What I Wrote On My Last Birthday

WHO I AM

This was originally written on my birthday: May 01, 2007.

It was edited and added to Gather on Sept. 13, 2007.

REPUBLISHING 9/15 to "What's Your Sign" - group compliment of Lela M.  (I am a Taurus)

Today is my 44^th  birthday.  I wanted to say something like, ‘it’s been a long strange trip’.  But immediately folks would know whose line that belongs to and comparisons to The Grateful Dead would form automatically.  And such comparison would hardly be close to the truth.  The Grateful Dead members have had thousands of lovers, been stoned for years at a time and have toured the world.  I have had less than a dozen lovers (maybe a little more but I’m not in the mood to figure up the exact count), I have probably been legitimately stoned a grand total of eight months or less, I have been across the Mississippi a handful of times but most of my traveling has been restricted to the east coast of the United States and, unlike the Dead. I never learned to play an instrument.  So, I am going to dish my first analogy right now.  It’s just been a long trip.

The second analogy cruising along the electrodes in my brain is to say I have had a great adventure.  But again, ditto.  Sir Edmund Hillary and Charles Lindbergh had great adventures.  Houdini had self-made adventures and Madonna brought fantasy adventures to life.  You would not see any of me in the smallest molecule of any of these.  My greatest adventures include camping in local non-grizzly-infested woods, climbing mountains whose sum of height would probably not match Everest’s twenty-eight thousand feet, and swimming in rivers that even during flood stage could not match the Colorado or Snake on an ordinary day.  So, I guess I will trash the ‘great adventure analogy’ theme also.

So, what’s left?  Do I open with my significant contributions to mankind.  Oh, that’s right, there are none; unless, of course, my own daughter or her children do great and mighty things, but by then I’ll have gone back to dust.  The lack of social or scientific contributions were not from lack of desire. Growing up, I toyed with astronomy, biology and chemistry; I just never had the ability to turn myself into a Stephen Hawkings or Charles Darwin.  Of course, if I had succeeded in the latter, Jesus would not have been very impressed with me no how.  Socially, I always thought I deserved a beautiful, sexy, smart, career-oriented woman to make my babies, provide my meals and help with the creation of wealth.  As Bill the Cat is fond of saying:  ‘blthfph’.

Maybe I am approaching this from the wrong angle.  Maybe the only way to discuss my life is to focus on what life has given me and forget trying to pretend that I have given anything back.  Why not?  When everything else fails, there’s always the truth.  And as Jesus was fond of reminding us, the truth shall set you free.  Okay, that probably wasn’t Jesus, but there’s no need to stone me.  I mean, the statement wasn’t even blasphemous.  So as some ugly fat guy used to say every late night, to the entire nation, “here’s Robert!”  (Well, ‘Johnny’ but you know what I mean).

Mexico, Maine.  My birthplace.  My hometown.  A quiet, beautiful, natural setting nestled between the great Androscoggin River and the Western Mountains of Maine.  Actually, my birthing took place across the river in Rumford because Mexico wasn’t (and still isn’t) big enough to accommodate its own hospital.  Big, evil, filthy Rumford.  Yeah, you might say there was a hint of a cross-town rivalry.  Nevertheless, Mexico was a beautiful town with rich green woods to roam, mountain cliffs to climb, fields of green for picnicking and wondering about the birds and bees, and pristine, cold rivers to get your feet wet in.  The river was a lot more than just a spot to get your feet wet.  In my hometown it was the catalyst for proving the various stages of youth all the way up to manhood. 

In Mexico, you weren’t even a legitimate being until you could swim cross current.  You weren’t a ‘growing’ boy until you were brave enough to swing out from under Black Bridge on the Tarzan rope – and actually let go, tumbling to the chilly waters below.  You never got to be a ‘big boy’ or ‘big girl’ until you climbed over the railing of Black Bridge, took a deep breath and launch yourself into very thin air.  All the time, praying that the rocks below would mysteriously vanish – allowing you to hit only water.  I was thirteen before conducting my own leap, and fifteen before I ever did it again.  To be considered almost a man you would have to travel another ten miles up river to ‘Three Pools’ and launch yourself off one of the massive boulders above the falls into what was never more than five or six feet of water.  Eventually, we all did this and just as eventually, an ambulance would finally arrive to provide us transportation to Rumford Community Hospital.  You would think that the ‘Three Pools Dive’ would be more than enough to wager your manhood on, but there was one more little task before you graduated and hopped on the road out of town to become whatever it is you were going to become. 

