my careless contagion

Geoff was my best friend once upon a time. My family moved from South Dakota in 1987 to Nebraska. My oldest brother and father moved first, then the rest of us over Christmas break. Apparently, there was a lack of rentals. Geoff's family lived next door. We were in the same grade (4th), and he took me under his wing.  The top photo was taken at Geoff's high school graduation party (he's wearing the tie and I have my arm around him, my brothers on either side). This may have been the last time I saw him. That's a sorry ending to a best-friend story, I know.  Geoff was the best at everything, as I recall. He was super smart, athletic, well-liked, and had plenty of friends. When we moved to Nebraska, I was at least a year behind in all my subjects. Using Geoff as a marker of success, I got myself good grades again by the time 5th grade ended.  I went out for Optimist Football using a borrowed helmet and pads. On the first day of practice, I recall Geoff yelling ...

I have two older brothers: Jason and Jonathan. This post is about the middle brother, Jon. I've talked about some of the abuse I suffered in my childhood. Most of that abuse — the longest-running and most profound — took place at the hands of Jon.  The pictures directly above and below were taken in Florida many moons ago. My family would go to a condo owned by the company my father worked for during Christmas vacations. We did that many years with varying degrees of completeness. Sometimes Jason could join us, sometimes my grandma came. But it was always a bunch of white Nebraska folks (okay, Gramma wasn't from Nebraska) getting burned by the sun and eating a lot of key lime pie and seafood. Looking at these pictures, something is clear. I mean, besides the fact that at one point I changed which side I parted my hair. No, I mean the legacy of my relationship with my brother is not simple. It is as I would describe his behavior: bipolar. We were friends much of those ...

Dressed up for church. I'm the little one. Every day has a feeling. Sunday is the first day of the week on my calendar. But it always feels like the end. Monday is the beginning of something. Sunday is for saying goodbye to a week. The way Sunday feels has changed over the course of my 42 years. When I was a child, Sunday was for Sunday school and church. My earliest memories of church were of boredom. I often fell asleep during the services. Maybe it was really early in the morning. Maybe the preacher droned on. My mother played piano for our church. (I'm referencing one church, though we went to many over the years.) Her fingers played the notes even as she sat in the pew next to me. I watched her "play" the piano and studied her fingers. I studied my father's fingers, too, though his were harder and hairier.   I'm the little one. No, not the dog! The most exciting thing about Sunday was the Sunday paper, in this case, the Rapid City Journal. T...

What is the nature of failure? What defines failure?   No, this isn't another post about how much I hate myself or my life. Really, I'm just asking questions and positing the truth. So, before you say, "Here we go again," relax. This isn't another I-hate-my-life post. It's just an honest assessment. A child has many people to look up to. But, a child also has many people telling him (let's assume it's a boy for our purposes) he's wrong. Tell a child this often enough and he becomes angry or sullen. And then he assumes he is always wrong. How do I know this? I was that child. In fact, I am still that child, and those same people who told me I was wrong back then still tell me I am wrong today. In fact, I feel I've never been right about anything. I've been swimming in a sea of wrongness my entire life! On a fairly recent and random Saturday, I realized in many people's eyes (or, potentially, if they have all the facts), I am a fa...