Some
say a picture speaks a thousand words, other says only a mother could love a face
like this, and yet others say, put him up for adoption! If that is true then what
does my first grade picture above say about me?
My
dad was going through a religious thing at the time. He was a businessman in Lafayette,
La, needed some business connections and I guess with the pressure of 7 kids,
he thought some religion couldn't hurt. After all if someone could look upon this
face and still want to teach it, then maybe God did exist. The Bible said God
made us in his image so I know God has humor. The bonus for my dad was that maybe
he would get some solid business leads for his fledging blueprint business by
hooking up with the Pope. I ended up at Our Lady of Fatima, but I had a secular
teacher. I guess they put the homely kids in with the secular teachers as a form
of purgatory before I was unleashed on the sisters. I think they added a few extra
beads on the rosary just for me and a couple of extra Hail Mary's for insurance.
But
what about me? Take a good look at this picture. By the time I was 6 years old
I was a mess. The look alone is one of Holy Crap, do I really have to do this,
come on. Do you know how long it took me to lay down those cow licks with butch
wax? I could have been Catholic, look at those ears; the flying nun would have
had some serious competition. When I was born, there was no cartilage in them.
A medical summit was convened and the best medical advice of the day was heard.
In the end, plastic surgery was born. They pinned my ears to the side of my head
with scotch tape when I was a baby until cartilage grew, or I flew away with a
good North wind, whichever came first.
I
was born to be crazy, No kidding, it's on my birth certificate. I was born in
Shreveport, La, in a hospital named Highland Sanitarium, not hospital. I think
I was birthed on the 4th floor where they keep the psycho babies. And when I was
born and the delivery nurse saw me, she was horrified and dropped me on the floor.
That's how I got that dent on my forehead above my right eye.
Too
much pressure for a 6 year old to bare. I had bags under my eyes from the many
sleepless nights. My older brother Mike tried to smother me to death in a pillow
fight one night. Pinning me to the floor and with pillow over my head and breath
ebbing away, my legs began to quiver, when in walked my mom to save the day. I
had to sleep with one eye open to keep an eye on him after that.
My
teeth grew out like the nutria swamp rats that hung around our house. My teeth
were bigger than theirs and they ran from me, fearing I would bite them and they
would get butch waxed. I was even vaccinated for rabies. However they did come
in handy for opening cans for my mom when she was cooking.
By
this time I had already taken a plunge off the dining room table, ripping my bottom
lip in half, necessitating a trip to ER. Those were the days of ether. Splash
some on a towel put it over your face and off to sleep I would go. Stitch me up;
send me out to do it again. They were use to me by now. I had already fallen on
an Easter shovel while running at full force around the house while my dad chased
me with a belt. They weren't made out of plastic then and that shovel stuck to
the top of my mouth. Open mouth, insert shovel, the foot would come later.
I
was born with a deviated septum or at least that's what I was told. I tend to
believe that before that delivery nurse dropped me on the floor, the delivery
doctor punched me. Most babies get wacked on the butt to get the motor running
good, but not psycho babies born on the 4th floor of a Sanitarium. Punching was
far more effective, so a crooked nose to boot.
And
what a body! A stick standing next to me would look like a tree. We had food and
my mom cooked all the time for 7 kids. That was not the problem. We didn't get
a knife, fork, and spoon at the dinner table like most normal families do. We
were issued 2 knives, 1 to cut the meat, the other to stab a sibling going for
seconds. May the best man win, and that was usually my 2 older brothers.
Well,
I've made it to age 58 with 59 around the corner. Guess God really does have a
plan for me although I think He has had to alter it a few times.
