And then the crescendo

Not just since beginning this recent call to memory lane but long prior to it, I have frequently thought of my life not in years but phases of events. This is probably natural for most people. “Most people”, I say, always casting myself as an outsider in this drama we know as life set in a world that belongs as much to me as anyone but never completely feeling that way.

This brings me to my next point and that is that another of my deep seated attributes has been to think of myself as immensely odd. I am not sure if I came into this world classifying myself this way but definitely since the first time I was able to compare myself to other school kids. As a child, I assumed all of the other school children were living the happy lives I had been living before my parents’ divorce. I am sure some were living that happy life. I am sure some were not but I did not realize that then. Age is good for some things.

In the years 1970-1971, things were about to get a whole bunch worse before they could begin to get a whole bunch better. One single year of my life was the crescendo or the turning point as it were. That year was stark. It was bleak. I have no pictures of it other than my school picture.

During that year, I shared a room in a house in a different town with my last sister still living at home. Good times were scant but she and I made our own happiness by drawing lots and lots of fashions. My sister was and still is talented with a pencil. However, forever being a big fan of her little sister, she decided that I drew better heads than bodies and she drew better bodies than heads. We developed a fun new game. I would draw a head and she would draw a body to go with it. We spent hours laughing at our creations. I never knew what to expect. She had quite the imagination.

When not inventing entertainment, we lived in a stepfather imposed puritanical world without telephone, television or radio. However, I was holding out a treasure. I had a secret transistor radio given to me by another sister who understood my love for popular music that had recently married and moved away. To this day, I can stretch my mind across those years like a long arm reaching out a hand through a mist to touch a reflecting pool of memories vividly remembering a song I heard while I clandestinely listened to my little, orange radio. That song was called “Your Song” by this new guy, Elton John. Even now, I think of that song as the most beautiful song ever written, the truest expression of love ever put into words and set to music. Even now, it can bring a tear to my eye.

My Lost Year

I can still draw with practice. I have been dusting off the pencils and discovering its entertainment again.