A quick question to ponder,

for those whose hearts don’t wander.

If one and one are one,

then why does one minus one equate to...aargh...a vacuous, blackhole pit of despair reaching such a magnitude of suckage that nothing, including but not limited to joy and hope for a better future, can escape the accompanying shroud of negative, soul-crushing darkness resulting in a miniscule chance to find love again, even after adding more ones that its mother assured would be perfect fits when done?

Ummmm, asking for a friend who, unlike me,

isn’t “new math” savvy.

With varying degrees of intensity,

my internal war rages on.

Freedom of choice vs. obligation to others,

a conflict that’s been fought since time’s dawn.

The battle requires a decision to be made

that personal responsibility must mediate.

Choosing a position to take is juxtaposed

to choosing a position to abdicate.

The skirmish renews each morning,

since the tempest percolates whilst I sleep.

There’s no option that involves fleeing

because the repercussion would echo too deep.

I long for a palatable solution,

which could usher in welcomed peace.

But my internal war will continue raging on,

'til I find an existential release.

I was born in the video game world. Both my parents (as well as their parents) were behind the scenes NPCs. But they never felt they weren’t important. They took pride in the roles they were designed for and instilled this sense of self-worth in me.

By the tender age of 10, I was helping my mom with her real estate business. I did odds and ends around the office, tidying up and reading the occasional telegram. She sold homesteads along the Oregon Trail. From my 16-bit perspective, it was an exciting field filled with intrigue and adventure. Trying to make a difference for hard-working people looking for a better life out West, she considered herself the facilitator of dreams.

As an independent contractor, my mom never let on the struggles she, and of course, her clients, faced. She’d invest hours analyzing the ever-changing maps and charts to find the perfect location that hadn’t already had a claim staked against it. She accurately filled out the cross-state paperwork in triplicate, making sure all pertinent documentation was ready before the afternoon’s Pony Express departed. She was meticulous when it came to synchronizing the time, date and location the parties involved in the closing were to meet.

Unfortunately, after all the details were finalized, a potential homeowner would more often than not die from dysentery before even crossing Wyoming. Heartbreaking on all fronts. Usually, the remaining members of the grieving family would give up hope, divert to the south and settle in Salt Lake City or Boulder. My mom was not licensed in either location. So, all that work and energy she put in was for nothing. If your income is solely derived from commission, deals that fall through make for anemic paychecks. But my mom persevered with a programmed smile on her face.

So, I was destined to follow in my parents’ footsteps. When old enough, I set out on my own with the intent of being part of something big. It’s scary in the world of graphics. But life was good in 1981. Optimism was giving the country a big, warm embrace. America was prospering under President Reagan’s “Trickle-Down Economics” policies.

I understand that for others to advance, a consistent supply of inventory is necessary for the true players to triumph in their respective quests. I recognized this broad niche and decided to fill some portion of it so I could take a big terabyte of the profit pie topped with a heaping scoop of capitalist ice cream. My question was, “What void can I fill?” Deep down I knew when I got this answer, I’d be on the way.

While waiting in line at craft services one afternoon, I listened as a spunky Italian in front of me commiserated with other players. Seems he’s currently in a protracted battle with a gorilla named Donkey Kong, or DK as he was known in the gaming community. Apparently, DK is a thorn in the side of this plumber, Mario, and his girl, Pauline, by trying to keep Mario at bay and having Pauline all to himself.

Mario, in passing, mentioned he wished he had better wooden mallets to smash the barrels constantly being tossed at him. The ones he wields now are too heavy. Hearing this, a serendipitous lightbulb flicks on in my head. Without hesitation, I interrupt, “Wooden mallets you say. I can get you wooden mallets. My mother knows where the clear cutting of vast tracks of land out west is being done. She can get lumber. My father’s the foreman at the bat manufacturing company for Intellivision’s Major League Baseball game. Together, we can make you mallets.”

“Thatza great. Howza big can yous maka them?” “As big as you.” “Whatta kinda wood ya gonna uza?” “Ash, of course,” I state with confidence. “Oy, mamma mia, Imma in,” Mario replies. I was now on the way.

