Chap. 0 - Foreword - A History

FOREWORD

A History

         August 23, 1967. My 19th birthday. Nineteen years, and I just started learning about that rocky road called life a year and a half ago.
         My name is Jim. My life was not like most kids' lives because my parents tended to shelter me from the world. How much of this "sheltering" was intentional and how much was not, I've never really figured out. But I suppose my being the oldest of three children, and the only boy, may have had a good deal to do with it.
[indent}The first home I remember was a three-story, shingled, frame house in Norwood. The first twelve years of my life centered around this house. During most of that time I remember our family attending a local Presbyterian church quite regularly. I clearly remember missing very few Sunday School classes, and nightly prayer was an enjoyable habit with me. I felt very relaxed and at peace when I jumped in bed afterward.
Scholastically, I was unlike many kids from the beginning - I actually enjoyed school. Except when I felt OVERburdened with homework; my attitude toward homework was quite typical. The only exception here was math. Within reason, my appetite for a knowledge of mathematics was insatiable. I always left math homework until last so I could "savor" it and relax after the "drudgery" of good ol' Social Studies, not to mention a few others.
         During my 4th grade school year, I participated in our class play. If you could call it that. I don't remember if my involvement was my own idea, or my mother's. Nor do I remember, now, anything about the play itself. But I could not forget the preparation for, and result of, my efforts.
         I was the "narrator" or "announcer" for the production. Simple enough, right?
         Wrong. As shy as I'd always been, I was terrified standing in front of an audience. Rehearsals were no problem. But the performance...! And in a blue, sequined cape and hat, yet! Not to mention having to do the intros on my plastic toy trumpet (who contrived this whole idea, anyhow?). Finally, there was the makeup I had to wear because of the stage lights. Yecchhh!
         Against my most ardent wishes, the night of the show arrived.
         I had trouble finding the break in the curtain to get through. "Swell," I thought to myself. "If this is any indication, it's gonna be a long night." I got through the curtain.
         "Geez! Lookit all those people!" My legs started shaking. I vaguely remember blowing the intro on the trumpet, saying my first part, and finally managing to get through my first monologue.
         "Nuts. Can't find the curtain break again. You see it in all the cartoons, but you don't realize how embarrassing it is till you're the one standing with your bottom toward the audience, fumbling for the only exit available. Eventually, I found it.
         The task became ever so slightly easier as I progressed through the introductions for the remaining acts II, III and IV. But I never really became comfortable out there. And for some reason, I doubted I ever would. Being the "center of attention" was just not my bag. I can't help, though, feeling that I would have really enjoyed it all, if I could have relaxed. Pipe dreams. Oh, well, at least I survived. The cape and hat were discarded some 3-5 years later. (I recently discovered that I still have the trumpet, and it still works, though the box it is in is falling apart. JAW 10/1/99)
         In fifth grade, I developed a crush on a girl in my class, Cynthia Smith. She was one of identical twins. Most of the students couldn’t tell them apart. But as much as I found myself looking at Cynthia, it wasn’t long before I could tell them apart anytime, even if they weren’t together. And that was neat, because I always knew when I was looking at the one who’d really caught my eye.
         Somewhere in the last six years of that early period I was fortunate enough (I can say that now!) to have three years of piano lessons. Those lessons may very well have been the first time I consciously realized I had a physical limitation. Probably one of the mildest cases of Cerebral Palsy imaginable. I wore a shoe brace to bed at night to stretch a tendon in my left heel, and took it off in the morning; no visible trace of a problem. Use of the brace was discontinued completely by the time I was ten. (Though I kept it until last year as a reminder of how fortunate I am compared to many with disabilities and to continue to be considerate of them. JAW 10/1/99). The piano was another matter. Drum the fingers of your right hand on a flat surface. Now your left. My right hand will perform this feat at normal speed, which happens to be about four times faster than my left, even today. At the keyboard, I don't have totally independent control of the middle or ring fingers of my left hand. They prefer to work together. But I'm lucky. It only shows when I attempt detailed work or other efforts which require a high level of manual dexterity in that hand. Thousands of others are not that fortunate. I've always been glad that I "stuck it out" because my love of music is still with me.
         Toward the end of that early period, our church attendance had become very irregular, though I didn't know why at the time.
         Not long after I turned twelve, we moved to a ranch-style house in Anderson Township. I did my best, though, to keep in touch with old friends. Don Loheide was one of those. His trustworthy friendship was to prove invaluable before we were out of high school. It really felt nice to have some continuity to my life as I made the change to a new school.
