Titch Remembers

By Titch Laudrigan

“Men will die upon dogma, but not fall victim to conclusion.”
—John Henry Newman

In this exciting autobiography, Titch Laudrigan narrates his well-traveled and adventurous life and how he found that life is a constantly moving path.

As the son of a career Air Force officer, Laudrigan grew up accustomed to moving from place to place and back again. Constantly relocating and always losing or making new friends was a norm in his young life. He enjoyed the travel and the thrill of living overseas, but he often wished to just be away from his abusive, dysfunctional family. When he was finally old enough to move, he did—and far away he went.

From herding specialized food animals in the highlands of Central Mexico to backpacking in Europe to schooling in Paris and Britain to working as a Navy journalist, and more, Laudrigan has had a life well-lived, and he shares all in this memoir. A narrative of things seen and done, Titch Remembers gives insight into a rare life, indeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Aug 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662929656

Book preview

Embellished Remembrances~ Some Perhaps True

Broken Laws Of The Heavens

Back in a day, a youth in Japan, near Fukuoka, a military brat, learned to make my own kites and these, took to a field, with ball of string and cloth tail. The kites flew just fine and even though always alone, ever entertained. Did bring a small green companion for each venture and this fellow, taped topside as an imagined astronaut. No helmet. Never once a complaint. Of many times done, never once did a lizard raised unto the heavens, return upon the kite. Never thought them capable of flight, so either still in orbit or swanned without my seeing. Never thought of attaching parachutes to the buggers.

~Six to nine years of age was spent in Japan. Became a TV sumo fan, except, did not understand a damn thing…, that was fine. Still awed by the sizes of those bodies, but what a waste of tossed rice. Slippery I would think.

~Only one show was in English, the same one, early every Sunday morning. A movie, black and white, ‘Beauty and the Beast.’ How many times watching? Cannot remember, but rarely missed. Anyway…

An Acataleptic Void

To Never Know.

My third evening in this spot after given unfettered diagnosis, not with apologies or sympathy, but an unmitigated ‘no cure.’ A devastating announcement of no hope. No amount of books, teachers or libraries to offset the outcome of a lesser mind. Nothing but to endure.

Cliff’s edge, a tenebrous chasm, lie but feet away and once over, no way to change the mind, even if an airborne epiphany. A last evening’s final hurrah. It cooling fast after the sun dropping below the clouded horizon. Beautiful mixing pinks and greys dispersing into onsetting darkness. Went back to my small fire lying just forward of my camping site and grabbed a healthy glass of Scotch…, some crackers and cheese. A small repast for comforts sake.

Returned and sat back down, a blanket wrapped loosely around the shoulders. Sipped slowly on my Scotch and knew, had but short time to contemplate the far mountains and misted valleys. My attention riveted hypnotically to them this one final time. Last thoughts, swirling as if a life flashing stereotypically before. A breeze rustled my hair, tendrils of white grey swirling past my eyes as I hunkered further into my blanket from a growing chill.

Nothing more to do but pick the moment…, it but a brief trice away. I have terminal acatalepsia, an eternal inability to understand the universe, it the only present certainty, and nothing could I do. No cure. Went to the cliff’s edge and knew I could do no more but trip the light fantastic into the void. Unable to see the bottom and only imagine voyage time til striking the end. This missive, I leave upon this rock. Congé. What nonsense I weave, the nearest cliff is miles away.

Grass Will Cover The Streets

Questionable First Reminisces:

Well…, here I am. In daily peripheral limited vision, a severely challenged fog of mind; believe firmly, without shred of doubt~~somewhere. Has to be. No doubt, logically~~just simply must be. A place of visual grey hazed boundaries. A thick blanketed swirling fog roiling the edges of challenged peripheral revery. Brume of Scotch. Will know more, geographically, as vision boundaries return, expand~~if ever it does. If not, will remain pleasantly lost where I sit, even, if confused of present bearings. Something, a feeling, tells me peripheral eyesight will never return. Time does reveal, one way or the other. However, have yet to tell anything of where I am. Will tell you, in due course, when provided, actually know and can relate. Should I ever remember.

Once more, as follows every days’ end, it is near evening, literally the middle of nowhere with remaining, perhaps, two hours of light, a gloaming eventide. Night’s return to the fire, eidolons, shades,…, all once known.