Selling wooden mallets that haven’t been produced yet to a stranger in blue overalls that’s being harassed by a barrel-tossing monkey was not the path I thought I’d ever take. But sometimes the path you’re on is really an exit ramp to bigger things. I jumped at the opportunity knowing things will work out in the end. So that’s the start of my relationship with Mario and the inception of my company: Mallets, Mallets, Mallets.

I didn’t realize how huge a client Mario would become and how many mallets were needed for all his games. After a quick learning curve, my small company managed to keep up with the demand and we forged a solid working partnership.

“Yup,” was the curt response he gave when I asked my brother if he would like to make a lot of money. I noticed that DK would go through a 100 times more barrels during a game than Mario did with mallets. This was an untapped market. But my moral compass points North. I didn’t feel it was right to sell DK barrels that would be destroyed by mallets I sold to Mario. It came off as a conflict of interest. But with my brother’s experience repairing wagon wheels for my mom’s players, it was an easy transition for him to lead the newly formed business: Barrels, Barrels, Barrels. And my compass only deviated a couple of degrees.

Our cousin came on board to supply the oil and fire for the burning drum. She was a borderline arson who ultimately worked on the pyrotechnics involved with the Adamant Flame from Street Fighter. She was also a wiz regarding regulations and overcame the minor speedbump when the embargo kicked in and oil prices shot through the roof. Being resourceful while stretching the law regarding imports, she formed a shell corporation in the Bahamas to avoid the tariffs. This kept production costs from ballooning and the money poured into our coffers. All was well in the world. But a healthy stream of revenue means the inevitable unhealthy flood of drama.

First, Mario’s brother, Luigi, got into some legal trouble with the Feds after overstaying his work visa. The bilingual, human rights attorney who took the case and was smart enough to get the charges dismissed while securing a green card for Luigi came with a hefty price. Those billable hours depleted a large chunk of the brother’s retirement savings.

Pauline wanted to start a family, but Mario got into professional go cart racing. He met Princess Peach in late 1984 at the Monaco Grand Prix and that was the beginning of the end for his relationship with Pauline. As someone who was always the “damsel in distress,” I was surprised when she got a cutthroat attorney. Although they were never married, her barrister convinced the jury that she was Mario’s common-law wife. Without a prenup, Mario was on the hook for half his net worth. That’s a whole lot of quarters. Last I heard she was married to a programmer and residing in Los Gatos.

PETA got involved by filing a cease-and-desist letter citing that DK was subjected to animal abuse and inhumane conditions. When PETA disregarded DK’s multiple restraining orders, their letter was withdrawn.

The International Association of Bridge, Structural, Ornamental and Reinforcing Iron Workers, Local 605 started raising a stink over the use of non-union labor for rebuilding the trusses Mario destroyed while climbing to save Pauline. Greasing the teamsters’ palms wasn’t cheap.

Then Mario got into an extended contractional dispute over licensing residuals with Nintendo. He was looking to parlay his joy of driving carts into a full-time gig with his brother and thought he should be properly compensated. Nintendo countered that Mario’s licensing fee covered all future endeavors. In the end, Mario got a physician to deem his knees arthritic and climbing ladders was counterintuitive to Mario’s long-term health. Both sides agreed to a court-sealed settlement. Personally, I think climbing ladders reminded Mario of Pauline and brought up painful memories of what was and what could have been.

By then, there was scuttlebutt circulating that my job was one of many in consideration for being outsourced to a third-party vendor in Mumbai. I saw the writing on the wall and went my own way. It was a good run. But as with any successful venture, there’s popularity. And popularity leads to incrementally higher levels of fame. Fame always begets money, which ultimately ushers in stress-headaches. I was too young to have stress-headaches. After spending some time as the exclusive pizza caterer to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I left the video game world for good. We all outgrow our comfort zones. I stayed in technology though. Now I service bitcoin vending machines.

Since I was never a marquee name, I don’t get invited to any Comic Cons or asked to join gamer podcasts. That’s okay, I welcome the freedom anonymity brings. I can reminisce about the good old days, painting memories with broad brushstrokes of biased nostalgia. And can do it without being worried that I’m going to get hit with a barrel. Or unplugged.

Here’s my four cents worth, adjusted for inflation, on this subject.

