By the time I was seven, I was finally enjoying some of the freedom I so craved. With my parents about to divorce, I bounced from my mother to my father and on to my grandmother. Being that my parents had worked different shifts,’ my mom was a 9-5 secretary and my dad working as 3-11 since I was born. I spent most of my early years with my baby sitter and her family of two boys and an older sister. By the age of seven, I became schooled in many of the pockets and corners of my neighborhood. While there were several parks and ball fields within reach, you might think I’d be found climbing monkey bars or holding onto a swing as I launched into the air.
Two things I did enjoy from time to time. However, the sudden need for housing and the new and bursting real estate market provided all the excitement a kid could want or even handle. The first one just happened to be on the way home from school. With there would be a bunch of kids, many I called friends or knew from the neighborhood already hanging out inside just outside of the wood panels and fences marked “No Trespassing.” There would always be an irresistible draw to join in and maybe journey farther within than the older kids.
On one particularly memorable day, some of the older kids started to throw a football around. Perhaps since they were older or I never quite got into throwing the pigskin around, I started heading home. Matthew went long on a pass and fell about two floors to the rubble below. I still remember the moment, the complete shock that left everyone’s expression in a frozen state. I had seen people die on TV and the movies before, but this was very, very different. I still remember the blood, the concrete pieces in his hair, and around his face and that frozen look that said: “I won’t be coming back in the squeal.” The next day, the news of Matthew’s accident reported over the school’s loudspeaker. Though he had not died immediately, he remained vegetated until his heart gave out a few days later. Strangely enough, I always felt his mom. The secretary at the school we attended and the two I later went to, knew I was there when that horrible accident happened. And while I didn’t understand why she was always so hard on me then. These days, I wish there was something I could have said or done something to comfort her during that time.
I’ve focused much of my free time writing and trying to relearn the essential grammar skills I learned in school. Though my editor at Jersey Beat and my half-brother both teach at different levels and both volunteered to edit my work, I don’t feel it’s right to burden them with more work than they already have. Aside from my books and lessons I’ve learned, I’m considering hiring a writing coach, or at least utilizing some of the services available online.
this Saturday, with no other plans or intentions. We filled our coffee mugs and embarked on a two-hour journey that would reward us with generous plates of bacon, sausage, eggs, potatoes, and mouthwatering biscuits. Wait, I failed to mention the copious amounts of coffee. After loading up on cholesterol, calories, and tasty goodies, we braved the cold to explore a town that’s rich in history and character. While we were able to explore many of the shops, Pelican Bay books were by far the most memorable. We were having grown up and lived most of my life in the city, probably led to my love and appreciation for smaller towns, neighborhoods, and their downtown hubs. Each has its personality, character, and unique history. And while it might be a while before we return. My wife and I look forward to exploring the area in warmer temperatures.
Everybody has a story to tell. Rich or poor. Young or old. Black or White. We all come from diverse backgrounds and have lived different lives. Yes, we’re all related to this earth and one another to a certain degree and share a common bond, but in so many other ways, we are unique. As I get older, I’ve tried to become less of a talker and more of a listener. Though it’s taken a lifetime, I’ve come to understand and embrace that the only time we learn is when we listen. So, after years of talking, I look forward to the hopes I can become a better listener.
Still, crossing something off your list definitely has it benefits and rewards. Energized by a day of napping and sampling a wide array of Thanksgiving leftovers. We were recharged enough to endure a two hour trip for hearty plates of pancakes, eggs and delicious biscuits. Fairhaven, Washington seemed the perfect destination. Though we didn’t pick a place the night before. Finding a parking spot right in front of a local eatery worked perfectly for two hungry souls who had driven two hours on empty stomachs. Though Fairhaven’s downtown is quite small. There’s enough shops and goings on to keep people entertained and making frequent returns. By the time we finished eating and walking it off, it was time to hit the road again. As usual, the sun began to set and we pulled over a few times to enjoy what is for me, a perfect time to breath and reflect on just how good things can be if you let them. Aside from almost falling in a ditch and running into oncoming traffic, I’d say I did pretty damn good.
There have been countless times when she’s requested I take shots from her minds eye and even removed my camera from my neck strap and literally taken things into her own hands. Only to frustratingly hand the camera back to me when here shot doesn’t live up to her vision. Today just happened to be one of those days. When she stopped me to show me the buds of a certain plant. She removed the camera from my neck and attempted to take her best shot. For whatever reason, she seemed befuddled as to why the auto focus wasn’t working. As I began to explain macro photo to her and suggested she try manual focus, she grew frustrated, handed the camera back to me and mumbled “Im not a photographer. You do it.” So, I did. Not bad considering I only had a 28-105 lens handy.
Truth be told, I think my wife knows exactly what she wants. She’s just waiting for me suggest it. If after numerous tries, I don’t mention it, she will suddenly swoop in and say it. With empty stomachs we headed to 16th Ave. and had a mood altering breakfast at a place called Noble Barton. And while I usually save my reviews for Yelp, we could not have had a better experience if we tried. Everything from our super friendly waitress to the overwhelming amount of bacon made our decision to stay local one worthy of a golden award followed by a long speech and a lengthy speech. Due to the fact that it was colder than usual, we didn’t stay in the area for long. Aside from a two block walk to the Salvadorian bakery, our stay was short. Depending on how early we rise, we plan on heading to Tacoma from breakfast, record shopping and copious amounts of coffee. We’ll see if our desire to go crate digging will overcome that of sleeping in and a lazy Sunday afternoon.
ks from Times Square and the then gritty 42nd st. for close to ten years as an adult. Moving out west allowed me to explore places I’d never been. Though growing up with urban surroundings might not be for everyone’s thing. I wouldn’t trade my experiences for anything. Still, any trip outside of the city and outside of my element brings out a child like excitement and sense of wonderment that cannot be measured or contained. If it weren’t for my wife refusing to drive into a ditch or pull over every time I exhale an “Ooh” or an “Ahh”. We would never reach our intended destination. Here’s to those who wholeheartedly embrace the phrase “it’s the journey, not the destination.”
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