         The fact that I seemed "unusual" to the other kids didn't change, even after we moved. Here, too, it soon became apparent to the other students that I was not really interested in their popular music, their habits, or their ways of having fun (I was into Country music). It was probably just as obvious that I was quite shy about making new acquaintances, although they probably added to that shyness because they always kidded me about having different interests. I do have to admit that this verbal "beating" was from the other guys. To an extent this aroused the interest, or at least the curiosity, of the girls, many of whom became my good friends.
         Why was I so "unusual"? Why was I not "in the know" as to the popular music and language for so long? The answer here lies with my mother. She dominated many branches of the family then, and still does today, though my breaking away has brought my father some strength of character.
         I was allowed to go places and do things, for the most part, that my mother considered "safe" for me. No chance to experience life as it really was, to learn by experience; to "get stung" as it were. I know that most mothers, if not most parents, do exactly the same thing to varying degrees; but my mother tended to overdo it quite a bit. Many times even my father defended me against some of her ideas.
         At the same time, it seemed as though I was given everything I wanted, when I wanted it. For example, a stereo tape recorder and turntable (1963). In short, I was not only sheltered, I was spoiled; only I had to make up for it myself. Maybe they did it because of my "handicap". I don't know. Just a thought. Only I never gave that "handicap" much thought; because I hardly ever noticed it was there.
         It was mom who handled the money. Dad just brought it home. Relatives told me "Your mother is cut out to be a business woman, not a housewife. That's where your trouble comes from. She doesn't really know how to raise kids." I would have to learn, from my high school years on, most things that "ordinary", "well-rounded" kids know long before they ever see a diploma; and it wasn't easy. I would finally manage to "get stung" quite a few times.
         In the spring of 1963, Mr. Virgil Wilson, the high school orchestra conductor, asked me if I’d be interested in learning to play the cello. They had a shortage of cello players, and he admitted to needing help. But at the same time, he pointed out that he honestly felt I would enjoy it, considering the way I liked playing the piano by hand.
         I gave it some thought, talked it over with mom and dad (who were all for it considering my piano lessons in earlier years), and went for it. Mr. Wilson arranged lessons for me with Arthur Bowen, then one of the cellists in the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra. By the time of the first concert my sophomore year, I had learned enough to cover a fair amount of the music. For the passages my current training didn’t yet cover, I used the musical knowledge from my piano days, with Mr. Wilson’s approval, to use alternative notes, usually the same notes shown, but played an octave lower than what was written, in their place.
         Just prior to that concert, as we were tuning our instruments, one of the girls in the first violin section passed out or something. One of the other students said something like, “It’s happened before. She’ll be OK. Let’s just put her on the table in the [music] library so she can rest.” I had been startled by the commotion, but it was time to go to the auditorium, so I had to get my mind back on the task at hand. I did find myself wondering a little about what had really happened, though. It had happened so fast that I hadn’t really noticed anything until the girl was already on the floor. But, they’d said she’d be OK, so I lined up and we went ahead with the concert.
         As sheltered and shy as I had been, I still didn’t want to miss my Junior Prom in 1965. Problem I had there was that I was too shy to ask a girl out, and even if I did, I didn’t know how to dance. Mom solved the second half of that problem by arranging for my cousin Carole to teach me some dance steps. Once that had been accomplished, however, I still had the problem of asking a girl to go with me to the Prom. As that day got closer and closer, I got more and more nervous, and also figured all the girls at school that I’d really like to go with already had dates for the Prom. So, I swallowed my pride and asked Carole to go with me. That way I could relax and enjoy the night because I was already comfortable around her, especially when it came to holding her. Back then, couples dances slowly, with their arms around each other. Thankfully, she agreed to go.
         As my senior year began, I found myself deeply attracted to one of the girls in my class, Kristine Wilson. She wasn’t too much shorter than me. She was slender, with a somewhat quiet disposition.
         About mid-November, she was seriously hurt in a car accident. She was seated in the mid-dle of the front seat in a car that veered off a road in the area and hit a tree, then flipped on its side. She had been put in a body cast from the chest down and would be in that condition for about 2 months. Since we were in the same homeroom, I had a perfect opportunity to see her on a daily basis. The day they told the students of the accident, our homeroom teacher, Mr. Whitehouse, asked for a volunteer to take her homework to her each afternoon after school. I was the perfect candidate, since I lived only two houses down the street from Kris. I was elated when I got the “job”.
         It hurt to see her in that condition, especially knowing she would have to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas in that body cast. And, she wasn’t yet feeling up to par when I paid my first visit, but I think the daily visits helped, and she was grateful for the chance to avoid getting behind in her work. She decided fighting it along with the rest of us would be easier than trying to play catch-up when that cast came off and she returned to school. She had other students visiting her daily as well, but she always took time for us to chat when I brought the books to her bedside.