The harshness of day’s light wanes. Going fast… entering into serene peace. My hoped diurnal quotidian existence, usually the case, and generally, as regards ease of a scuppered life, owe much to herd dogs and Scotch. Twilight’s vesper, favorite time of day, content in its obscurity. Aye, so it seems…, as I look around. Hills surround, in midst of boulders, gullies, and wild grasses. Some cactus. Everywhere, stunted conifers, none tall, defying rock and unyielding soil. Mountains, blue and grey, far distant beyond~~in all directions.

Waist-high grass abounds, untouched by wandering ruminants, land any grass-munching animal would dearly love, but for maybe its unpredictable wildness. No flat plains surround, but for perhaps, slightly slanted areas of mesa. In abundance, places, everywhere, for wolves, large cats, and coyotes to hide. Rustlers too. My collection…, rugs and blankets, ample evidence of predators keeping me and mine company. Froward annoyances, no error.

Unmarked graves for all others~rustlers that is. Thieves, wanking pillocks that they are, rarely leave while breathing. My way of dealing with bodies~~drag them to one of many secluded gullies and let carrion have their willful go, particularly wild pigs and coyotes. Do their work well, that they do. What little is left, buried where left; only bits remain in short order. The clothes… I bury or burn.

The area presently observing, lacks a whole lot of green, but abundant reds, browns, and yellows. The land, first glance, appears mildly arid, dry; the air, crisp, dust free, clear… no perceivable human pollution. Anywhere. Rarely a contrail seen. Perhaps, maybe, dogie pollution aplenty in this mildly parched land. A bit dry until next cleansing rains strike and then, more water than desired in several lifetimes~~yours and mine. Until…, of course, one thinks, a wee bit might be necessarily good. A perpetual cycle of too dry for too long and then, too terribly wet is what you might think. Better realized after having spent an ample amount of time in this part of the world.

In addition to hills and grassy areas…, rocks, primarily large, laid artistically random, everywhere, sometimes akin to jumbled skyscrapers. The rocks (large angular boulders) oft singular and massive…, sometimes, laid in clusters. Perhaps, deposits from ancient retreating glaciers or thrown, tossed haphazardly, from an angry mountain~~one long since gone to time. Haunting remnants of long put-asunder mountains. Many times, a fascinating wonder in and of themselves, but, for occasions when obstructing strategically necessary views.

From Desired Fame To Preferred Anonymity

Out of view is when my herd can be an issue, a far-reaching problem, but have capable herd dogs to deal with out of sight difficulties. Tail chomping, ass biting, ankle nipping… always does the job, as well… keeping opportunistic dogie lunch-hunters at bay.

Amongst plenteous rocks, throughout grassy areas, harbors many a hole. Everywhere. Usually small, but not always. They are home to many varied animals, the likes of which… snakes, hares, squirrels, gophers, lizards. Other useless ankle chasers. Dogie munchies, like grasshoppers and crickets, flourish, added protein and nutrition. Snack foods they are.

A distinct problem with animal holes…, tripping and sprained ankles~~especially bad when staggering into the dark to relieve of more than one too many drinks… languidly floating in mind-altering fluids. A rather too oft occurrence~~truth told~~so, drunken shuffling, locomotive style, small mincing steps, all to avoid unseen voids. A method of walking, learned of painful experience. Hopefully, whatever bladder relieving path followed, bereft of dogie leavings.

As is, do like having small holes and their occupants around~~they readily supply supplemental food for my herd of small animals. Abundant grasshoppers and crickets reside as well in surrounding grasses.

My little ‘dōgies’~~a triple breed of my own manufacture~~less than affectionately referred, are what I raise, a present means of existence, my day-to-day livelihood… oft dinner.

My dogies… low-slung, short-legged, barrel-chested, sausage-shaped, and very meaty. Miniature four-pawed meat-tanks. Have yet to coin a formal name for these creatures. Livestock. As yet, anyway, no name, and doubt they will ever require formal titles. Chipugdachs? Pughundhuas? Tongue strangling names of little meaning and for the moment…, ‘dogie’ does just fine. Perchance, an imagined semi-vast herd. Food prancing on the paw.

Presently, a few thousand wander about, but always, mostly, staying close, thanks to the herd dogs. Also, know they are safer close-in than if wandering afield with intent of exploring, or even~~foolishly stupid it would be… attempting to escape. If not then dead by stalking predators, something ever lurking on the edges, then finished by me. End result, ever the same, a late day tiffin~~for something or someone. Of being out and about, unbidden, something else takes ownership of one of my dogies and that foolish critter, a meal. Mosstroopers, out there in plentiful numbers, at any time, and dogies none too capable, if not foregathered in sizable groups. Nor, any kind of true vicious. However, believe sincerely, they quietly scheme my destruction and maybe, just perhaps, courage of numbers. Ankle biting plonkers.