Each generation is exposed to technology that previous generations didn’t understand or realize was needed. I don’t own a Roomba, Alexa or a “smart” refrigerator. It’s not because I’m fearful that having devices built around varying degrees of AI technology will unite and conspire to usurp my authoritarian position as homeowner then join forces with other conquered households to achieve the end goal of overthrowing our government.

I don’t own these because I can sweep my own floors. I’m never multitasking so many things that my hands aren’t freed up to set a timer. And I don’t need to get a text while at work alerting me, “UR low on milk.” I believe AI can offer comfort and convenience. It’s just at this stage of life, I’m not uncomfortable or inconvenienced enough to justify paying extra for these features.

Sunday nights, after watching Lassie at 7 p.m. on CBS Channel 19, it was my responsibility to get up from the couch and physically rotate a dial on the television, slowly and always counterclockwise so it wouldn’t wear out, all the way around to NBC Channel 3 so we could enjoy The Wonderful World of Disney. A minor chore that was worth the effort and reward. Then came cable and the universal remote. Then the DVR. And here I’m anchored, binge watching at my leisure shows my tv thinks I’ll enjoy that it recorded last week.

I knew the distance I could walk away from the landline phone (whose sole purpose was verbal communication) plugged into the kitchen wall was equal to the exact length of the stretched-out cord attached to the receiver. If I needed to get a pen and paper from across the room to write the caller’s number down so my brother could ring them back when he gets out of the bathroom and those writing implements were farther away than the extended cord length plus my arm span, I had to say, “Hold on a sec.” Then came answering machines and cordless phones. Then cellphones. And here I sit, waiting to FaceTime with my brother who’s vacationing in Mexico.

Fortunately, I’m young enough that neither original task required me to walk up hill both ways in the snow. Because, according to my parents, I had it easier than when they were my age.

So, AI in some iteration has been around for a long time. The problem is when AI advances so much it stops being used as a tool, i.e. spellcheck, and becomes a replacement, i.e. Grammarly. I enjoy the physical act of writing at my desk or typing on my computer. And I get satisfaction from revising drafts until I have the best version I can offer. I wouldn’t want to relinquish these pleasures to an AI program for the sake of having something to post on this platform.

In the interest of full disclosure, I looked up the Lassie and Disney information because I’m hard-pressed to recall what I had for breakfast yesterday morning, never mind the specific channels and times two shows were on that I watched 54 years ago. The situation and setting are based on a real-life experience. The details are accurate thanks to a search engine. Combined, I hope they resulted in something worth taking the time to read.

Not having to commit information to memory because Bing or Google can access it within seconds is a helpful resource when writing. The big issue is when people pass off an AI generated story as originating from their own creative thought process. That undermines the art of writing.

As a tech neophyte, I don’t know what an AI generated story looks like because I’m not tuned in to the nuances that distinguish a story created by a logarithm from one personally composed. Thankfully, I do know that “Mike Johnson” with a thick Indonesian accent from McAfee Support is in fact not an actual McAfee employee. And he is not going to assist me in reversing the supposed $699 charge to my credit card that I didn’t authorize for a year’s subscription of protecting my computer from viruses. He’s a scammer using technology to create the illusion he’s a compassionate human.

So that’s my take on this topic. I’ve got to go now. The Keurig is summoning me to finish watching its PowerPoint presentation on the possible ways to resolve the conflict in the Middle East. It’s been very insightful so far. But I have noticed that all the thought-provoking solutions offered have a recurring theme involving both sides drinking more coffee. Hmmm, wait a second. You don’t think...nah, never mind, I’m just being cynical. Technology wouldn’t ever become that nefarious.

CONCEPTION

I felt the initial wave of nausea during dessert after taking the last bite of my third piece of pie. Stopping to catch my breath, I tried neutralizing the discomfort by finishing my glass of eggnog. This gesture was ineffective. Not wanting to acknowledge my gut feeling, I excused myself from the post meal conversation and went upstairs to swap out my already unbelted, unbuttoned chinos for sweatpants. Even after changing and without tightening the drawstring, there was no relief.