Two words:  ‘Coos Canyon’.  Coos Canyon is a narrow stretch of surging water held in place by steep, sharp canyon walls on each side.  So narrow that two canoes could not get through if they were side-by-side.  It was here, many years before I ever witnessed the light of day; that some idiot decided to build a little bridge 40-60 feet above the water.  Needless to say, the local youth of Mexico, would not have ever missed this person if he had decided to remain in his mother’s womb.  But of course, he didn’t.  And the true test of manhood in Oxford County, Maine was created.  To become a man in the eyes of Mexico, one would have to demonstrate his/her incredible bravery or astronomical stupidity by jumping off this little bridge, into the little strip of water as it careened between the razor sharp rocks of the canyon below.  Death has happened here.  No, “gee, Bob, another foot and I would have hit actual water.”  No serene but fast ambulance ride to the local butcher shop.  Death.  Well-documented death of which all participants had fore-knowledge of.  And yet, we still jumped.  I was eighteen before I acquired the excessive amount of stupidity required.  I went off that bridge like a bullet.  My teeth were clenched and my eyes were glued shut.  I didn’t even aim.  Through the grace of God, I hit the deepest pool of water possible (still driving my feet into the bedrock) and popped up like a cork leaving a wine bottle.  I had done it.  I was a man.  To this day, I have not stood on that bridge again.  Probably never will but my love for that river will never be matched by any other natural wonder, any place, in any part of this big old world.  Dear God, if I have never thanked you for that river, I do now.  It made for a splendid childhood.

Now I’ll add a few notes about my family.  If any of them want more than a few notes, they can write their own darn story.  Well, my parents can’t because they have already been called home.  If their earthly story is to be told, it will be through the writings and the actions of their children and grandchildren. My mom and dad demonstrated God’s concept of unconditional love.  They were married and loved each other for more than 51 years.  Their love for their children never wavered even as we continuously and collectively brought home multitudes of trials for them to endure.  We all, at one time or another pushed their love and patience to the limit.  Their love would bend but it never broke.  Not when my oldest brother Alan piled up the DWIs, or my sister married crazy men (against my mom’s fervent wishes), or when Ted showed up on the doorstep, expelled from school again, or when I spent 180 days in a jail cell.  Their love remained.  Dear God, I know I have thanked you for my parents more than once but for the sake of my readers, I do so again.  Thank you.

My brother Alan belongs to the baby-boomers, being born just after my dad returned from the second war to end all wars.  Side note:  mankind is very good at making war and killing each other, you might say we are pretty much experts at it.  Alan was the athlete of the family and the best swimmer I knew.  At an early age he married one of the prettiest women I ever laid eyes on and she gave him two children, making me an uncle by the time I was five.  She also gave him disloyalty, dishonesty and infidelity, and they parted ways.  Alan’s first child Ricky, my nephew, was taken from this world when he was barely twelve.  Was this punishment for the sins of the parents?  I don’t know.  I just like thinking that Ricky has been enjoying the rivers of Heaven for twenty years or so now.  Today, Alan still lives in Maine and has re-married in his old age.  He has a new life now and doesn’t bother with the rest of us much any more and his greed may only be surpassed by my own, but I still love him and, Dear God, I thank you for him.

