It Is What It Was

I had an unusual childhood. My parents seemed not to really love each other. Every year I lived in a different house, attended a new school. Chronic illness and the fear of an early death haunted me well into my teens. A stuttering habit set me apart from other children and rendered me nearly uncommunicative.

Those years often were difficult and filled with suprises but they also could be exciting. One summer Dad brought home three horses with saddles, tack and all the accessories. He was impulsive. Suddenly we were a family of equestrians. Usually Dad only came home with a new dog. We lost a lot of dogs to traffic.

I began sixth grade in a one-room schoolhouse in rural Minnesota, then I transferred to Leavenworth, Kansas, then to Raytown, Missouri, then to Wichita Falls, Texas and finally to Marshallton, Delaware, all in the same year. How many kids could claim a resume’ like that? Fifth grade wasn’t nearly so exciting. I stayed in one place all year, a hospital bed while taught by tutors.

Three neighborhood boys once left me unconscious and bleeding in the woods after I fell from the trail into a ravine. They believed I was dead and so swore a pact of secrecy. They were Boy Scouts. Later I awoke and stumbled home. A neighbor, one of the boy’s mothers, drove me to the hospital for stitches. The boys were not glad to see me. Fortunately, we moved soon afterwards, as usual. I never did join the Scouts.

When I was thirteen I found a black leather motorcycle jacket on the ground while walking to school. It fit perfectly. My classmates began treating me differently. I slicked my hair back and wore a sneer on my face. No one messed with me. It was cool. But, I grew fast that year and eventually the jacket didn’t fit. One morning I tossed it on the ground where I had found it months earlier. Within a week my hair was back in a flattop and soon things returned to normal.

I spent several years on crutches because of a bone disease discovered while I lay in traction recovering from polio. Schoolmates are not kind to a "crippled kid." But their comments weren’t nearly as painful as those from adults; "Oh, you poor thing." "How unfortunate." "I feel so sorry for you."

My siblings struggled with their own challenges. In most cases, I preferred mine to theirs.

What would I change in my past? It is a meaningless question since the past cannot be changed. It is what it was. My past molded me into the man I am. Had things been different I would not posses the same emotional perspective or priorities or sense of humor. I would not be the person I am today. It is the store of experience carried from my past that truly makes me unique.

I don’t feel special just because my DNA sequence has never been duplicated in another human being. But it humbles me to know that I alone may appreciate the depth of my Father’s love for his children that day when he brought home three old saddle ponies. I was there and saw his face, the happiness in his smile, the softness in his eyes. He wanted us to have the childhood that he had only dreamed of.

Experiences like those were the building blocks of my life. What would I change if I could? Not a thing.