Chapter

Despite my grandmother's offer to raise the child so my father could pursue college, they declined, and I became a companion to my older brother when my parents were just 20. In pursuit of better opportunities, my father initially took a job at a steel mill as a crane operator. However, discovering limited upward mobility, he redirected his path, following in his father's footsteps to sell calculators. 

My father's job at Control Data propelled our family from Johnstown to Pittsburgh, where my grandmothers's financial support afforded us a new home and even a used MG sports car.

Despite the luxuries, accidents marked this chapter of my childhood, leaving me with a scar on my little finger and upper lip that I carry to this day. Memories of our split-level house include the construction of a treehouse by our parents, promising nights of adventure. However, a chilling incident involving a child molester on the loose cut our treehouse escapades short after just 30 minutes. Occasional trips over the mountains to visit our cousins led us to Bird-In-Hand, PA, an Amish community. The sights of horse-drawn buggies and people in traditional garb fascinated kids from the city. Our ventures included barn escapades, jumping into hay piles, and a memorable job at a local chicken factory, chasing escaped chickens for a nickel each.

In Cincinnati, Ohio, our family settled into a home nestled amidst sprawling forests, a sanctuary that birthed my most cherished childhood memories. Our cul-de-sac boasted only two residences, one of which belonged to Andy, a boy my age who swiftly became my closest companion. Together, we'd venture deep into the woods, embarking on explorations in search of critters and snakes, much to the chagrin of our snake-averse parents. Despite their concerns, those woods were our playground, a realm of endless fascination. One particularly memorable encounter involved rescuing a helpless baby Robin, devoid of feathers, which I nurtured back to health, watching it grow into a loyal avian companion. Our bond was remarkable; the bird would perch on my shoulder, venturing out for short flights before returning, a silent testament to our friendship.

There were other creatures too; a neighbor's braying donkey punctuated mornings, while a pair of goats gifted to us one Easter brought joy until tragedy struck, leaving one of them to be sold. Amidst it all, our loyal collie, Bonny, was a constant source of joy, accompanying us on woodland adventures and playful romps. Not all memories were idyllic, though. A harrowing incident on a frozen lake stands out, where I found myself plunged through thin ice, saved only by Andy's swift action, pulling me to safety and warmth. 

Amidst the backdrop of our childhood innocence, our parents hosted lavish gatherings, where indulgence in alcohol, drugs, and hedonistic pleasures was the norm. Inquisitive minds led my brother and me to explore the forbidden allure of cigars, a wager made over finishing our dinners. While my brother claimed the prize, the consequences of his victory were swift and severe, a lesson learned in the aftermath of his ill-fated smoke. Health struggles punctuated my youth, with recurring sinus and strep throat infections casting shadows over my early years. The eventual removal of my tonsils at twenty marked the end of a chapter fraught with illness, leaving me to ponder the gradual disintegration of these troublesome organs over the years.

Chagrin Falls, Ohio, a picturesque pause in my father's numerous transfers, felt like a scene from a Hallmark movie—a small Main Street and a captivating waterfall set the stage. Here, my dad gifted us our first .22 rifles, and my older brother, Bob, and I, perhaps too young for such responsibility, spent days in the woods shooting up our model creations.

The town had its share of notable residents, including the comedic talent Tim Conway, who occasionally visited from Hollywood. An intriguing offer for me to audition for a TV series surfaced at a local diner, but alas, it faded into the realm of unfulfilled possibilities.
Bob and I explored the landscape, navigating the old water pipes that connected mills to falls. Our family's standout vehicle, the first Mustang delivered to Chagrin Falls, drew attention, especially when an unfortunate accident became the town's gossip. My attempt at selling the Grit newspaper met with less success, a humorous reminder of my entrepreneurial missteps. 

Our journey led us to the Motor City, where my dad reportedly sold Ford Corporation their first computer—an era that coincided with our introduction to rock and roll. Witnessing the Beatles live downtown in 1964, after their iconic Ed Sullivan show appearance, left me, an 11-year-old, amidst the deafening screams of adoring fans.

Mom and dad fueled our newfound interest, buying us guitars and a colossal Kustom amp. Our attempts at rock stardom, marked by noise-induced parental vexation, culminated in a few unsuccessful battles of the bands at Bob's junior high. Amidst the Detroit riots, my brother and I, armed with .22 rifles, felt the tension of the turbulent times. Our Detroit abode changed twice—first, just north of 14 Mile Road, across from a Catholic school, and later, closer to Birmingham.

Snowball battles with Catholic school kids created cherished memories, contrasting with my budding rebellious phase. Christmas brought BB guns, mischief, and the first experience of school-skipping, promptly followed by getting caught.A crush named Kathy Teasel lived around the corner, eventually sharing her poems, inviting my musical interpretation. As my brother obtained his driver's license, Woodward Blvd became our haunt in dad's black Mustang, until a transmission mishap brought a rift between us.

This marked the end of our nomadic journey as my dad secured a role at Control Data's headquarters in Bloomington, Minnesota. The hotel at the corner of HWY 7 and Hopkins Crossroad served as our temporary abode, sparking anticipation and curiosity about our new home. Little did I know, just 1.5 miles away awaited both our house and the high school that would shape my future. Finally shedding the label of a "traveling vagabond" at 14, I embraced the prospect of stability in Hopkins, a quaint town where I'd reside for the next 8 years. Minnesota, with its thousand lakes and mosquitoes as the unofficial state bird, offered a backdrop of extremes — sweltering summers and bone-chilling winters. We joked that if Minnesota summer fell on a weekend, it was BBQ time. Separated by schools, Bob in High School and me in Junior High, we navigated our two-year age gap. While I struggled with learning and experimented with track, Bob, with his license, gravitated towards friends his age. Our bonding moments included hikes in the woods, summer swims at Shady Oak lake, and fishing escapades at Lake Minnetonka.