My sister Randi was a child of the fifties and was endowed with all the family values at that time which she still, for the most part, practices today.  Randi was embellished with enough love to make up for the lack of love shown by her brothers from time to time.  Her only big rebellion was towards my mom and she manifested it by marrying crazy and less-than-desirable men.  I can even remember my mom sitting on her in an attempt to derail her first marriage.  I, of course, thought her first husband was just great.  I spent days with him paddling canoes, gutting fish and trying to run over small animals with the family car.  Today, Randi is the glue that keeps our ties bound.  She has a daily walk with Jesus and she places each of us in His care each day!  The first month or so I was in jail I was pretty much in shock and a frightened little rabbit.  I can remember I had a little simple prayer back then.  Something like, “Dear God, I know Randi is praying for me, so whatever she says is good enough for me, goodnight and amen”.  This was the only prayer I could muster for entire weeks.  Dear God, thank you for Randi and the incredible amounts of love you have placed in her heart.  I know she will have her picture on Heaven’s wall of fame.

And then there’s Teddy.  A sweet, hopelessly lost child of the sixties, Ted has re-written history in his own mind.  He was once an artist and a painter.  I often stood in awe of his creative talent.  But somewhere along the way he grew bored with exterior mediums and started etching great and exotic hallucinations in the folds of his mind.  He gave up brushes, charcoal and paint tubes for LSD, acid and cocaine.  His first folio of masterpieces were enjoyed by many, the latter group enjoyed only by himself and a very small, specialized group of friends who shared his highs.  Today, Ted offers no allegiance to God or even acknowledges that God exists, but he may be one of the most spiritual persons I know.  To understand what I am talking about you will have to track Teddy down and ask him to let you read his Appalachian Trail journal. His journal is a grand work of spiritual writing, even if he doesn’t recognize it.  In 1998, while I was confined to a cell, Ted accomplished his life-long dream.  He hiked the entire Appalachian Trail from South Carolina to Maine.  He did this without any resemblance of a budget, he did it with off-brand gear, he did it with little relevant experience and he did it alone.  For all of you purists who are going to want to remind me that the Appalachian Trail runs from Georgia to Maine – don’t bother; I know this.  But hell, South Carolina is close enough to Georgia so in my mind I will consider that Ted did the entire walk.  By the time he reached my cousin Marlene’s in Maine, Ted weighed just over one-hundred pounds.  Today, Ted works odd jobs, loves everybody (not quite as much as he loves his dogs though), and tries single handedly to keep Budweiser a profitable company.  Throughout all his years, Ted was noticeably my mom’s favorite child.  It’s easy to see why.  Ted, I love you and I thank God for making you my brother.  Peace man.  Stay crazy baby.

Of course, Alan, Randi and Ted are not my only family.  I come from an extended family, with many extensions originating from just one or two souls (notably big cousin Terry, ‘too many seeds, too little women’ – you dog you!).  You know I say that with affection and yes, even a little admiration.  I do not intend to list all my family members here but there are a few that for some reason or another deserve to be mentioned.  If this ever gets turned into a novel, the reasons will be brought forward but for now I leave the reasons to your imagination why you are now reading these names:  Tampy, Aunt Ida, Norman, Valerie, Scotty, Marlene, Kelly & David, Mary Lou, Sharon, Lisa (happy birthday to you today also), Robin, Uncle Lewis and Lorna (Little Bit).  I love you all and thank God for all of you.  Please remember me in your prayers.

The introduction of my friends will demonstrate three distinct phases of my life:  childhood, pre-drug and post-drug.  I have never enjoyed great quantities of friends but I have been blessed with friendships of great quality.  Friends who were so close that I could feel their joys and pain just as easily as they felt my own.  Friends whose parents treated me like one of their own and whom my own dad took on many, many adventures and excursions.  The friends of my childhood were Jimmy, Rex, Frankie and the entire Patneaude clan (there were about 11 of them).  My first girlfriend was Rex’s sister Heidi and my first love was Lynn Broomhall.   In fact, Lynn and I were married in the early seventies (’73?) with my brother Ted officiating the ceremony.  Jimmy was my partner in knowledge; we would do our homework together, draw up amateur engineering plans and discuss how to make the world a better place.  Rex was my partner in mischief; cutting down the neighbor’s tree, skipping school and pushing my brother off a thirty-foot wall.  Frankie was a year older and besides being my friend he also had to shoulder the burden of being my hero.  Whenever we played Tarzan, he was Tarzan and I was ‘boy’, later to be named Korak by whoever wrote the comics back then.  Frankie was big and tough and hell, he wasn’t even afraid of the dark!  I wonder where they all are today.  Isn’t it funny the way childhood friends disappear?   I hope you are all well.  Jimmy, you’re probably a millionaire with a gorgeous wife and a couple of brainiacs for offspring, but I guess you deserve such blessings, you were such a good kid.