Slowly navigating down the stairs and proceeding back into the kitchen, I grabbed a clean plate and snagged more sweet potatoes with marshmallows before they were transferred into a Tupperware container. Grandma looked up from washing the serving utensils and made the comment, “There’s a certain glow to you.” She turned as I walked by and rubbed my belly. This is when I accepted that I was pregnant with a holiday food baby.

This is not my first food baby. I had two last year (Easter and Fourth of July) with three the year before (Super Bowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day and Pop’s retirement party). So, by now I am immune to getting emotional. I know the routine. Unlike the 38 to 42 weeks required for a standard baby, the gestation period for a food baby is 38 to 42 hours. So, I understand the importance of getting things in order and preparing for my new little bundle of joy. Speaking of little bundles of joy, I ate six more buttered crescent rolls to tie me over until my snack before bedtime.

Nobody at the table was surprised when I shared the news. My one cousin did say, “Now that you mention it, I think I’m with child, too.” Just like her to try and steal the spotlight from my important moment. I knew it was a false pregnancy because of her uncontrollable flatulence. She wasn’t gravid. She was gassy.

FIRST TRIMESTER

My supportive family hastily organized a baby shower. With such short notice and the out-of-town kinfolk’s flights leaving the next morning, I couldn’t burden them by expecting anything extravagant. I didn’t even have time to register at Dunkin Donuts or Omaha Steaks. I did enjoy eating the meal of reheated turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy while appreciating their effort. And with the nearby grocery store still open, those in attendance were gracious in gifting me an eight-pack of Charmin (“Quilted for his pleasure”), some Wet Wipes and a bottle of Tums.

I solicited their opinions to help me choose which professional should assist in the delivery once my water breaks. Thankfully, I have a few hours to decide between:

1) A Gen Z pediatrician specializing in gastronome pregnancies.

2) A non-judgmental proctologist with a 5-star rating from Yelp.

3) The local Roto-Rooter man who is on call 24/7.

SECOND TRIMESTER

My ankles are swollen. Might be from the excessive ham I nosh on between trips to pee. Don’t know how my food baby is pushing against my bladder, but it’s annoying having to put down a fork full of mac and cheese every fifteen minutes so I can waddle to the potty.

Sleeping on my side took some adjustment. I found that a pillow between my bent knees makes a difference. Although the reoccurring dream of being chased by a giant, partially carved turkey while I throw homemade cranberry sauce back at it in defense is what’s really preventing me from getting a full eight hours of slumber.

The baby kicks a lot in response to me opening the refrigerator. Cute in a Pavlovian, gluttonous sort of way. It feels as if it is riding lower than before.

THIRD TRIMESTER

My body continues changing. I’m simultaneously experiencing brain fog, linea nigra and the mask of pregnancy. My mood swings like an unsecured shutter in hurricane force winds. Those within earshot try appeasing me with green bean casserole. It works.

All the cocoa butter in the world won’t erase the hideous stretch marks that creep across my belly. And don’t get me started on my hemorrhoids. I swear I am taller sitting down than standing up. Seriously.

As much as I enjoy the process of creating a food baby, I want this one out of me soon. Very soon. In keeping with the previous deliveries, I’m opting for a natural birth. But I am not opposed to the use of an epidural, C-section or Colace suppositories if complications arise. Nothing is routine when a food baby enters this world.

DELIVERY

Well, I am now the proud father of a three-pound, bobbing miracle. Cigars for everyone. Decided to wait a spell before naming the baby. I want to get a better feel for his personality. The resemblance to me is uncanny. We both have brown hair. The recovery is going well. I get some exercise in with multiple trips to scour the refrigerator for any leftover leftovers.

SOMBER EPILOGUE

Tragedy struck while I was having my food baby baptized. Some witness (I suspect my jealous cousin), flushed the toilet during the ceremony.

Goodbye, Beauregard Miller. Shine bright you little stinker. You’ll always be #1 in my heart.

I will be in mourning, wearing black because it’s slimming, until New Year’s Eve.

“Cassius Marcellus Coolidge,” Mary shrieked upon entering the living room, “get those dogs off the chairs and away from that table this instant.” Startled by his wife returning home earlier than expected, Cash sheepishly replied, “Yes dear. Sorry dear.” Although today’s portrait session was cut short, this didn’t upset Cash because he had already completed most of the painting. The rest he could finish on his own later.

