A Stroke of ILL Fate

By Paul F LaPorta

What started off as a beautiful, cool spring morning, turns into a life changing tragedy. When it becomes too much to handle, a young man's mind is transported back in time to escape the reality that will ensue. He gets lost in some of his fondest childhood memories that he brings to life. From his crib year

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Jun 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638373407

Paul F LaPorta

Paul F. LaPorta was born and raised in Flushing, New York, home of the New York Mets, but is an avid Yankee fan. He was an advertising consultant, and currently retired. Some of his other passions are music, songwriting, cooking, and horticulture. Paul also has a great love for animals, and hopes someday to create a sanctuary for these wonderful beings who are homeless or abused. He enjoys fitness, and you can find him working out daily in the local gym. He has an Associate in Applied Science degree, and also a Bachelor of Science degree, in which he graduated with honors, Summa Cum Laude. Paul is also a member of Psi Chi, the international Honor Society in Psychology. A Stroke of ILL Fate is Paul's memoir and is currently working on his sequel. He will also launch a book of poetry in the near future.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

Growing Up in Queens

G

rowing up in Flushing, New York, in the sixties and seventies was quite different from the lives the children live today. One of my simplest but fondest memories was being able to have what is called today a stay-at-home mom. She was always there for us while our father went to work at a typical nine-to-five job. We were fortunate enough to be able to go home from school at lunchtime, and, like clockwork, our food was there. We didn’t know it any other way. My earliest recollections of my childhood, believe it or not, were the crib years on Oak Avenue. This was a typical Italian family home, a brick two-story house that looks identical to the house portrayed on the TV sitcom The King of Queens. We lived upstairs, and my grandparents lived downstairs. All I can remember about my grandparents was my grandfather sitting on the porch saying Mamma mia all day long. I guess being miserable runs in the family.

Nobody ever believes me when I tell them that I can remember my mom bringing me a bottle in the middle of the night. She used to try to pawn off some warm tap water from the bathroom instead of the cold milk that I craved. Jesus Christ! Did you ever wake up in the middle of the night and drink warm tap water? Needless to say, I immediately rebelled by taking that bottle and hurling it at my sleeping brother across the room. Always a bull’s-eye! He would jump up, and I would laugh in his face as he attempted to return the favor. Still laughing, I had no fear because, as always, I used my baby cage as a defense against this incoming water missile that always bounced off the bars and splattered across the room. As I sit here relating this, I am still cracking up. My brother always took the rap for the disturbance. By the way, I always got my milk.

In these formative years, I still can recall the cucumber sandwiches that I used to share with my mom as she hung the laundry outside to dry in the backyard on a beautiful summer’s day. The warm winds and the delightful scents that permeated the air made those sandwiches and Mom special. The lush green on the trees and the children’s playful sounds are forever burned into the archives of my mind. The sounds of the Good Humor man’s bells chimed as the man from Dugan’s pulls up to our door to entice us with his delicious assortment of bakery goodies—chocolate cakes and donuts. Christ! What more could you ask for! That was living!

When I was at the age of about three or four, my parents decided, like many others, to send me to nursery school. This educational forum was located in a boathouse in our local park, Kissena Park, named after an Indian tribe that inhabited the area somewhere in time. How could I go wrong? The events of this experience are a little fuzzy. I do remember, though, that the teacher was a cranky, old bag who everyone seemed to despise. I don’t remember exactly what transpired, but I woke up one day and expressed a desire not to go. I never went again. How do you like that? A nursery school