Growing up Snook

By David Snook

Growing up Snook is the humorous memoir of surviving a large family of 11 children. The book deals with the trials and tribulations of poverty, with enduring friendships, and it is written with a wicked sense of humor that was honed by the need to stand out in a crowded living room.
The book begins with the author's very first memory and ends with the realization that his childhood has come to a completion. Along the way, readers are treated to Halloween candy swaps, dangerous trips on a Big Wheel, and tales of slippery stairs.
In an era of finger-pointing, the author offers up a refreshing perspective which lays the blame of his misfortune right at his own feet. It is an honest look at one boy's life and how he made his way through childhood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Snook
• Release date: Jun 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983689508

David Snook

I am the father of three children, the step-father of a daughter, and I live in an ex-funeral home with my new wife of almost three years.

Book preview

Growing Up Snook

by David Snook

Copyright © 2011 by David Snook

Smashwords Edition

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Dedication

As cheesy and cliché as it sounds, I dedicate this book to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, for He alone is worthy of my first-fruits. (Sorry Kathy Griffith)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction.

That is fairly self-explanatory.

Rubicon Crossed.

A short poem written by my father.

1. First things first.

This happens to be my very first memory.

2. The wounded soldier.

A sweet story about the best Christmas gift ever.

3. Look, up in the sky!

Gathering candy, carving pumpkins and worn out costumes.

4. Journalism 101.

The day my dad got whacked on the head by a falling window.

5. Jesus was my babysitter.

How my mom used the VBS system to regain some of her sanity.

6. Catch me if you can.

A story concerning games, hard work and deceit.

7. Proud Sheila Mary (Big Wheel keep on turning).

The day Sheila rode her Big Wheel down a big hill and how my father saved her from doom.

8. Underwear vs. diapers.

Two embarrassing memories concerning similar subjects.

9. I’ll run away if you don’t strap me down.

My terrible fear of needles comes to a boil.

10. My fine edukation.

How I went from prize student to class comedian.

11. Hanging dolls and severed tongues.

If revenge is sweet, this story is worth about 19 pounds of sugar.

12. The slippery slope.

Tales of dangerous stairs.

13. This Guy walks into a middle school…

How I met my best friend.

14. Poor like us.

Growing up poor and the pain it deals you.

15. Of metal and men.

The story of how racing in a junkyard left me with permanent scars.

16. Days of the Fish.

I was not much of a wrestler. Trust me.

17. The one and only.

How I managed to beat my brother in basketball.

18. The winter of our discontent.

Intestinal flu, nine people and only one bathroom.

19. Ball meets girl.

Kickball is usually described as non-contact, unless Julie tries to catch a fly ball.

20. They had the beat.

My adventures as a bumbling, stumbling bass drummer.

21. Old and wise.

My last day of school and how time catches up, even when you are a teenager.

22. In Defiance (of time).

Guy and I go on a road trip to his old school and realize our childhood is over.

INTRODUCTION

Have I ever told you about the time I dropped a cannon on my dog?

A friend of mine once started a conversation with that question. No, I replied, I’m pretty sure I would remember that one.

He then went on to tell me of how he and his brothers went over to the little park in their hometown to see if they were capable of tipping the WW II artillery piece that rested there. They were, but it turns out what they were incapable of doing was making sure their dog was a safe distance away when they let go of the barrel. Their poor pet was underneath the hitch when it landed. The dog survived, but it walked sideways for a week and it never fully trusted the boys again.

That story helped me to understand that one does not have to be rich or famous to have a life worth remembering. I have a life full of such stories- stories that need to be written down so that my children and grandchildren do not forget them.

These are my memories and I want to make that clear at the very beginning. These stories from my childhood are neither court documents nor official government papers. They are events from my life as best as I can remember them. I deliberately chose not to consult family members or friends when writing this book because, even though they are involved, these are my recollections of past events.

As you read this book, you will see some isolated incidents where I obviously used hyperbole in my stories. For example, in Ball Meets Girl, I didn’t really kick the ball into the Ionosphere. That is ridiculous. I bet that ball didn’t clear 5,000 feet, which is well short of the Ionosphere. However, the events remain as accurate as possible. Every single story in this book is true, and I did nothing to cleanse my own image or the image of those who filled my childhood.

At some point in this book, you may ask yourself how we survived. How is it possible that all 11 siblings still walk this Earth? We wonder the same thing. I once noted to my sister Chris that, upon setting up a trampoline for my own three kids, if we had one of those growing up, there would only be seven of us left. She agreed.