Oh hello. I wasn’t expecting any visitors but am always glad to have company. Welcome to my mind. This must be your first time here since you don’t look familiar. Hope your visit is enlightening. Since I’m not big on self-promotion and don’t charge admission, there’s no tour guide. But I’ll be puttering around in case you have any concerns or just want to look over my shoulder and kibitz. I will ask that you wipe your feet as I recently had the accessible portions of the floors refinished to strip off the plaque buildup.

There are a few things that need to be taken care of before you can begin. Nothing major, just some forms. You know, typical bureaucratic boilerplate releases that Legal needs to have on file for insurance reasons. Red tape, what are you going to do, right? Let me get the packet.

The first piece of paperwork is the standard NDA. This just ensures that proprietary ideas, thoughts, sights or funny quips aren’t released into the public domain prematurely. Read and initial there. Recording devices are prohibited. Initial there. Then sign and date on the bottom. And today is November 17th.

The second form simply states that you are here on your own free will. You were not coerced nor under duress. You can leave my mind at any moment. Sign and date on the bottom. I’ll need to get a thumb print next to your signature. Yes, a thumb print. Either one, doesn’t matter. It’s verifying you are who you say you are. Paper towels to wipe off the ink are on your right.

This third form is if you decide to stay for an extended period, you can do so rent-free. Yes, as long as you want. Oh, you’d be surprised at how many people come here with the intention of “just looking around” but end up hanging out for many months. Some even years. Don’t worry, with only using 10% of my brain, there is enough space to accommodate all long-term visitors. Between you and me, and I’ll deny I ever said this, Code Enforcement has never shown up, so the OSHA mandated maximum capacity rating is totally ignored. I’ll also need emergency contact information.

And here’s the last piece of paper. This is the Trigger Warning rider. It’s a generic, encompassing declaration because I don’t know what will upset people these days. Fairly straightforward. It absolves me from any civil litigation involving self-imposed, implied trauma you allegedly suffered as the result of being exposed to the inner workings of my brain or getting an answer that was contrary to what you wanted to hear. Okay, sign. And perfect.

Now about the amenities. No smoking or vaping in the facility. For your convenience, bathrooms are handicapped accessible and located throughout my mind. Restrooms were installed in response to all the people dumping on me. Part of life, I guess. Please refrain from putting feminine products in the toilets. Use the small trashcan under the vanity. The hand soaps are free of lye to prevent dermatitis. Breath mints get replaced daily.

If you come across panhandlers, don’t give them money. They’re a scam. As for those voices echoing throughout the venue, I know it’s easier said than done but ignore their negative commentary. Neither are sanctioned by my brain’s governing body and steps are being taken to remove both from the premises.

Please don’t touch the displays or rearrange anything to make it more to your liking. Remember: You break it, you buy it.

The gift shop closes at 4:00 p.m. sharp.

I’d appreciate it if you completed a short survey regarding your experience with the telepathic transportation machine developed by Dr. Jackson J. Youngblood which got you here today. This ground-breaking invention has literally opened minds. As with all modern technology, the potential for beneficial upgrades increases with input from actual users. Although I haven’t ridden in it yet, I’ve heard good things about the Youngblood Individual Knowledge Exchanging System (Y.I.K.E.S.) that people take to enter the minds of others.

Anyway, enough of this chitchat. Let’s get you started. The layout of my brain is similar to a bicycle wheel. We are in the central hub with the spokes radiating towards an outer walkway. Unlike a corn maze, there are no dead ends as every path leads back to this starting location. Please disregard the clutter scattered about. I used to do housecleaning on a regular basis. But over time, the slow accumulation compounded. After decades, my attempt at “shabby chic” now looks like an episode from Hoarders.

Each spoke has a specific theme. I’ve satiated my somewhat OCD tendencies with the spokes’ themes matching their identifying letters. Spoke A behind me focuses on Anamnesis. This starts with recent adulthood memories and proceeds back through my childhood, highlighting the associated growing pangs. There are separate kiosks for family, friends and miscellaneous recollections. Spoke B is Bravery. Not much to see here. I am proud of the quality, not the quantity on display. C’s theme is Crazy Ideas that never came to fruition while D covers Desires. Some content is repeated between C and D. Rest assured, exhibits in D are not morally compromising, but still NSFW.

