Tag: 80s

1984: Into The Fire

So here goes. MeBike1984Bullying has been in the news lately. Sadly, it always is somewhere. Kids get bullied every day. I wish that I could protect them all and be a big brother to them. I cannot. However, I can tell my own story as I can. In pieces. It may take awhile but if you follow me here, I am sure the pieces will start to come together.

My first experience with bullying was when I was five years old. The year was 1984. Autumn. My family and I lived in a rented house about ten blocks from the school. Before this, I had been back and forth across the country of Canada due to my father’s work until we finally settled down for a bit on the east coast.

I know my parents rented the house we lived in. Only a small, two storey home, but to me, it was like a mansion. I was happy. I made a couple of friends in the neighboring houses. He-Man and the Masters of the Universe had become my heroes. This was even before I got my first BMX bicycle.

I was excited to walk to school on that first day. All on my own. A chubby kid. Going to school. I remember being so thrilled. I remember smiling. I was as happy as I can remember ever being in life. Walking down those sidewalks toward my future.

I made it about five blocks. Then I heard the taunting. I looked back to see their grins and lit cigarette lighters. “Come here, fat boy, we’ll fry that blubber off, you piece of shit!” one of them yelled. I made it to school. Those punks likely were not serious – though I was terrified. 

My entire first day of school I spent preparing my mind for death. I was convinced that I was going to be murdered by being burned to death on the walk to lunch. We started with half days the first year of school. I ran to the nearby lunch building that day. Hoping I wouldn’t run into those boys again.

I made it to the lunch table. I remember how a girl from my class told the teacher;
“We just got back from “skew.” I was fascinated by the way she pronounced “school” and I felt so safe being at that lunch table with her. I just smiled at her. Funny how i can remember this moment vividly but I cannot remember her name.

I got to know the swings on the school property, especially the taller next door high school swings. I felt if I was there that a teacher would most likely see anything happen to me. The higher I could swing, the farther I “flew” away from any of them.

I got my first BMX bike while we lived there. A smaller bike at first, then a larger BMX with white tire reflectors. I am still amazed at how many tricks I was able to do on that bike. It was an amazing time before that bike was stolen from the school bike rack.

Things were okay for a year or so while we lived in that small town. I had a few friends in the neighborhood. I rode my bike to the nearby swimming pool each day in the summer. I was happy. I was set.

Though I had no idea, as a young child, what my parents were going through at that time. In their personal lives or even financially. How could I? Things would, in fact, change very soon during the couple of years we lived there. My life was just beginning. A new baby brother. Another move. A death that would haunt me for life. Things that would forever tie me to that place.

Those short years would mold my entire childhood and become a major tentpole in my life story.

Many stories to come. Time is going to skip around a lot to piece things in my life together into short stories.

I am learning to tell my story and learning how to present it to you all.

Thank you for reading.

Stay tuned. ♥

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The Blueberry Patch

I came across a grocery store made blueberry pie this weekend. It cost $8.00. I normally would never buy a pie even for half of this price. Then I remembered growing up in the 1980s and my grandmother’s wild blueberry patch on the side of her property.

My grandmother used to send my cousins and I outside with plastic tubs to fill up with wild blueberries from the blueberry patch that covered the vacant acre of property right next to the house in their suburban neighborhood.

My grandmother used all of the blueberries we picked stuffing them into homemade pies. They were the greatest treat I had as a child. One of those never forgotten treats from my youth. Something I took for granted of course growing up.

My grandmother, Olive, passed away last year. So seeing this pie…I had to buy it. It is totally NOT the same in so many ways…

…but it does help me remember. ❤

I do remember. My stories at times have a blueberry patch appear in them for one reason or another in memory of her. 

Another way to keep her memory alive.