Extant time of day, early evening, night approaching, always leave the herd dogs to crowd control~~seem to enjoy, relish, their mission. Instinctively known tasks as a singular breed with little input by the self. They simply, quickly, know right what to do. Instinctually, in an instant. Their work, more entertaining than a game of fetch, which, by the way~play fetch~do not ever do. Anyway…, for the working dogs, herding infinitely better fun than chasing throw-toys. Invariably, the herd dogs chase after curly tails, nipping chubby ankles when time comes to take over evening chores of getting all safely grouped and settled. The herding dogs are fixed males and rarely interference from the dogies. Outside of occasional predators desiring, velleity, a quick meal~~most everything stays quiet.

I keep an eye on the herd, but this time of waning day, shadows creeping long and deep, sun near the horizon, my attentions, between catnaps, relaxing with a glass of Scotch. If finding an errant dogie, mark it, and if not onto that night’s grill, or next~~evening’s repast~~it goes down the mountain for market. Consumption by the local populace…, ending result. Local markets, monthly, enthusiastically buy my animals for needed cheap meat. Money for supplies and livelihood these markets are. Support for Scotch consumption. Often, dinner. Not a lot of money made, but enough to do what I do every day of the year.

Presently, relaxing in my chair, have a freshly poured Scotch… all is quiet. Personally perceived as quiet~~my surroundings~~as well, contentedly peaceful. Regardless, true or not, tranquility and serenity are what I want to believe for the moment, and so…, will. The here and now is I, comfortably ensconced in a canvas chair, replete with bottle and full glass, feet up…, sipping aged Scotch. A glass, one ice cube. During times like these, like to look back at my mostly misspent youth…, more to the point~~idiot driven younger days. To, bethought, hark back. Reminisced stories and memories. Things seen and done. Perhaps, at times, sometimes… just imagined. Anyway…

Cow Tipping The Light Fantastic

As per usual with a passing year of university, the onset of warming days brought dark desperate edges of an ebbing caged winter. Animals freed of claustrophobic confinement, getting a taste for yearned freedom they will never have. A sudden need for outdoor keggers and hair down parties. Gals appearing much more attractive than mere days before, not that they never were; spring brought unconstrained randiness in everyone I rubbed shoulders. Eyes meeting eyes amidst bare self-control. A dark swimming buzz of night was base desire of all. Backseats of cars in great demand and…, possessed one.

During the winter, if able to get to bars with hopping music, upon departure, it was to confined spaces of car backseats, to do whatever hopefully came next. No imagination needed for the latter, none. The only determining factor to determine length of dalliance was temperature. Occasionally, at first light, humming aubades to greet the day, contented. Except, some things took exception to unremitting cold, but fogged windows, body heat, offered pleasant levels of anonymity.

On occasion, drunken dancing revels, pas de foulés, cozened people of cow-tipping days before the Navy, stories garnering great attention…, much more interest than submarine races at the reservoir. As time passed, coming of spring, more and more people became anxious to have tipping experiences and so, became increasingly worried of responsibility for a bunch of drunks fancying spirited gos at chowderhead bovine. The things were large and heavy and one could only imagine bacchic myriads of pitfalls befalling tip-overs gone awry. My base desire, take a warm sentient girl to scout to warn when danger seen. Tipping bovines, once commonplace in my world, but noticed, herds had become warier; as so, posted sentries feigning sleep. Waiting for occasions to reverse fortunes of those interfering in night’s repose. Sentry cows, intending, comme il faut, payback.

Cow tipping, preferably dressed in dark clothing, stealth being of great import. Downwind, scouting numbers, distance, and alertness. Not a crowd sport until after the fact, then you could scream in a victory dance, jigging safe on the other side of the fence. But for one experience, managed to talk myself out of tipping with others. Saw disaster only, especially with liberal amounts of alcohol involved. The instance, hanging one evening with a breathtaking lithe blond of Norwegian descent, Gretchen I believe. Large blue eyes peering knowingly into the soul, a sad countenance, emotions expressed in a smile. Few words ever, communication, a nuzzling of face, shoulder bumping, gentle caressing nudges.