E is all about Education gained from formal institutions and real-life occurrences. F showcases Failures, including setbacks and overall humiliation. Allow extra time to peruse Spoke F as there’s a lot to see here. G houses all things Glorious, whether secular or sacred. H is for Humor. This is a subjective spoke. I presents Information gathered over the years that is totally frivolous. It’s a catch-all vacuum. I don’t know why I can’t part with this information. Everything in Spoke I should be purged.

So, enjoy my brain. It’s not a bad place to spend the afternoon. I hang out here as much as possible. Before I forget, the tram back to the departure pad runs on the top of every hour. If you leave your contact information upon exiting, maybe I can Y.I.K.E.S. on over to your mind to compare content. I’m sure we have a lot in common.

I can become hyper-focused, ignoring my surroundings as one thought monopolizes all available grey matter. Out of neurological gear, my mind idles on the berm of life as the rest of the world speeds past. During such cerebral free spinning moments, time advances whilst I concentrate on a single bit of minutiae. This inattentiveness can result in bodily injury. One such incident happened when my family moved to Ohio.

Being the first residents in our neighborhood meant the surrounding houses were still under construction well after we unpacked. Abundant dirt mounds and half-finished structures beckoned me with promises of discovery this six-year-old couldn’t resist. Once the workers knocked off for the day, my explorations began. I rationalized it’s not trespassing if it’s not occupied.

Mom and Dad defined the Rules of Conduct while on my suburban safaris:

1) Watch where you’re stepping.

2) No vandalism/stealing

3) Don’t get hurt.

I agree to these reasonable terms and begin my adventures.

One muddy afternoon, my older sister accompanied me to survey the progress on the house next door, one I had frequented since it was a skeletal frame. Near completion, we compare its layout to our house with the hope whoever moves in has kids our age.

The reconnaissance mission finishes as suppertime nears. Having the tendency to drop whatever’s in their hands at the end of the shift, the workers leave behind a bonus obstacle course of building materials. Aware of these hazards, we are vigilant of where we’re stepping and weave around the rubble strewn across the floors. Joan and I navigate a path towards the doorless entry without incident.

Hopping over the last piece of debris, I lead the way down the wooden ramp connecting the threshold with the barren yard. Confident it’s gotten me out of the interior peril zone, the portion of mind responsible for safety disengages. It goes inactive so the section dedicated to food can check in and take the con. My thought shifts from danger to dinner. I build up speed down the incline. As I transition onto the ground, I’m obsessed over supper.

With my focus on eating, all other input, even that which isn’t necessarily frivolous, is ignored. So, the visual information regarding the piece of wood lying ahead is not received. The potential for harm is not conveyed because my attention is on if we’ll have meatloaf tonight. No evasive action is taken because I’m looking forward to the accompanying mashed potatoes if meatloaf is indeed the entrée. Lacking a directive to avoid it, my legs continue their course straight toward the lumber.

I plant my left foot hard and fast on the obvious board. So hard and fast that I didn’t feel the penetration of the nail sticking up from the wood. Another detail not realized due to my dinner preoccupation. The exposed nail is driven through my boot, shoe, sock and into my sole. My right foot completes its sequential step as planned, oblivious to the impalement its companion has experienced.

When I pick up my left foot, the board tags along. This hinders my gait. Stumbling jolts my mind, putting dinner on the back burner. My body dispatches the appropriate impulses which my brain now acknowledges. Collapsing to the ground, I emit a scream of pain followed by tears of regret. I just broke rules #1 and #3 of the suburban safari edicts. Individually, they could result in the suspension of future outings. Combined, they could result in a permanent ban on future outings. And there’s no way to hide a mistake like this.

Without her stride impeded by an unyielding 2x4, my sister quickly closes the gap. Being older and wiser, she knows the needed course of action - Jettison the attachment, get me home, emphasize it wasn’t her fault and let Mom deal with this medical emergency.

