My life in a blog

Posted by Dirk on March 1, 2009

There’s something slightly unsettling about being five. For me, it was the idea that I was a dopey, insignificant being, relying completely on the day-to-day decisions of other people that might not be any smarter than myself. Some five-year-old boys spend carefree days playing on the tree swing in the backyard. I spent mine following mom and dad around the house, making sure they had completely extinguished their cigarettes. You tell me who’s the smart one. They weren’t bad parents, just a bit flightly, never really mastering the whole raising kids thing. One big obstacle for mom and dad was that there was a lot of drinking to do and very little time to raise children. Let’s face it, it’s hard to hold a glass of bourbon while you teach your kid to swing a baseball bat.

Besides my parent’s “rat pack” mentality contributing to my transparency as a child, I was also the youngest of three, which meant that no one really liked me. I’m fairly certain I was a mistake, though the only proof I have of this is my mom and dad constantly staring at me as though I was some sort of mold growing on the bathtub. But I do think they loved me in their own “you kinda bore us” sort of way.

I spent the first five years of my life in Hollister, California, which was a quaint little farming town, and is currently a slightly less quaint little farming town, due to the influx of rich, over-entitled ass wipes imported from nearby San Jose. It’s also my understanding that very little farming is done there now because, well, the rich don’t farm, although they are more than happy to bulldoze mile upon mile of pristine farm land to build big-ass ugly mansions.

I’m skipping over years one through four in Hollister because honestly, I don’t remember jack shit during that time. Five is generally regarded as the age when one retains memories, although I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. Some claim to remember moments as far back as three, but that’s just nonsense. These are the same individuals who believe Fox News to be a trustworthy news source or “sense” their dead ancestors walking next to them down the cereal aisle at the grocery store (“Grandpa Lars told me to buy the Muslix, honey!”).

What comes to mind most about year five were the actual dwellings I inhabited. I remember the ass-end of living at 116 Sally Street. This is where I was brought after my mom plopped me out of her girl parts. The most vivid (and only) detail of my time at this particular locale was my brother’s truly strange garage-converted-to-a-bedroom setup. The garage had those cute little windows that many garages have, windows that my brother Kurt promptly covered with tin foil upon taking ownership. This peculiar behavior drove my dad bat shit while giving my brother great joy.

With that exception, I got nothin’. From what I was told, there was no room for me at the house, and so I was simply put in a crib and moved from room to room as the need arose. I can picture my mom dragging around that crib while attempting to vacuum, drink, and smoke simultaneously, while my brother prayed to Satan in our pitch black garage.

I recently did a Google earth search of 116 Sally Street. I spent a good hour or so zooming in and out of various spots in the front yard, imagining myself playing there as a boy. Good times. 116 Sally Street looks like it’s held up well, a nice little place and most likely, worth a small fortune. My dad had a chance to purchase the house at one point, but declined. In hindsight, I suppose this was a wise move as I would have spent the next eighteen years of my life wondering where to sleep. At the same time, I imagine what a steal the place would have been back in the early 70’s. While I ponder this, I’m reminded of a conversation I had with my mom years later. She recounts the ongoing dream of my dad’s to move New Zealand to raise sheep. “Oh,” I say. “Dad didn’t buy because we were planning the big move to New Zealand.” Of course, the man had a plan. Needless to say, we never moved to New Zealand. New Zealand would have been un-fucking-believable compared to some of the places Dad would take us over the next ten or so years.

From there it was off to B Street, which I thought was spelled “Bee” until my recent google earth search turned up bubkis. After ten or fifteen minutes of cursing under my breath, unable to find this seemingly imaginary street, I did what any researcher would have done; I called my sister in Hollister.

Sis was doing well, although she did seem stunned that I had actually called her. I’m not one to keep in touch, something that hasn’t gone unnoticed. But she is sweet and cordial just the same, beginning the conversation with the same line she begins all of our phone conversations.
“How’s mom?”
“I dunno, fine I guess. Hey, what was the street number of the house on “Bee” street?”
“120,” she replies, “why?”
“I’m writing a book.”
“Another book. Now what’s it about? Are you planning on finishing this one.”
“I might. I just might,” I say. “The book’s about my life growing up.”
“Sounds exciting. Do I get a free copy?”
“No, you’ll pay just like everyone else,” I say.
“I’ll just get it from the library then.”
“Hollister has a library? I thought you guys still bartered books for tomatoes at the cannery or something.”
“Yeah, well at least I don’t live in Texas, what a shithole.” she says.
“Yeah, it’s a shithole alright. But seriously, I’m putting lots of profanity in my book, specifically so the libraries won’t carry it.”
“Smart move. You’re always thinking.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Ok, love you bye.”
“Ok. Talk to you around Christmas time.”

And I hang up, realizing soon after that I forgot to ask sis how to spell “Bee” street.

“FUCK!” See, there’s that profanity.

To be continued………….

Comments

1. Jose A. says:

   March 3, 2009 at 7:57 am

   Your relationship with your sister sounds healthy. P Lovin’ the blog.