One Man's Journey

By JT Baxter

             What would be interesting would be to know on what you would base your decision. For example, I could write pages about my life so far, starting with the fact that I was born at a very early age, or so I'm told. But honestly, I have no recollection of the event, so I am left to wonder about that. Or I could say life has been great, full of highs, and better than I could ever have imagined it would be. But I think we both know that's not the truth or a fair assessment. Although life has had its good times, which you could seek confirmation of from my cat. That is if I had a cat.

            If I were to say life has been interesting, that would be closer to the truth. The successes amid the failures, the gains amid the losses, the deep passion of love, and the heartbreaking sorrow of love lost. Each, in some way, has shaped me into the person I am today. Like a used car, a good used car, I might add, I still have some drive left in me. But the past is the past; it cannot be changed. So, I have to look at the now, take the person I am, and utilize my experience and knowledge to be the best I can be today and each new day from this point forward. So, purchase me and find out just how good I am.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JT Baxter
• Release date: Jul 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201667658

JT Baxter

Born and raised in a small town in England, he stepped out into the world and became a world traveler. They say my unique writing style has proven to be exciting and compassionate, with an intuitive understanding of women’s emotional desires and what they look for in men. So don’t believe everything you read, I get surprised all the time.

Book preview

Only in the living can we begin to understand the complexities of what living demands and so the journey begins. It will carry each of us along many paths, some of our choosing and some we are forced, unwillingly at times, to follow in discovery of ourselves and our relationship to others. No one is immune to this process although many choose to limit their exposure and thus their experience of all that life and living have to offer.

Life holds no guarantees but one, it will end. The when, and under what circumstance are the mystery in reasoning our very existence and offer only perplexity, if you live in fear of this eventuality. Immortality is found only in the thoughts and memories of others whose lives we have touched with our words and deeds and in that, wisdom is discovered.

Breathe and in every breath know the opportunity you are presented with. Choose wisely how you wish to act and be perceived, for in the doing lies the undoing of all your hopes and dreams. For life is but a dream within a dream, a fantasy which we create to justify the person that we are. We are born alone, and we die alone and only through love and friendship can we create the illusion that we are not alone. Your assumption to think differently would be fortuitous and lack the necessity of foundation to be built upon.

To know your individuality is to understand yourself and the many facets that make up the person that you are and the person you desire to become. Be aware of the projected images you choose to present in the identification of how you wish others to see the self-portrait you draw to attract and discourage. Every impression counts and will be retained for future reference as a memory in someone’s mind. Available for instant recall at the very mention of your name. Know this, for its effect can last a lifetime.

The answers to all things in life are few in comparison to the questions that will be uncovered. But if the answers are not sort-after, how would we come to understand this equation. Be aware of the distorted view of the many who, for the most-part, have failed to investigate their belief yet cloak themselves in its rhetoric. Seek truth in all things in the sure knowledge it will be the hardest thing to discover and not easily unearthed. And know our lives are governed by three things, circumstance, opportunity and choice, or the lack thereof.

For many years the traveler in me has gathered the wisdom of wise words and the foolishness of talk, the talk without the walk. For who can speak of anything they fail to investigate and or experience and only from which, the wisdom is gleaned. Therein lies the choice and unfortunately, is the road less traveled. But for some, the road less traveled is the only road to follow, unforgiving at times, it holds the promise of untold adventure while deceptively hiding its perils. Although, life can only be experienced by living it, what did you choose? To whose beat of the drum is the rhythm of your life flowing. Yours or someone else’s, and only in that, can you place yourself in the living or the living dead.

It’s only through presumed loss can something be redeemed and perhaps saved.

Chapter 1

It was a cold gray morning in March, the drizzling rain required the use of the windshield wipers periodically. My father was taking me to the train station in a nearby city. This was the day I would embark upon a new life. Hardly a word was exchanged between us during that thirty-to-forty-minute drive. I was about to leave the world I had known and grown-up in. A boy entering a man’s world. Thinking back now to all the choices that I could have made, the career paths I could have explored and yet I chose adventure. I was afraid that day but had learned well not to show it. I was also excited, too excited to have eaten breakfast.

There was no hug, handshake, or goodbye. His words, I remember as if it had happened yesterday, were simple, Well off you go, good luck as I boarded the train. That picture I have just painted with my words is as dreary as was the sky that day. It was mid-March and I had recently turned seventeen. Looking back at my life so far, I had been raised within a loveless home, although my father was a good provider. We never went hungry or wore raggedy clothes and I’m sure it was very hard raising three boys so close in age. Not to mention the surprise of a fourth some years later.

Pocket money was something my father did not agree with. His policy was that if you earn your money, you will respect it. My brothers and I, each became creative. I delivered newspapers in the morning before school and again after school. At 14 years of age, I owned my own business of sorts, a car wash. I had a crew, and it ran by appointment only. It was set up behind the Newsagents store and I paid a fee to hook-up to their water supply. Car owners would schedule a time and then deliver their vehicle to be cleaned. At the weekends I was the assistant projectionist at the local cinema. Not only did I get paid, but also, I got to watch the movies! And on Wednesday evenings I was the relief cook at a country inn where I would prepare the evening meal for the guests.

My mother was a good cook and a good instructor and already I had an interest in cooking. At 13 years of age, I had approached the headmaster and asked if he would allow me to take cookery classes alongside the girls. After some consideration, he approved my request, and I became the first boy in the school’s history to take cookery classes. At first, this drew mocking from some of the other male students, though in the second year three other boys requested to participate.

Those early teen years were a very active time for me. At school I was a member of the athletics team, also played soccer and tennis, took self-defense classes and was a member of the chess club. I tried golf lessons but was never any good, though I have to wonder, if it had anything to do with the fact that I was left-handed, using a right-handed club.

