The Words - An Autobiography

Childhood Memories

I don't remember the event of my birth, of course. Nor do I have any certainty of my earliest memory. In truth, I am far from certain if any of my childhood memories are accurate records of specific events as they occurred or whether they occurred at all. My earliest memories are like low-resolution screenshots or snippets of grainy old home movies. Most were likely spliced together from tiny slices of true memories, stories I was told, or conversations I overheard, and many are likely purely the product of my imagination. And I assume some of what has passed as memories did originate from old home movies or photos in an old scrapbook or shoebox. Any original memories of the events themselves having vanished, without ever implanting themselves in my mind in the first place, passing through me like any other form of human waste.

Trying to determine what memories were genuine, at some point later in my life, I decided that what I perceived as memories but that included images of myself from someone else's perspective were likely based on pictures I'd seen, stories I'd been told, or, perhaps, had only imagined in the first place. Those that appear as they would through my own eyes were more likely memories of actual events I'd witnessed and experienced myself.

My mother was young, and my father was away in the military when I was born. My mother was born into an affluent but dysfunctional family. My father came from the other side of the tracks. Those were my grandmother's words. Coming from the other side of the tracks was an assessment my father laughingly accepted but never took to heart. My father liked my grandmother far more than she ever appeared to like him in return. He'd always seemed comfortable with who he was, in his own skin, but it was possible, as with many seemingly self-confident people, that was only the glamour he wore to hide the fear and pain within.

Later, once I was old enough to think about such issues, I learned that my mother had married my father for several reasons, the most significant of which was believing it was wrong to have sex before marriage. She also wanted to get out of her parent's home to escape the drunkenness and craziness. My father married my mother because he thought she was incredibly attractive and should have been beyond his reach on many levels. If she wouldn't have sex unless they were married, then fine with him, they'd get married.

At some point, later in my childhood, again, once I was old enough to understand such things, I recalled him often commenting, "It is amazing the lengths a man will go to get laid."

I don't remember my grandmother being crazy, but apparently, she was from time to time. My mother said she'd been hospitalized several times and prescribed medication to keep her stable. I liked my grandmother. I remember her giving me toast with orange marmalade for breakfast. We also had afternoon snacks, or tea, as she called it. She taught me manners and etiquette, which she claimed no one cared about anymore, but believed they were still important. She taught me about silverware - the purpose of each piece, how to use them and when, and where to place them in relation to the plate and the other pieces. She taught me how to behave at the table. She taught me to be a proper young man.

She also gave me the advice, "When in doubt, apply the 'Golden Rule.'. If you have the gold, you make the rules." Then she'd added, "Start figuring out how to get the gold."

Also, "Never be intimidated by social circumstances. Be a gentleman and do what you feel is right." She suspected most people I would encounter in life would have no idea what they were doing and be frightened to death they'd be found out. On the other hand, if I acted as though I knew exactly what I was doing, odds were, others would assume I did and follow my example. My grandmother may have been crazy, but she was my most trusted source of wisdom in my young life.

Whether it was an indication of craziness or profound foresight, my grandmother bought me my first computer when I was two. My mother asked what my grandmother thought a two-year-old would do with a computer. My grandmother said she had no idea what one did with a computer herself but suspected I'd better learn if I was ever to get anywhere in the world. Meanwhile, I could bang on the keyboard until I figured it out.