Trauma: The Story of My Life

INTRODUCTION Trauma, according to my Funk and Wagnalls, means an emotional shock that creates substantial and lasting damage to psychological development. Now don’t go saying I am crazy, maybe a little weird, but normal people are so boring. When you hear about all the trauma in my life, you will understand how I got the way I am. One time I said to my young granddaughter, “Annie, I tell you you are driving me sane.” She said, “No, no Grand Dad, you mean I am driving you insane.” Her year older sister said, “That is a joke; if you are driving him sane, it means he is not sane now!” So the legend grows. One Halloween I was dressed as “General Chaos” (I have been demoted a grade since) my daughter confirmed this identity, when she said, “You always stir up any group you are in.” Well, who wants to be wishy washy like Charlie Brown? People have to be energized to have fun, don’t they? Well I am not a bunny beating on a drum, but I do try to be fun. A wise old man said to me: Trauma in your life? You cause most of it!” I think he is right. Maybe it’s bad genes; maybe it’s my competitive spirit honed through years of competitive sports; maybe there is a screw loose. Whatever, “I’d rather be a hammer than a nail, yes I would, yes I really would…” etc. At an early age, I became a disciple of Leo Durocher who preached, “Show me a good loser, and I will show you a loser.” My Momma didn’t raise me up to be a loser, so there you have it. Fighting my opponents throughout life, both real and imagined, - 76 years and counting - I really have had an interesting life. Want a peek . . . ? Oh, by the way, I use some “Literary License” (READ: There are some “Little White Lies”) in this narrative; but not many, and only intended to make the reading more enjoyable. Hope you get some smiles on the following pages; I had plenty of them in writing these reminiscences. Hope you like the goings on in the Middle Ages before cell phones, computers, GPS systems, IPad, and all the other miracles of the Electronic Age; we actually had to talk to one another then, and the personal interaction led to some fun and funny times. TRAUMA 1: I WAS BORN; I WAS ALMOST KILLED The first trauma in my life that I don’t remember - do you remember when you were born? - was my birth. Of course I don’t remember, after all I was just a barely conscious tadpole in a brand new spankin receiving blanket just introduced into a world of bright lights, lots of noise, and ugly giants hovering over me; then some dude gives me a hard slap on the ass. Wait a minute, I want to go back to that nice warm, cozy place, with no noise, no giants, and plenty to eat. No such luck - here’s the cold, hard world, lil tadpole, make the best of it, and lots of luck. What I was told by my Mom some years later (could she have lied to me?, nah, Moms don’t lie), that the doctor who delivered me arrived at the hospital in an advanced state of inebriation. If only my parents in those Middle Age times were aware of “malpractice lawsuits,” I could have grown up rich - “I could have become a contendah!” In any event, they didn’t know, so I got yanked into the cold world with tongs embracing my noggin. I actually still have the forceps scars on my temples to prove what I am saying. Good thing this inebriate doctor didn’t squeeze too hard; I could have turned out to be a string bean-brained conehead. The second trauma in line here was likely some kind of untruth. The story goes from Mom that Doctor Umbriago (Italian for drunk - just ask Jimmy Durante) broke my right ankle as he malpracticed me into this Vale of Tears; obviously he was anxious to get back to his partially empty bottle of bourbon. Many years later, my mother-in-law-to-be, trying desperately to stop her daughter from marrying a nice, but poor young fellow, told her daughter that I was born with a club foot. Broken ankle - clubish foot - what did I know? All I remember was another trauma (are you seeing a pattern here?) having to wear an old-fashioned high shoe for my first 3 years, while my companions wore low ballet slippers, low cut saddle shoes, low cut tennis sneakers, low cut beach shoes, and low cut everythings. Actually, in just a few years, the cool boy footware was high cut boots, the really cool guys had a pocket knife sheath built into the side of the boot; boy they looked cool with your corduroy knickers. Good thing I was bigger than the rest of the other toddlers; no taunts about my shoes ever came my way - at least that I could hear. Every time my doctor (later to be introduced was his son, “Dumbo”) treated my ankle - foot, whatever, he would shake his head: “How could this be, a financially disadvantaged kid with a damaged foot - ankle was smarter by far than his kid, a privileged kid issuing from the loins of an MD? Little did the Doc know that Dumbo and I became buddies in elementary school where the intellectual contrast was to assert itself big time. Another trauma I don’t remember was that my aunt-in-residence in our modest (understatement) 3rd floor apartment told my Mom to throw me out the window, because my incessant yowling was ruining her beauty sleep. Now wouldn’t you be yowling, too, if you had just been born as damaged property, with a broken ankle (?), and gouges in the side of your head? Good thing my Mom was protective of her first born - it was a long way from our apartment to the ground! I could have ended up being a flat headed fat head. Little did aunty realize that I was merely exercising my pipes in preparation for being a powerful-voiced (READ: loud mouth) orator. Anyway, I survived this threat to my well-being and was on my way to wreak chaos in many tranquil worlds.