I've never been very good at communicating, so I guess I should start with the pleasantries.
My parents' union became an institution when I was born on United Nations Day of 1976. My mother was 16 and my father 20. They got married 4 months prior to my premature arrival. My due date was 2 days after my dad's birthday. Eight years later, my youngest brother, Cody (theugly duckling to all you facebookers out there) was born 2 days after my birthday. Strange coincidence.
My parents' age difference would be a risque subject in this day and age, but no mention has ever been made of it being a scandal.
I was a bit of a square peg from the start. Mom didn't want a Junior, so instead of having Jeffrey for a middle name I was christened Mark Abraham Tournear. Jeffrey was saved for our next addition, in 1979. Now we had 2 half-Juniors - enter partnership/brotherhood/dark rivalry. The plot thickens! (hee hee)
I thought my first name was Abe - Mom refused to call me Mark - until I saw my birth certificate right before beginning 4th grade.
I developed a chip on my shoulder about it.
"Don't call me that! That's not my name!"
I'm over it now.
My Aunt Cathy said "The hell with all of you!" and called me George.
My first memories are both at the age of 3 - the first waking up to the sound of rain in the middle of the night. Sounds like one of those horror movie flashbacks, huh? For several years I refused to believe I was born before that night. How could I exist before the birth of my consciousness? Come to think of it, most of my consciousness has been like that Jason Voorhies impaling you and your partner through the bed sort of nightmare.
But I'm off the point.
My next slideshow moment is my one and only trip to the dentist before I could afford insurance of my own. Yeah, I had lots of catching up to do. I vaguely remember my little muscle shirt being wet. Maybe a washbasin or something got spilled on me. But who cares? They gave me a new toothbrush and a candybar. (Right here Bill Murray's screaming "Candybar! Candybar!!" at the top of his lungs in my head.)
Oh yeah - I almost forgot! When my age of reason began with the sound of thunder, I knew how to read. According to my mom, she taught me at the age of 2. It has had enormous impact on my life. For some reason, people look at you differently if you read a lot, as if you have a sinister plot or something crazy like that.
In kindergarten, I actually got in trouble for "sneaking" a book during naptime. Crazy highjinks, right? Not for the kid that colored his Mickey Mouse pictures completely red, then insisted it was the only color he could see.
I almost gave the teacher's assistant a stroke when we were instructed to draw a picture of our family. For some wild reason I took it upon myself to draw a picture of myself taking a shower with Mom and Dad. I'd had a shower with both before I learned to bathe myself, so I drew everyone together.
For some reason I didn't include Jeffrey or Michael.
I haven't introduced you to Michael, have I? I hope you have years to talk to me. I'm still not certain how I feel. It's hard to discuss someone when they were taken from you under devastating circumstances. Our family was destroyed, you see? We are still attempting to rise from the ashes.
When Michael was first learning to walk, he climbed atop the kitchen table, reached into my mother's purse, and grabbed her .22 pistol.
Mom and I come down the hall, and he's pointing this gun at me.
Mom yelled at me to get it from him, but I was glued to the spot.
It wasn't my day to pay the Ferryman.