Outside of school I was a Boy Scout and member of their band, my older brother was a drummer (later to become the drum major). I was woodwind and played the flute; my younger brother was brass and played the trumpet. Then there was youth club where I learned to fence (swordfight), amateur dramatics, play a guitar, art and photography classes, how to keep tropical fish and a lot more. Through the youth club, trips were organized which produced many adventures. One trip, in particular, saw a group of us, boys and girls, walking an old Roman road called the Fosse Way. It was built by the Romans as a main supply route from the Midlands down to the South of England. During an eight days period, we walked a distance of one hundred and ten miles. We also used to do a lot of night hikes out into the surrounding countryside, covering approximately twenty miles each time. It was always pitch black out along those country lanes, except for the small amount of light that shone from the pocket flashlight we each carried. Heaven help you, if the batteries failed. The hooting of an owl, or a rustling in the hedgerow always struck fear, and the girls would start shrieking, usually followed by nervous laughter from the boys. I look back now and understand all were designed to build team spirit. My heartfelt thanks go out to the men and women who organized and ran the youth club, the lessons learned there continue to be a part of me today.

I was the second oldest of three boys, each born approximately twelve to fifteen months apart. Then ten years later I became the second eldest of four boys. Our mother was quite a resourceful woman. In-so-far-as not having a daughter to train up, she turned to her boys and decided we would be the benefactors of her talents and skills. We were taught how to knit, sew, and darn. She also taught us how to cook, clean house, wash, and iron clothes, along with a multitude of other skills.

A fond memory I carry with me is of times when my mother would decide to make a rag rug. It is a rug made of old clothes and other pieces of material, all of which were cut into small oblong pieces about one inch by four- and one-half inches. Mother would separate the small pieces by color, my brothers and I would assist. She would have a large bolt of sackcloth from which she would cut the size and shape of the rug to be made. Then with her rug hook, she would start attaching the pieces of cloth to the sackcloth backing, asking one of us boys to pass the colored piece of cloth she requested.

Sometimes these rugs were quite large; I’m talking living-room size. Not once do I remember her marking a design on the sackcloth, but once finished, it was a creation, a designer rug for sure. During these times of making rugs, mother would tell us stories. She sat in her chair with her three boys sitting at her feet hanging on every word.

My father was a hard man, strict and disciplined. I feel it safe to say that I don’t think I ever really got to know who he was. There were moments when he would show a softer side, he had musical ability and occasionally told funny stories. He could pick up almost any musical instrument, mess around with it for a few minutes then just start playing tunes as if he had been playing that instrument for years. A very talented man, but it has only been in these latter years that I have gained some insight into the person as others saw him.

I realized many years ago that I am the product of a dysfunctional family. We were never really a family by the definition that I would use to define how the members of a family would interact with each other. Love was a word rarely used. Hugs and kisses maybe took place when I was a baby but, sadly, none that I can remember. My father would spend several evenings a week at his club, having a drink and socializing with his friends. I don’t recall him ever coming home drunk, but he and mother would argue and bicker frequently.

As my brothers and I grew into teens, we had already become somewhat isolated from each other, all going our own separate ways with our own group of friends. Over the years we had been taught, whether directly or indirectly, that we each had to be the best, second best was not good enough and wasn’t an option.

It would be easy to lay the blame for this at my father’s feet had an event which took place several years later, not happened. We were men by then and had each spent some time traveling the world. It was a time of celebration for my mother and yet, during a conversation with us, she openly stated that she felt we had all let her down and not lived up to her expectations. I realized a short time later just how much of a driving force she had been. I was saddened.

Like my brothers, I was an achiever, an achiever in the worst possible way and I didn’t even realize it until I was in my mid-thirties. I was a product of something, which at that time I did not understand. Striving to be the best in everything I did or became involved in, more-often- than-not, falling short of my older brother, which in turn, drove a wedge between us. Upon reflection, I feel now, that back then I was probably an introvert, an introvert who was never allowed to be an introvert, an introvert who had no idea what an introvert was.

Chapter 2

Graduating high school at the age of 15 years, I had been offered a scholarship to study art based on some of my work placed in a nearby art gallery. However, my father refused to sign the papers, saying, ‘There are enough starving artists in the world without you becoming one.’ It was decided that Business Management would be my field of study for the next two years. That kept me close to my hometown, trapped, and in need of an escape. I yearned to see the world and longed for adventure.

My years in high school still carry wonderful memories through my mind. Some time ago I clicked on a website for the town where I grew up. I had visited this website on previous occasions, just to look at the photographs. Once I even signed into their guest register with surprising results. An uncle (my mother’s brother) who was living in Australia sent me an e-mail and I enjoyed the e-mails we sent back and forth. Since then, I have been contacted by two of the boys I attended school with, it’s good to see how other people’s lives turned out. During one visit to the guest book, I began reading through some of the articles and comments. The following is a copy of an entry written by an old school friend of mine, it made me laugh. All those mentioned were teachers:

"I would like to hear from anybody who attended High School with me. Just to talk about the old school days. You know the days when Dr. Rhodes was the headmaster. Thumper Williams liked to thump us in art class. When Dickie Davis used to hit us over the head with whatever came to hand first and thrash us with the blackjack. When Reggie Barker used to make us cut a switch out of the poplar tree, so he could beat us. Yes, they were the best days of our lives. Oh, and not forgetting Bradley the PE teacher, who used to whack us with a lollipop (a round wooden bat) if we took a short cut in cross-country running. Great days."

Someone being thrashed (caned) happened infrequently. Each teacher had his or her own method of punishment and made you