caveat. Then the problem is really financial. With the way the market has turned, is it wise to not spend money on this new area or is it wise to ensure that I have other income coming in by investing in this new area? Is God teaching me perseverance or wisdom? Is he teaching me to strive against adversity or to make decisions better?

Or, am I overthinking the whole thing?

Part II

(ironically, continued from Part I)

After moving to Pasadena, in all honesty, I don't remember very much. I remember how our apartment shook in the Sylmar earthquake of 1971. I remember the photos on the news about the steeple which dropped through the church (I assume) where I went to preschool that day. I remember my Mom rushing us out into the middle of the street so the building did not fall on us. I remember the song that was playing on the first day of Kindergarten in 1972. We were riding in my Mom's red Ford Pinto hatchback, affectionately named "Ladybug." Mom always named her cars, and much like battleships, they were given female names and characteristics. We drove to school while a song, whose recording artist I do not know, called "Willie won't go" played on the radio. It was a little ironic, as it turns out. When we got to the school, and Mom turned to leave, all of a sudden I flew into a panic. My mom was leaving me with strangers and I threw a tantrum. I remember that the walls of the school were orange.

I could be wrong, but I believe I only ever threw one other tantrum upon entering a new school. One must adapt and there are only so many tears. By the time I graduated High School, I had attended 33 schools. I got used to new schools, new kids, new buildings, new homes and Mom's new boyfriends, or husbands as the case may be. Sometime in that year, Mom married a man named Mel Brown. Mel made the heinous mistake of loving Darin and I too much. Once, I asked my Mom why she left Mel. She told me that she could not be with any man who cared more for her kids than he did for her. I assume this is similar to the comment from Renee Zellweger in "Jerry Maguire" when she lets Tom Cruise go. I would like to assume this, but a lifetime with my Mom makes me think that it was just that he paid us any attention at all, and in her mind all of that attention should have gone to her.

My memories of the time with Mel are mostly good. I was moved from one Kindergarten class to the next, because I was smart and they wanted to give me the best fit they could. I did not see my Dad much during this time, but he would send us Math workbooks. During this time, I was able to complete easily all Math workbooks, assignments and anything else up to grade 6 Math. I think I did this to please my Dad, but Darin was more of a Dad-pleaser, so maybe I just liked Math. I remember a dream from around Halloween of '72 where Dracula came to my window to get me. My brother and I always slept in bunk beds and I kept falling off, so this was the last year I got top bunk. Christmas that year was fun, Mel bought me a football and shoulder pads and Darin told me that he had seen Santa. Darin also told me that year that he had written a poem, "Birdie, birdie in the sky; please don't tirdy in my eye." I don't know if he really wrote it or it was something he heard, but it was pretty clever for a 7 year old. I remember having a dirt clod fight in a field near our house and getting my first of seven broken noses when what one kid thought was dirt, turned out to be dirt covered rock. I remember my 6th birthday, with me, Darin and two cousins playing games like pin-the-tail and drop-the-closepin. Lastly, I remember running away. I left a note, took a suitcase (inwhich I put a PBJ sandwich and kool-aid with out a glass) and I ran all the way to the park....one block away. My mom knew I was serious because I crossed a street without an adult.

Anyway, after a short time we moved again. I really liked Mel. We even stayed with him again when Mom went on her third honeymoon with the next husband. He had two kids who didnt come around much, but were always fun. Mel treated us the same as he treated his own and I have often thought that they were lucky to have him as a Dad.

(to be continued...in part III, no less)

oh the back

When my wife told someone I threw my back out this week, they commented "welcome to your forties!"

On Saturday, in a fit of gluttony, I decided to make Chex Mix (a decidedly guilty pleasure of mine). While putting away the glass mixing bowls, I felt something snap and an immense pain in my back. Also, I could not initially stand up. I wish I could say I was doing something manly, or at least playing with my kids, instead of the truth which is that I was creating butter-filled goodness to line my waist. It is hard to admit to doing something so mundane and then becoming a practical invalid due to a very insignificant maneuver. The pain is immense, but the shame is intolerable. A friend recently broker his wrist while "riding a rail" on a snowboard. Another friend threw out his knee on a mountain bike ride. I threw my back out while making snack food. Ack!

On another note....I ate the chex mix, it was yummy!