Joan approaches from behind, grabs under my arms and lifts me. She then simultaneously steps on both ends of the board and yanks my body upward. My introduction to the plank is accidental and unnoticed. My parting is deliberate and jarring. Joan drags me the remaining way to our front door.

As we burst into the house, Mom is already responding to my wails and Joan’s pleas for help. I’m escorted into the kitchen to begin triage. She peels off the layers of footwear to survey the damage. When my sock is removed, I take a break from sobbing to glance down at the injury. I expect a crimson geyser spewing forth like an open hydrant. But there’s no gushing blood, just an oozing hole in my heel.

I don’t remember going to a doctor. I’m sure I did. This isn’t something a dab of Mercurochrome and a Band-Aid could fix. Probably got a tetanus shot and antibiotics to stave off whatever late 1960’s infection was rampant then. I don’t even think I was bedridden for any length of time. The post-traumatic events are hazy. Out of embarrassment, or guilt, my brain didn’t archive the recovery since its absence caused the mishap in the first place.

By the time I was ambulatory again, the houses were finished and occupied. The possibility of future harm was eliminated because uninvited entry into occupied dwellings is illegal. However, the ability to ignore my surroundings and inflict personal damage carried over and is still strong to this day.

As a child living in Ohio, my world consisted of car rides through Pennsylvania for visits with relatives in New York during the holidays. These three states were my boundaries. I was predisposed to living life as a Northerner, to never venture south of the Mason-Dixon line. My paternal grandparents were the first people I knew who breached that barrier by traveling all the way to Florida for a vacation. To me, this was on par with the moon landing. Such an accomplishment in my eyes.

On the steps of their back porch were conch shells, souvenirs of their trip to the Sunshine State. I was transfixed by these shells. I’d gaze at their beauty, amazed an animal could sculpt such intricacies. I couldn’t believe they were found while you walked on a beach (although these may have been purchased at a roadside tourist trap). Plus, I personally knew who collected (or bought) them. I was proud of my grandparents’ proof they touched down in Florida.

These treasures piqued my curiosity, representing an exotic land beyond my realm, experienced only through books or my grandparents’ vacation slides and postcards. I imagined strolling along the ocean’s edge, picking up seashells like someone picks out oranges at the grocery store. I daydreamed of sporting a bronze tan in December; wondered how salty salt water tasted. The more I looked at the shells, the more they fueled my yearning to visit Florida. I didn’t know how or when I’d do it, but I was going to Florida. My grandparents were both the inspiration for this pipe dream and the role models for turning it into a reality.

When I was fourteen, an adult asked what I wanted to be doing in ten years. Instead of answering with an expected response centered around raising a family or pursuing a professional career, I said, “Walking barefoot on a Florida beach.” Not a very lofty aspiration. And not a reply that offers the inquiring person a chance to give me sage advice on how I go about reaching this objective based on his life experiences. This reply was just another manifestation of my desire to head south, following my grandparents’ trailblazing journey. I held firm that this prediction would come true.

And it did. I attended the University of Miami long enough to toss my tasseled cap in the air at graduation. I spent four years gathering shells on Miami Beach while building a solid base tan between studying the bare minimum needed to earn a degree. I can testify that salt water is salty enough to warrant that adjective.

I proved to myself that Florida was attainable. Less than two years after getting my diploma and with the confidence I can thrive there, I returned to become a full-time resident. This meant as a 24-year-old, taking off my shoes to walk on the beach whenever I wanted was a viable option. My dream was actualized. My ten-year-old prophecy was fulfilled.

Florida was home almost exclusively for three decades before I traded its ocean views and scorching heat for Virginia’s scenic beauty and seasonal changes. Although at times I miss being a Floridian, I very much enjoy living in the Shenandoah Valley.

As an appreciative homage to my grandparents for expanding my world, in every room of my house there is a conch shell that I found during my life in Florida. Thinking back on how I ended up there, it all started on my grandparents’ porch steps with me looking at their shells, unaware I was actually looking at my future.

Halloween has passed,

yet I remain in costume

portraying a hoax.

Hiding my spirit

behind a store-bought façade

of expectations.

Decorations stowed,

but I cannot shed this cloak -

a false persona.

Halloween has passed,

and I still pretend to be

someone I am not.