My life was tough at times. Poverty tends to have that kind of impact. But, man what a life! The friends I had! The things I did!

That is what I want you to take from this book. I want you to understand that your childhood was full of adventures, that you had a life and that you need to remember those things that made impacts on your life, even the painful ones. Call your old buddies. Show your kids (grandkids?) where you busted your teeth while wiping out on your bike. Take your spouse back to where you first kissed and kiss them again. Dig out your yearbooks. However, don’t try on your old uniforms, because chances are really good that you’ve gained some girth, and who needs that reminder!

Life is beautiful because life was beautiful!

RUBICON CROSSED

BY ROBERT SNOOK SR.

A boy runs oft

A man, once or twice

A boy looks aloft

A man contends with earthly mice,

Content in knowing

With each Rubicon crossed

Much has been gained, naught has been lost.

Nothing has been sold that was not some great joy

In the turning to cicada man

From chrysalis boy

FIRST THINGS FIRST

Dad led us down a busy street. It was warm outside and very sunny. Cars were zooming by on my left in a constant stream. We walked alongside the street when the sidewalk ended near a railroad track. Dad said Watch out for the glass, Davie. There were some big shards of glass along the tracks. I was barefoot.

Dad took us into some kind of store that sold candy. There was a big glass counter with candy as high as a mountain. Dad bought me some.

I was two years old.

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER

Christmas time was as much a time for parents as it was for children. At no other time during the year did parents have that ultimate trump card of authority and discipline as they did when the weather turned cold and Santa began to watch you. It never bothered me that this total stranger was peering into my personal life in an effort to determine my own level of goodness as long as he left me some nice toys under the tree.

Besides, at six years old I knew how to fake being good with the best of them. I could smile and play nice and not tell when some wrong was done to me as long as my wrongs were also off limits. I did my homework at least twice a week and managed to bring home the rest as a sign to Santa I was serious about his perception of my goodness.

That particular Christmas we lived in Belle Center, and as the memories of turkey and cranberries faded with time, my mind turned toward that of Christmas. Since our television was limited to a single crappy black-and-white set that had three crappy channels and a crappy little screen, I was limited in my exposure to the wide variety of toys available to good little boys such as myself. I had no idea that toys had evolved into so much more than footballs and toy trucks. Therefore mom and dad did what any parents would have done in their situation… they guessed.

Christmas morning finally arrived, and, as the wild pack of Snook children burst forth from their places of slumber and rushed to the Christmas tree, I hopped about looking for my gift. Someone eventually tired of my complaining and handed me my present. It was wrapped so the contents of the present were still yet unknown, but judging from the size of the box, it must have been a whopper. I shredded the paper faster than a politician shreds incriminating documents. As the paper was torn asunder, my gift was at last revealed to me:

It was a robot.

And not just any robot, but a robot that walked and talked and made all kinds of futuristic noises. It was a robot that moved on its own. It was a robot that contained another little robot inside its clear, plastic bubble head which, in turn, could be lowered down on a little elevator and played with. Its arms moved! It moved! It was my dream come true, at a time when dreams were made of nothing more than plastic and flashing toy guns.

Here it was! The ultimate toy! And then I pulled it from the box…

…and the right arm fell off.

I just stood there silently, wanting to cry. I picked up the arm and tried to re-attach it, but it was useless. John was called over, and, if anyone could fix it, John could. John was the family techno-geek, and he took great pride in being the one in the family who knew how to bend the antenna just right, or which side of the TV to smack to get the picture to stop being fuzzy. He could fix a lot of stuff, but my robot was a goner. He did his best, but like the surgeon struggling to save a life on the operating table, at some point you have to call it. John called it, and that was that.

So there I was, a six-year old boy with a new toy robot that had a missing right arm. I therefore did what any other boy my age would have done: I improvised. Now my robot was Destructo, the death machine which happened to have suffered battle damage. Destructo was a highly decorated robot, bent on world domination, and he did it with just one arm.

I played with that robot as much as was humanly possible. I raised and lowered the brain. I made it walk and flash its lights. It was my new best friend, even though it was defective and was never truly whole. Some mornings the two of us had most of Asia beaten before lunch, with Europe to follow after I awoke from my nap.

I’m not sure whatever happened to Destructo. Knowing my track record with toys, I’m guessing