As a child of love and adoration I came in smiling, chasing the sky, a balloon, a smile, an embrace—happiness was my wrapper.
That clock ticked fast those first five years, for the next was a prelude to a test. The mountain called Dad was newly lit by a girl—no, not that one, his second born. Cute, fun, and cuddly. As I stepped into school, a long shadow fell from high expectations set by the mountain, whose top blew when war hit and school stopped for family interruption and payments. So my future was cast on a model railroad track to be the best, make the grade, leave the world behind in a trail of smoke for me—not to follow, but to lead, showing the world the intelligence of the son of smoke and mirrors.
Grade one was a siding whose switch was thrown by Sister Hortencia and her “Doesn’t pay attention… Not working to his ability… Seems distracted… we’re praying for him.” Grade two was better—nope, that was spelling like the phonetic Sister Ig-nos-ee-o, and the measuring of a ruler by day and a yardstick by night as the spelling words were studied by miss and hit. Until the little engine would cry and the mountain would give up in frustration.
This failure to make the grade continued until High School Graduation that said, “Nope, go to summer school.” The mountain blew up… Lava spewed failure at sports and school, flowing with the force of failure. I, however, relished the mountain now being an empty hole that no longer cast me in a rock of his design.
Now my shadow chased me as I ran free in the sun—not blinded by its shine, but energized by what it lit that I had never seen. There. No, there. Hey, over here. Opportunities were rails and switches, choices without guilt because I was their chooser.
Today I look beneath me at the roads, hills, ground, halls, and rails I have ridden, and I smile at the idea that there ever were tears. A large portfolio, experimental and experiential, and most at my lead—always to the tempo of the time. Often making others look good at my expense, especially when I forgot to watch my step or stepped too high thinking it a strut when it was a waltz.
Now at 83, the only regret is out-paddling too hard to the music when all that I needed was to float. Happiness is a manufactured experience, so why not stay in construction mode? After all, the end doesn’t mean you can’t continue to hum and smile, as a misstep disappears when recovered quickly. Will tough roads and potholes still be there? Why not? Change is a given for a life worth living. Choices are the colors you paint the story of your life—never-ending.