Adventure 451: The Story of George, 28

February 20, 2018

It's a good news, bad news day in real time for George. The good news is that he's demonstrating improved strength due to the exercise regime Joel, the physical therapist has him on. He says he's been doing the exercises, which must be true because he was able to demonstrate some proficiency today. The bad news is he forgot to take last night's pills and this morning's. If this pattern continues, which seems likely, it will require twice daily checking. It's undetermined if and when the twice daily checking will become more invasive, but we're approaching a new level of care requirement at light speed. We inquired about next level housing though "A Place for Mom". They've been hounding us like used car salesmen. It's a little bit mystical right now. Our crystal balls don't have  much range, even when Judy and I take turns balancing them in our eye sockets. I guess this is where the faith comes in.

A year or so before George and Chris split, and before we moved to the big yellow house on Seventh Avenue, we lived in a post war housing project situated directly across the street from the Lewis and Clark Normal's ball field. There were a dozen or so houses, all about eight hundred square feet with unfinished basements, all painted light green,  and all with oak floors. Some were two bedrooms, and some, three. We lived in one of the three bedroom houses, which even then was too small. At the time, George was working three jobs to make ends meet, and to get enough money for the move to the bigger house on Seventh. I remember this place because it's where I earned the ten inch scar on my forehead. We used to get a quarter a week for allowance. I usually spent my whole quarter on candy. As soon as my grubby little boy fingers grasped the quarter, I'd be off running for the store. Once, I tripped and tumbled, sliding head first like Pete Rose stealing second. Only I didn't have my arms out in front of me to break my fall. Instead, my arms remained at my side and back. I landed smack on my forehead, tearing the soft skin just above my eyebrow. Although not seriously hurt, I was a bloody mess when I went screaming back home. Worse, I lost the quarter. Worse yet, I got no sugar that day, just a tetanus shot, a deadening agent expressed through a needle in my forehead, and ten stitches in a crescent shape to close the flap. When I walked in the door, I must have looked a sight. George, who was reading the paper, took one look at me and yelped like a wounded dog. The next thing I remember, he grabbed me by the belt, tossed me into the car, and I can still hear the tires on his big Lincoln ripping up gravel like a hydroplane's rooster tail. I don't remember much else about the ride, but I'm sure we made it to the hospital in near record time. It's interesting that so many of my childhood memories are attached to some kind of trauma or stress. The mind researchers say food, sex, and safety are our basic needs. The first two are obvious, but safety, or lack there of, create a world view based on our "procedural memories", which is psycho babble for life experiences. Bottom line: Safety engenders trust. Trauma breeds suspicion. Both create emotional survival skills.

 Miss Judy giving George a back scratch. He says, "All the hair that was supposed to be on my head moved down my back. It itches!"

 Tim, Tom, Sandy, Judy out front in the housing project. Notice my bare feet.

This photo, taken some time later in Grandpa and Grandma's front yard, if I've reconstructed the timeline correctly, is just before Chris (Mom) took herself and the girls to Edmonds.