This night of event, standing apart from beer blotted crowds, she gently head butted me, eye to eye, with a lingering wistful smile, purring. ‘Take me tipping…, to the reservoir… please?’ A long breathed sighing melodic ‘please.’ Who could resist a request given in such asseverating manner by an attractive sylphlike blond. A poignant begging request, deliquesced.

With two quarts of beer, a partial fifth of Scotch, we hopped into my car and headed for the reservoir. An area where I knew cows to graze. Nearby, a pioneer cemetery and an abandoned rock quarry I oft jumped from into the reservoir below. At shoreline, deterge skinny dipping, if not wanting to do anything else.

At arrival, saw the cows still active, moving around, munching the short grass. No sooner there, they see us, surprise promptly lost. Would have to hide and wait, but now, worried of the girl. Would she panic if things got dicey? Heard of people freezing in fear when an angry cow charged. Did not want such, save, this girl appeared cool enough.

Parked over a small rise, out of cows’ sight, and set the car by the entrance to the cemetery. Only a short walk to the water and a little further, the quarry jumping spot. Too cool at the time for a swim, even if dry clothes and fire to be had. Few places to make a fire anyway. With little talk, decided to lay out a blanket in the cemetery, along with a large lounging pillow. I plan for these things.

Set everything up on the grass, between graves, then commenced chatting and drinking. Soon, forgot about cows. Will tell you no more, but doubted anymore she wanted to tip cows this night. Just as well, wily heifers can be unpredictable scalawags and when embarrassing a tipped bovine, all hell could be loosed…, they dealt poorly with humiliation. Wish they wore bells.

In the distance, as fondling, snoggling, somewhere, could hear people passionately cheering the submarine races. High cadenced ‘oh yeses,’ ‘again’ and ‘wahoos ’ whenever their vessel won. Sometimes, angry, ‘that’s it!?’ when their pig boat performed poorly. No matter, enjoying or not, a spirited lot, awfully passionate for a sporting event. Ah… back into the car…, found the Scotch. Fogged windows blocked views.

Beware The 51st Dragon

A small story to start a wandering narrative:

Here is an old tale, a shade bit off track for this telling, maybe, but perchance relevant. Indicative? Mayhap.

Remember this story as a boy living on a military installation in New Mexico, going to the base’s elementary school~~of then, an undersized kid of ten. Give or take on the age~~no matter there~~but definitely, very small. From here, later moved to Europe after my second time in this locale. This before three years in Japan…, a military base located on Kyushu. Many memories by then.

Anyway…, a story sticking doggedly through several decades of life. The whys of having the continued partial eidetic memory of this story~~have never been sure. Only the Gods know and if valid, correct that they know, then sure as hell, not telling me. Never did. Well, here goes…

Attitude Can Be Everything

At a desk works an older man of an earlier era, a time before lightbulbs and typewriters. The man, a slightly secondary figure, works studiously with quill and ink. Illumination is window daylight, tall thin candles standing close before. One augments the other. The subject put to paper, of no import, but essential to the man; he is writing swiftly with affected scholarly intent. Diligent. Swotty. Far into his subject, along comes a churlish fly to unsettle attentive workflow. Complete disruption of pace and direction. Accomplished flow~~gone in an instant. The fly annoys, bothers, in fashion many have experienced. Flying, buzzing, here and there, constantly within vision, ever at close quarters. Close enough to grab straight out of the air, should it unwisely dawdle.

Nevertheless, regardless, the man is removed from concentration of work, irritated by an insect landing, flying, unrestricted, wherever seen fit. The fly’s movement and landings, wherever the man does not want…, anywhere, everywhere… this is where the fly is. Forthwith…, an overwhelming source of distraction and whatever amount of swatting, of no deterring consequence. Nothing thwarts this winged vexation from disturbing and this… deviously premeditated, as so, nettling, beyond ability to tolerate. Well beyond. The man continues writing amidst insidious disarray by a Gods-sent gogga, now with less concentration and diligence. Attention to work, desire to endure, rapidly diminish; inward, a building volcanic rage. Desires turn to emphatic need to destroy this endured menace distracting with impervious impunity. At moment of overwhelming dudgeon, the fly grievously errs of its own accord. Without assistance or cause by the man, it precipitously blunders, unless one counts a fortuitous strategically unplanned presence of an inkwell… an inadvertent critical error on the fly’s part.

