The Early Years

I was a very fortunate child to grow up in a time and place that allowed me the freedom and means to be, well, me. My independence began as soon as I got my first wheels. They came attached to a red tricycle with tassels streaming from the grips and a baseball card in the spokes so I would be the center of attention. I was four. Right after breakfast, I’d zoom down our driveway and hang a right or left onto the sidewalk at the giant maples like I was the Prince of Prospect Avenue. Not once did I hear “Where are you going?” or “stay in the yard”. With boundless energy and not a care in the world, I rode that machine up and down the three long streets and four cross streets that made up our idyllic small-town Vermont neighborhood. I was looking for any of my friends affectionately known as the gang of eight. (Norm, Hank, Dave, Bill, Billy, Ron, Gregg, and yours truly). Once two or more of us connected we’d spend the day getting into whatever unattended 4-olds get into until lunchtime when we’d eat at whoever’s house was the handiest or at supper time when we actually went home.
It wasn’t like our parents didn’t care where we were or what we were doing all day. They always knew what we were up to as evidenced by their unexpected arrival whenever one of us got injured or needed their help. I don’t have any proof but my sense is that all our moms were in constant communication telepathically.
I was the baby of the family and had two older siblings from which certain knowledge was to be gained (I rummaged around their rooms). I was observant, clever, persistent, and eager to be independent, and didn’t like being questioned. Mom and Dad were two of the most patient child rearers of the 20th century. Or they simply gave up.
My exploits involved grapefruits, chickens, bows and arrows, cats, cigarettes, dog poo, funeral homes, bare bottoms, Cadillacs, 49 Buicks, and mysterious-looking iron pipes. It’s a good thing Dad wasn’t poor or I would have broken him completely. Having a good friend as the owner of our local oil cartel didn’t hurt either.
All of these seemingly abstract references to past deeds will be fully elaborated on as my childhood unfolds in living black & white (we didn’t get a color TV until 1963 and then as I recall it was mostly purple).