In high school I met my best friend Richard.  He was like my exact opposite.  He was a tough kid moving to a small town from the city of Boston.  He smoked.  He attended shop classes.  He had a certain flair with the girls.  For years we were inseparable.  During our senior year, his step-dad got transferred to an airbase in Mountain Home, Idaho.  I have never missed anyone so much.  One night at an out of town party, I took a fifth of Jack Daniels whiskey and the host’s telephone and went and hid in a closet.  I dialed Richard direct and in between crying and throwing up all over the host’s clothes, we had ourselves a six hour long distance phone call.  I refer to the person having the party as ‘host’ because to this day I have no idea who he is.  I do know that he got a phone bill he never wanted and a wardrobe that was totally useless, but hey, I was missing my buddy Rich and that’s all that mattered.  The other three close friends of the time were Carey, Mark and Bruce.  I am not sure of Bruce’s whereabouts but Carey and Mark are still living in the Rumford/Mexico area.  Mark is now Richard’s brother-in-law (they married a set of sisters) and one of Oxford County’s leading insurance salesmen.  Carey still works for the same ski resort he worked for when we graduated high school.  There’s still loyalty out there if you look for it.  This is what I refer to as my pre-drug gang.  The couple of years I was on drugs I lost interest in keeping in touch with the folks back home and as for Richard, he had packed up his family and followed me to South Carolina.  Our friendship soured when I sort of loaned Richard’s car to a drug dealer for a few days.  I will always regret losing Richard’s friendship.  Stupid stuff.  Stupid times. 

And now I have a group of new friends who thankfully love me and accept me for who I am.  These new friends I can break into three groups:  my church friends (Faith Baptist), my  non-church friends and my long distance friends.  My long distance friends consist of Claudia and her children and my friend Melissa.  Claudia resides in Essen, Germany and is painstakingly trying to teach me the German language.  I plan to visit Essen in 2010 (God-willing).  Melissa is an Australian lass.  She actually flew to the states to be with me for a little time – having never met me in person, the act was truly a leap of faith.  She is back in Australia now but plans on moving to the U.S. in a few years and working in healthcare.  My church friends consist of wheel-chair bound and knowledgeable Jim, talented handyman Cort (who’s real name is Mark), sweet and caring Bonnie and understanding Dianna.  There’s also a very nice couple, Kim and Doug, who have taken me under their wing a time or two.  I admit a little envy towards Doug because he seems to be financially successful and Kim is some real eye candy.  All of these friends have one thing in common; they love God and they have all placed Jesus first in their lives.

My non-church friends consist of Harold and Clareese.  They plan to marry this year.  They are simple folks with strong family values.  Harold is a native of Guatemala and Clareese is a product of North Carolina.  They make a cute couple even if they are approximately twenty years apart in age.  But since when does true love figure in such inconsequential matters such as age?  They are good for each other, they are good to each other and they are both good to me.  I love them.  Dear God, I thank you for all the friends I have known. 

I realize there are many other blessing that have been bestowed on me:  my talent for writing and for poetry, my love for music and the ability to collect such a wide variety and my love of – and talent for – photography.  I also realize that this is only a journal entry and as such it must end or I risk losing the attention of my readers.  Lastly, I realize that since I have dealt with the folks who have blessed my life and named names, I guess I should at least name the special ladies who have graced me with their love, passion or friendship over the years.  So in closing, let me thank God for the likes of Danielle, Jamie, Karen, Cathy, Ginger, Brenda, Lisa 1, 2, 3 and 4, Adele from Texas, Sheila, Donna, Alicea and Cindi.  May God’s blessings be poured out upon them.

I guess life is not as bad as I often choose to portray it.  Today, I will grant me my own birthday wish:  I will be happy and I will be okay.  And I will love God