This is the true joy in life: being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for a moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

George Bernard Shaw (as quoted by Mary S. on LinkedIn)

I have said many times in my life - sometimes humorously, sometimes when I'm in the depths of emotion - that my life should serve as a "Don't Let This Happen To You" warning. There's the time I found myself halfway between Reno and Salt Lake in a dead Hyundai with a car load of stuff including a computer monitor owned by my best friend who was, at the time, moving from Chicago to San Francisco. That's a story for another day. If I continue to do this chronologically, that'll be awhile, but worth it, I think. It's one of my favorites. 

And, you know, today's blog is also one of my favorite stories that speaks to the DLTHTY theme - the story of The Swing Set. 

You see, we had a big backyard and although we mowed the grass, we didn't really didn't do a lot of upkeep on our garage, the pink blocked patio, the metal swing set, the sand/needle box and other things like a metal shed that I made it one of my young life's missions to keep organized. My other projects, btw, of this kind were in the attic and the basement. The treasures I have found over the years in our attic included an envelope with the negatives from my mom's and dad's wedding reception in 1953 and some cool self help books from the late 60s. (BTW try as I might I cannot remember if Dr. Tec's "Fear of Success" was in our bookshelf, but if I ever made my childhood into a movie, I sure would have me thumb through it. Because foreshadowing and stuff).  I guess it was like most big backyards in the Midwest - a rusting this or that somewhere on your property, scattered bikes or toys, and a general ease about the life being lived there. It's not like east coast backyards that are, comparatively, virtually English gardens. 

Anyway, I have a sort of flap on my tongue that stems from an early childhood moment of Stupid. Here goes. 

Linda was my best pal/playmate from an early age. She lived in a large rambling house with her mom and dad and several older brothers and sisters. They had an enormous yard and a creek (which we all called "The Crick") next door where all the kids from the neighborhood would swim in the summer. There was a bunch of kids on River Road where I grew up but she was the only one exactly my same age. 

Anyway, most times, I (and everyone else) would go over to Linda's house to play, but this one time during a very cold and grey winter day when I was 4 or 5, Linda was over and we were running around in the snow playing on the swing set. Like all kids we teased each other. Well, she was kind of hogging the one and only swing. At one point, I suggested we go over to the sand/needle box, and, so, she got up and we raced over to it... except I was convinced she was going to double back and retake the swing, so I doubled back and lurched towards the cold metal swing set, tripping ever so much that I went head first into one of the supporting poles. And, as I gave a 'yelp', my tongue found itself lodged on the cold metal. 

When you're 4 or 5 and your tongue finds itself lodged on any surface, the natural reaction is to yank it off. 

Yeah, I did that. 

... and then the pain began and the blood started to pour out, filling my mouth, and then, when I opened my mouth, creating a stream of red in the fresh snow. As I ran towards the house in a panic, I looked back at a dumbfounded Linda and a definite trail behind me.  Yeah, it was pretty awful. 

I don't remember much after that. Not sure if I passed out or what but the next thing I remember, I was laying in my dad's bedroom with the TV on. I think there must have been an ice pack on my tongue to stop the bleeding and I was pretty freaked out. My sister, Lynn, created a little paper doll puppet show from a book of Cinderella paper dolls she had. It was pretty cool. She'd loved the version of Cinderella that had been on TV a couple years earlier which starred Lesley Ann Warren and Stuart Damon. Damon would go on to portray Alan Quartermaine on General Hospital for over 30 years. 

Not that this needs to be said - but I'll say it anyway - when your tongue gets stuck on a metal surface, don't yank it off. And, also trust your friends. Also: don't play on the swing set in the winter, why would you be doing that anyway? LOL

And although my sister and I have had our share of good and rocky times, I never will forget that act of kindness. 

Why, you might ask, is this one of my favorite stories? Well, mainly because when I tell it, I'm able to enjoy the look of horror on the other person's face at the thought of it happening. There is a weird pleasure in that. LOL 

So that's today's story, please leave a comment if you feel so moved. 

In the meantime, I'll be back tomorrow and throughout the week with more thoughts and stories. 

Everyone has stories of things that they are told happened to them during the early years of ones life that one doesn't/cannot remember, in that time before our consciousness 'wakes up' and we start being aware of our life. 

For me, these include, being obsessively protected by our family's big black lab Licorice (who died, while I was still a baby, I think, by being hit by a car on the highway just outside our house), being present at a party my parents threw and exclaiming "OH HELL!" for some unknown reason, and the time I stuck my hand out to stop a slamming door with a glass pane in it that caused a scar on my right arm. I remember none of this. 

I was also told at a young age that I had been an unexpected third child after my mom had had some problems carrying to term. My sister, born in 1956, was supposed to have been a twin, and I seem to remember hearing from her that mom had been pregnant twice between my brother being born in 1960 and my birth in 1964.

So, from a young age, before I was 'awake', my mom doted on me as I was not only a 'whoops' but it was clear that I would be her last child. I can't, of course, know what that must feel like, to know or suspect that you can't have any more children, but it can only be a sad thing (whether or not she and my dad even would have wanted more kids is not important). 

When I tell people that my mom and dad were my best friends growing up, some look at my like I'm crazy, some look at me as though they pity me... and some understand. My parents weren't perfect, but, they were perfect for me. My mom was loving and kind, creative, smart and funny, and my dad had a wealth of knowledge about pop culture, world history, and a mind for exploring interesting subjects (such as visitors from other worlds and things of that nature). They would each leave me, in their own way, over time, but I think that they armed me with a better tool belt than either they or I realized. That I have lived in many cities, have a large number of friends, and have had the pleasure of a variety of super cool experiences comes from parents who taught me the right things. I'm certainly not perfect either, but I have them to thank for a lot of things that have kept my life full of life. 

