Peculiar

Sometimes, as a boy, it bothered me to feel different from the other boys. I was the only one at school on crutches. I stuttered when I spoke. My family moved often so I usually was the "new kid". Stuttering new kids on crutches weren’t the most popular people. Being unpopular didn’t bother me so much. What I disliked most was being stared at by almost everyone.

Not everything that made me different also made me uncomfortable. I was thankful for many of my peculiarities, like these:

I drew well. From an early age I would sit alone and draw for hours, elaborate battles between World War I biplanes, landscapes filled with mountains and waterfalls under ominous storm clouds, dinosaurs both real and born in my imagination.

I had a reel-to-reel tape recorder in 1958. I didn’t know anyone else with a tape recorder, not even an adult. I would record interviews with friends, music from the record collections of others, original dramas complete with sound effects and musical segues between scenes.

My musical interests were boundless. At the age of thirteen I enjoyed rock and roll, classical, jazz, Broadway and vaudeville show tunes, movie soundtracks and barbershop harmony.

I attended a one-room schoolhouse. It was 1956, I was in the sixth grade. The students ranged from grade one through six. Each grade occupied its own row. We had one teacher. She spent time with each grade in turn and would have one grade help with the lessons of another; second graders helping first graders learn numbers and the alphabet, fourth graders helping third graders with arithmetic, sixth graders coaching fifth graders on geography. It was a rewarding experience and my most valuable lessons were in citizenship and cooperation.

My first car was a 1950 Studebaker. It was 1961 and I was sixteen. NOBODYdrove a Studebaker. I thought it was stupid. Somehow, the other kids thought it was cool. Eventually, I thought it was cool too.

At sixteen I took a job as a hospital orderly. It was a welfare hospital filled with elderly patients. They were the most amazing people, full of wisdom and stories. Some were bitter and sad, most were painfully lonely. I learned from them all, especially the several who died as I sat holding their hand in mine.

I really cared about people. It seemed that I could feel their pain and their joy. I believed I could sense their thoughts through their facial expressions and body language. I don’t know if I interpretted them accurately but it was fascinating to watch people closely while wondering at their motives and imagining their intentions.

As I young adult I imagined that my peculiar childhood made me somehow special. I now believe that may just have been another manifestation of an inferiority complex. Perhaps I was over-compensating for feelings of inadequacy, or something like that.

I don’t feel special today. I just feel well, thank you very much. I am grateful that my childhood was filled with such unusual experiences. The memories are like treasures I can turn over in my mind to examine, appreciate and learn from. Someday they may be my most valuable possessions, they will be all I have.