My Battle Uphill

Shortly before any signs of mental instability became devastatingly apparent I pretty much grew up like any normal child in the early 1970’s. My very first established homestead was on Cedar Drive in Brooklyn Connecticut. It felt quite normal and innocent in those very early stages in my development, with me carrying on like most innocent children would be expected to. My behavioral standing during my first few years had deteriorated into a gradual but progressive state with only minor or verbal nuances. Then about the fourth year into my slide, the signs became more prominent and startlingly visible, with unlimited unpredictability that went from one extreme to the other. Nevertheless, I did not seem to pose an immediate danger to family, friends, including school teachers and administrators.

I consistently loved playing outdoors with the other children next door and contently running through the corn field behind our house. My brother and I would ride around in this homemade go-kart my father built for us that had no working power plant, so we would push each other around in this hand crafted wonder until it eventually fell apart at its seams from excessive abuses as we were inherently rough on our toys.

All our local relatives would come together pretty much every season to participate in the camaraderie and entertainment at our little red house to talk about apparent successes or even some of life’s failures. Of course we never heard too much of that negativity. I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t want to hear any of this entertainment sapping and depressing commentary, especially during family gatherings. He would save that for the in house turmoil which would quickly build behind the scenes, my mother getting the brunt of it right before lights out.

One afternoon my father was planning to fly his radio controlled aircraft for us kids but the engines simply wouldn’t turn over. So he pours gasoline all over the planes and lights them on fire thinking this would make the engines fire up. I am not trying to pick on my late father here, but sometimes when parents get a little hot under the collar, especially when it comes down to pleasing an important crowd or an armada of tired guests, extreme frustration can make people do stupid and crazy things. I think the fire woke them up. This really happened. My dad was not the only person to do dumb things. One time I climbed over our stone wall to play in the woods for a bit before sundown, and when my mother finally called me in for the evening she couldn’t believe what she saw in my grasp. As I crossed the back porch and strolled into the newly groomed parlor, I was holding a dead woodchuck in my hands with its wide body completely blotting mine out. Mom stood there nearly having a coronary. I was laughing, she was not.

I always relished the game of croquette because of the obvious challenge of interpreting how the ground would make my shot track. It was almost like trying to read a green in a way, but with croquette, but you had the weight of the ball in your favor so your shot would track even straighter still, at least you hoped while hoping it passed through that wire gate. We always got around to playing this game during these precious family cookouts with all the luscious trimmings. Playing card games such as pitch, as well as bridge or rummy were pretty much a staple in our family network with heated strategies before thrown in due in part to our competitive spirits. Nonetheless, the games were reasonably friendly in nature.