Anyway, the first image that I have always remembered clearly, was the image of the back of a woman's legs, standing at our kitchen sink washing dishes. She was wearing a dress and short heeled shoes. I know it wasn't my mom but was probably our housekeeper, Mrs. S.

Mrs. S. was hired to help my mom cope with three kids and a big house. As my mom suffered from agoraphobia (something that would only be named after my dad passed away in 1981) we all just accepted that my mom needed companionship in the house and when driving and it was Mrs. S who would cook meals, do laundry, iron, and, to some degree, the disciplining. Later, after Mrs. S left, Mrs. K joined our household and would threaten us with "the stick" - a large wooden spoon. She called me "Charlie" as in "Charlie Brown" and I would stay at her house in town on occasion when my parents would go out of town. I don't really remember Mrs. S at all, but would later "meet" her briefly. It's a strange thing to meet someone who took care of you but you don't remember them. 

The image up above is of a Christmas card I salvaged from one of my usual childhood raids of boxes in our attic. It's certainly one of the things I wouldn't remember getting at 2 years old. I am thrilled that it somehow survived until I could, during college, put it in a photo album for safe keeping.

The card is from my grandma and grandpa Hansen, my mom's parents who lived in Milwaukee. My grandma refers to herself as "Nonna" in the note but I know I never referred to her as that, although I do remember my sister doing so.  As a side note, this grandma, Thelma, was always a very big part of our Christmas as she would bake the most delicious sugar cookies and put them in fancy tins, sealed with heavy tape and sent to us not to be opened until Christmas day. She was quite a positive influence on me and, aside from my parents, she is the person from my family that I miss the most (she passed at nearly 100 years old in 2004). 

That's all for today, more soon! 

originally posted 12/19/18 Noon. 

edited for additional clarity 12/19/18 3:30pm

Everyone has stories of things that they are told happened to them during the early years of ones life that one doesn't/cannot remember, in that time before our consciousness 'wakes up' and we start being aware of our life. 

For me, these include, being obsessively protected by our family's big black lab Licorice (who died, while I was still a baby, I think, by being hit by a car on the highway just outside our house), being present at a party my parents threw and exclaiming "OH HELL!" for some unknown reason, and the time I stuck my hand out to stop a slamming door with a glass pane in it that caused a scar on my right arm. I remember none of this. 

I was also told at a young age that I had been an unexpected third child after my mom had had some problems carrying to term. My sister, born in 1956, was supposed to have been a twin, and I seem to remember hearing from her that mom had been pregnant twice between my brother being born in 1960 and my birth in 1964.

So, from a young age, before I was 'awake', my mom doted on me as I was not only a 'whoops' but it was clear that I would be her last child. I can't, of course, know what that must feel like, to know or suspect that you can't have any more children, but it can only be a sad thing (whether or not she and my dad even would have wanted more kids is not important). 

When I tell people that my mom and dad were my best friends growing up, some look at my like I'm crazy, some look at me as though they pity me... and some understand. My parents weren't perfect, but, they were perfect for me. My mom was loving and kind, creative, smart and funny, and my dad had a wealth of knowledge about pop culture, world history, and a mind for exploring interesting subjects (such as visitors from other worlds and things of that nature). They would each leave me, in their own way, over time, but I think that they armed me with a better tool belt than either they or I realized. That I have lived in many cities, have a large number of friends, and have had the pleasure of a variety of super cool experiences comes from parents who taught me the right things. I'm certainly not perfect either, but I have them to thank for a lot of things that have kept my life full of life. 

Anyway, the first image that I have always remembered clearly, was the image of the back of a woman's legs, standing at our kitchen sink washing dishes. She was wearing a dress and short heeled shoes. I know it wasn't my mom but was probably our housekeeper, Mrs. S.

Mrs. S. was hired to help my mom cope with three kids and a big house. As my mom suffered from agoraphobia (something that would only be named after my dad passed away in 1981) we all just accepted that my mom needed companionship in the house and when driving and it was Mrs. S who would cook meals, do laundry, iron, and, to some degree, the disciplining. Later, after Mrs. S left, Mrs. K joined our household and would threaten us with "the stick" - a large wooden spoon. She called me "Charlie" as in "Charlie Brown" and I would stay at her house in town on occasion when my parents would go out of town. I don't really remember Mrs. S at all, but would later "meet" her briefly. It's a strange thing to meet someone who took care of you but you don't remember them. 

The image up above is of a Christmas card I salvaged from one of my usual childhood raids of boxes in our attic. It's certainly one of the things I wouldn't remember getting at 2 years old. I am thrilled that it somehow survived until I could, during college, put it in a photo album for safe keeping.

The card is from my grandma and grandpa Hansen, my mom's parents who lived in Milwaukee. My grandma refers to herself as "Nonna" in the note but I know I never referred to her as that, although I do remember my sister doing so.  As a side note, this grandma, Thelma, was always a very big part of our Christmas as she would bake the most delicious sugar cookies and put them in fancy tins, sealed with heavy tape and sent to us not to be opened until Christmas day. She was quite a positive influence on me and, aside from my parents, she is the person from my family that I miss the most (she passed at nearly 100 years old in 2004). 

That's all for today, more soon! 

originally posted 12/19/18 Noon. 

edited for additional clarity 12/19/18 3:30pm