What happens? The fly alights in the inkwell. An unseen lake of Stygian gloom. Upon seeing the fly’s misfortune, the writer’s mood turns to victorious elation and in fleeting moment, a sense of poetic justice…, revenge on this winged scourge. Enjoyable deliberate destruction lies ahead… desperately flailing for life in an Acheronian abyss. Nothing will be fast for this fobbing creature. A long drawn punishment if…, the writer has his way. Justified torture and slow death, before returning to quill, ink, and paper. Retaliatory entertainment.

He presently~~avidly~~watches the fly struggle within onyx clinging liquid. Wanting it to fearfully suffer for recent antics~~justified payment for vile ills committed. For he had suffered and now…, front and center, justice was at hand. Anticipated reprisal awaits. The fly will suffer grievously.

So…, the man watches the fly, desperate, slowly drowning, all the while…, visibly losing its battle to survive. Except…, as looking to be the end, plucked from the ink on impulse and placed on a dry cloth. Drenched, the fly lies torpid on the serviette, but… alive. The writer has rescued it for inexplicable reason, maybe for continued bouts of sadism and… letting the fly recover. To clean itself of an ink coating after near drowning. To the writer’s surprise, it slowly, resolutely, repairs itself with expressed determination. Stubborn resolve, displaying overwhelming willpower to survive. It decidedly wants to live and thus, as the man feels, return to bedevilment. The writer knows this. Feeling this antipathy deeply.

Upon completing its cleaning, near ready to go, at point about recovered, dried, ready to fly afresh~~the writer immerses it back into the ink.

Once again, treading viscous ink anew, restrained in black liquid, it swims, struggling to survive. Spasmodic floundering at first, flagging quicker than before. Building exhaustion, treading forlornly for life. The man, as before, watches mesmerized, lost to all else of before, but now, less rapt vengeful intent than existed prior. Fiendish craving wearing thin. Fading. The man sees, notices, lessening energy in the fly but observes, intuits, a fierce will to survive. A commanding desire to live and subsequently, pester anew.

It is, the writer thinks, just a fly, but one trying to overcome unforeseen tribulations with unremitting pluck. Intrepid courage. Again, when the fly appears done, on verge of drowning, it is plucked from the ink. Pulled from the abyss once more; as before, the fly works sedulously at recovery. Nevertheless, upon finished cleansing, once more immersed. An ongoing tortured process taking place. Do not recall how many times, probably less than indicating, but each time, the fly noticeably slows in revival. Still, tries, does, returns to near recovery once removed to a dry napkin. After forgotten dunkings, rescued for one final extraction.

It expires after brief movements of struggle, exhausted, worn, past recoup. Beaten. After meager efforts to clean, wearied, moves no more. With little fanfare, it is lifeless. The fly, defeated, exhausted beyond measure, and now~~dead. It had no more amidst final reimmersion. The man passed from vengeful glee, when the fly first fell into the ink, to respectful admiration. Ashamed now of base cruelty. Remorse. Deep regret and sorrow for the fly’s passing~~carrying great odium for his loathsome part in a lengthy tortured demise. The man had gained growing admiration for this fly’s spirit and now~~grieved its passing.

The Name Of The Devil Was My God

Survived my childhood dunkings, just barely I believe, but not so a brother. At end, no sorrow or regret by anyone~~nor apologetic ministration. Legacy, a brother forever feeling sorry for himself. Achieving nothing. Mom had successfully broken him. What just said, brought back a long hidden memory, a brief one that left me a mite shaken. The mom had been screaming at my youngest brother, for what do not remember. Had walked in on the affair in the kitchen, it ending at that moment, with the brother heading upstairs. I was not far behind. Heading for my room, passing his, when I saw him sitting on his bed, banging his head against the wall, eyes closed. Low volume desperate wailing emitting as he banged his head in cadenced rhythm. A shrill one syllable keening funereal lament. Not stopping. Continued on by to my room. Was numbed to this sort of thing, seen too often. Still…, it did disturb.

A Story Of Randy Conception

Was told this story some decades ago. A few times. Embellished I am sure, but always carried an interest. One of the very few endearing things given from the mother. A story of a time two years before my world arrival. Eight months old when my father was finally released from the hospital.

My father was a bomber navigator during and after WWII. Getting out after the war, returning to civilian life. As a former officer, recalled to service for the Korean War and so went back into B-29s, ferrying, at the time, crews and supplies to Japan via Hawaii. Not a bad gig I suppose.