         As the end of that two-month period drew near, I summoned the courage and wrote Kris a letter telling her how I felt about her. And, amazed as I was, I actually found the courage to mail it. A few days later, she called me on the phone, and very gently told me that she had already fallen in love with someone else. It was highly disappointing, and yes, I cried quite a bit. Yet one thing helped keep my spirits up: the fact that she had taken the time, and cared enough, to use the phone rather than write a “Dear John” letter. She considered my feelings and chose the right way to say it. I’ve never forgotten that.
         (As of 11/29/2000, we’re not sure if we have the correct address for her on our reunion list or not. We will see when our mailing to all classmembers we have addresses for goes out the door, whether hers is returned or if we get notice of an address change. It would be nice to see her again and see how she’s doing. I haven’t seen her or spoken to her since that day she called me. We’ll know between now and next September (2001), the currently planned time of our reunion.)
         Little did I know that my return to school for the next quarter (after the Christmas and New Years holidays that year) would bring the one relationship that would change my life forever.
         March 8, 1966 was the turning point in my life. I began learning things right and left, firsthand, for myself, at 17. Only... how long will it take me to make up for lost time?




         It's just an average day in 1967. November 28, to be exact. So what else is new? But I'd have to say March 8, 1966 was my birthday. My real one. At least that's when I started genuinely living. Even if my birth certificate does say 1949.
         My name is Linda. My life has been unlike that of most people; quite different, really, be-cause that's what they said I was - different.
         My family lived in Norwood until I was five. Our home was less than one block from school.
         Most of the houses in our neighborhood had the garage at the street level, with the house above and behind it. Most of them used the top of the garage for a patio or play area. I guess we got a little too excited once in a while as we played because one time when I was three, I fell off one of those garage rooftops. That was back when I had a lot of friends.
         Every week of those early years I looked forward to Sunday School with eager anticipation. Unlike a lot of kids my age, I felt very much at home with the Lord from the beginning. The more I learned about Him, the closer I felt to Him, and the better I felt all over. I felt each Sunday that it would be easier getting through the coming week than it had been the week before. And I was right.
         I was a little afraid, sometimes, of what many people would think of a kid with my faith: "Listen to this crazy kid; talkin' to God all the time." So, I usually kind of kept that enthusiasm inside of me. Except on Sunday. I think it slipped out once in a while, though, because my dad seemed to spot it occasionally, and he seemed to like the idea.
         Then my folks started talking about moving. And, along with starting school for the first time, I found myself wondering what our new church would be like.
         The summer I was five, we moved from Norwood to an Anderson Township subdivision and soon resumed our church attendance, this time at the local Presbyterian church. A few years later, I would be confirmed there; but, not feeling spiritually uplifted after the arrival of a new minister, my own attendance would steadily drop off.
         Sometime in the next five years or so we moved again, staying in Anderson but in a larger house. This one was a split-level. It gave me a great view of the neighborhood from my room on the top floor, over the garage. My younger sister’s room was over the garage, too. It was fun talking to each other as we leaned out our windows.
         I did have one activity that is based on the Bible though that I found totally enjoyable. It couldn’t replace going to church, it wasn’t meant to do that. But it is something that keeps my deep faith alive, lets me continue to feel close to God, and enjoy sharing those great feelings with others. In 1961 I joined Job’s Daughters, an organization for young girls who are related to men who are Masons. My dad’s been a Mason, a well respected one, 32nd degree, for more years than I can re-member. Maybe that’s where I got my strong faith in God – from him. Anyway, Job’s Daughters is a real joy for me, and I look forward to every meeting.
         I never knew the excitement, the joy, or the anxiety of changing schools, but that didn't really matter. School, within three years of our move to Anderson, would become, for me, nothing but a place to go everyday, be joked about and taunted by some of the other kids, and be given homework to do every night. I didn't mind that either, really, because I would have nothing else to do. I'd just spend my spare time in my room anyhow. Either talking to my younger sister (she was the only real "friend" I had in those years other than my parents), talking to my "pretend friends" whom no one else could see but were always there when I needed them (only my little sister knew they were there - I didn't even let on to my parents about them), or writing dream stories about my experiences - like traveling with the Beatles or the Cincinnati Reds, for example. It's a funny (lonely?) feeling when you don't have any friends, only relatives from one side of the family or the other; to be just simply existing.
         Not only was I disliked by fellow classmates, but I was called names (their favorite name for me was Roach). And I felt like I was made the butt of just about every joke they ever had. Until March of last year. That wonderful day in March, when everything changed. It seemed as though it happened almost overnight. That's why it's my "birthday". At last I was "born". I was “breathing”. I was living.