An occasion, the plane just leaving California, the pilot decided to return baseside to check out what he thought was a fuel problem. The crew said there were no issues to worry, but that did not deter the pilot from repairing to base. What the pilot had not taken to task, the plane was fully loaded with fuel, which will make for a different landing if not compensated for on landing approach. What happens… the plane stalls, pancakes into the runway and burns to the ground.

The crew and passengers escape unharmed, but my dad is left forward with a snapped back. As the plane burns, a firefighter smashes through the front to pull him out of an inferno about to take over. It did. The pilot, got what amounted to a reprimand and went on flying this same engagement. Later, another issue with his plane and parachuted without giving crew and passengers a chance to get out. Three survivors out of eleven. It flipped over and took down the rest when the pilot should have steadied the plane to allow people to exit.

Fast forward. Eight months old, living in Colorado where my father convalesced for his final time. Somewhere in two years of hospitals, my mother snuck him home for a tryst, via the trunk of their car. I was conceived in Texas.

A footnote to all of this. My father was Irish Catholic and mother, a German Baptist, or some such thing. Opposite ends of a religious spectrum in those days. Upon arrival, my dad announces I am to be baptized forthwith without word one beforehand to my mom. Needless to say, not happy. My dad’s mother was what I considered a frothing religious fanatic… fire and brimstone. Hated Jews above all else. Despite a screaming blowout, am baptized to appease his mom, but… the next three kids are left untouched by any Catholic God. At end of one telling, my mom did say this affair was the one and only time she could have put a knife in his ribs. Some ways, wished she had.

~Related peripherally to the above, perhaps, my mom’s aunt did not speak to her for some thirty years because she married a Catholic. She came to visit in her old age and as part of an apology, bought my parents a state of the art root-tiller. I suppose an adequate vindication.

Great Dreams I Cannot Revive

None Ever Relived

Titch Goes To Europe

My dad was a career Air Force officer and in short life and memory, at aged twelve, this is the essential beginning of this story~~had already lived in Albuquerque once before. There was a three-year stint on Kyushu~~a place near Fukuoka. After Japan, back to New Mexico for three-years. Three years per posting for an officer, an unchanging norm. Three years one place, three another, with added moves within each. For instance, lived two places in Japan~~one near the base, then on the base. In this NM location, it was three different houses within the same area, a large base, in three years and that, nearly over when starting this tarradiddle of occasional truth. Constantly moving, always losing and making friends, a norm of life. Moves within moves. Ever moving. That is what I remember. Kinetic… changing friends, houses, and schools. Incessant.

My nickname, ages eleven and twelve, was Titch. The year after seventh grade, nearing summer’s end, the nickname faded from use, but a sometime moniker in later years; there again, sometimes used. Despite using or not, forever thought of myself as Titch. Had grown used to the name. The nickname originated from a newly arrived girl during fifth grade. One with an English mom and an American military father; not uncommon was it for mothers to be from another country. Born in the UK, she had a proper Brit accent and personal opinion, quite pretty. Believe the accent was part of her attraction, but regardless, developed a crush right off. ‘Titch’ meant small in British lexicon, slang, and undoubtedly~~was very small. The first memorable of many nicknames, it was this name I tended to identify, one used on and off over the years throughout life. Use it occasionally at time of this writing, identification used intermittently as an adult. This girl gave me the name at first meeting, upon seeing my diminutive size, and stuck for following years in Albuquerque. If not Titch, then my surname when addressed, a sometimes awkward mouthful that one. Did not mind the moniker; not one given maliciously. More of an observation. It beat the bog-standard born and…, obviously, undersized, as everyone knew. Had the name been derisive, by anyone, would have been fighting mere seconds after utterance.

Of the girl, a tall one, relative to me and in reality, she smiled at me often, no airs and we oft hung companionably during recess. Girls back then were boy crazy, however…, did not oft go for small runty ones like myself. Being so, female crushes of the time pretty much passed me until later years and then…, zestfully, made up for lost time with manic energy.

Furthermore, an extreme lack of size in relation to peers had another reason; a year younger than everyone in my grade. Age and size comparisons of school would never change until near university.

Following seventh grade, awaited summer’s end, the start of eighth; hopefully the same school, but not expecting so. Seventh was not like elementary, nor was it high school, one more purgatorial year before start of formal high school. Knew not where school would next