Timothy Kline: Thoughts and Reflections

Where will the path you chose REALLY take you?

It is a fact of life that we all make choices because we CAN. It’s our RIGHT.

As parents, we try to teach our children not only how to make wise choices, but to help them to learn that there are consequences for the choices they make–and those consequences may be good or they may be bad. In time, the child reaches what is commonly known as the age of accountability, where the responsibility for their decisions ultimately falls upon their own decision-making skills and the parents can no longer shoulder the blame or burden.

Parents dread that day, and children often live in denial of it–wanting the freedom of Choice but not willing to accept the consequences of that freedom when a choice results in a bad situation. Nevertheless, the day invariably comes when our children must be allowed to experience the consequences of their decisions, for better or for worse, and we, as the parents, must allow them to.

Of course there is no question that we, as parents, want to swoop in and save the day, to protect our child when things go badly for them. This is natural. And in the beginning, it helps coax the child into maturity.

But allowed to continue, we can unintentionally deny our children their due right to experience Life under the guise of “protecting” them. They have the right to their own decisions, their own Choices. But they also have an obligation to own the results of those decisions–even if we disagree with the Choice made in this situation or that situation, and know that no good will come of it.

The situation becomes even more trying for us as parents when the advice and counsel we offer one of our children essentially falls on deaf ears: they nod and admit we are “right” while they are talking with us, but then go ahead and do their own thing when they’re away from us.

In some ways, this comes across as rebellion. Even betrayal. After all, why tell us that they know we’re “right” about our perception of a situation and our advice, and yet act completely counter to it?

And what do we, as parents, do when one of our children behaves in this way? In some cases, we maintain the relationship–and the child continues in their Choice, enjoying the freedom of being able to choose and yet believing that when things have reached their pinnacle and the time has come to pay the piper, that their doting parent will swoop in and rescue them or provide a way out for the bad situation the child has brought themselves in.

Now, I’m talking specifically about our ADULT children here–and not school-age children that haven’t reached the “legal” age of 17 or 18 years of age.

In the above-mentioned situation, where the parent decides to maintain the close familial tie, essentially enabling the adult child to persist in a course that the parent knows is self-destructive, disastrous, and, in some cases, morally and ethically wrong, the parent must assume responsibility for their part in the situation. They are failing to properly parent because they KNOW that what their adult child is doing is wrong and problematic, but they are using the excuse of parental “love” to deny the wrongness of their adult child’s course.

It says, in effect, that the adult child can continue in their course without really experiencing the consequences of their Choice–because the over-doting parent will help soften the harsh realities that result from unwise decisions, and be there for their wayward adult child when it comes time to “pay the piper.”

This is bad parenting because Life does not work this way.

Every day, each and every one of us makes a Choice, and things happen as a result of that Choice. Sometimes, those things that happen or beneficial–and sometimes they are downright tragic. But in order to become better in our decision-making skills, we MUST experience the full weight and burden of every Choice we make. It’s called being an adult–when we finally become responsible not only for ourselves, but the impact our Choice has on those closest to us, as well as Society at-large.

It becomes a testament to our Character when the Choices we make reflect our awareness that others close to us may be hurt, disappointed, or estranged through what we choose to do. Or, conversely: doesn’t reflect that awareness.

Unfortunately, some adult children reach a point where they could care less what anyone else thinks or feels about what the adult child chooses to do. They just want to do whatever it is that they want to do, and everyone else can just take a flying leap. The adult child’s self-indulgent attitude takes priority over everything else. Anyone that tries to reason with them is considered a “hater” or enemy or someone who “just doesn’t want them to be happy.”

In nearly every case, however, where the adult child insists that “everyone” else is just trying to keep the adult child from being “happy,” the reality is that the adult child is engaging in self-destructive behavior that will eventually result in disaster, and the adult child is in denial and defiance of the inevitable.

However, no amount of reasoning on the part of the frustrated parent will reach that adult child once they reach that level of rationalizing. In that situation, the parent’s best course of action is to step back and let things take their course–even though they already know where the particular path leads. The adult child MUST be allowed to experience disaster for themselves.

Even then, the adult child still may not admit that the Choices they are making are problematic. Instead, they will persist in the belief that everyone is against them, against their happiness. They will continue in the delusion that they are doing everything right, and honestly be confused why bad things continue to happen to them–when in reality those bad things are simply the consequences of the adult child’s Choices. They will be angry and resentful especially at those close to them when they need or want something, expecting it to be provided on the basis that they ARE family, after all–and do not get what they are asking for from family members or siblings.

Worse still, adult children caught up in the maelstrom of this course will habitually lie and resort to deception and half-truths in order to bolster the illusion they have built around themselves. Not intentionally, but because they have so thoroughly and effectively deluded themselves into believing that they are speaking absolute truth–even when the evidence contradicts it.

Too, these adult children will utilize emotional manipulation to secure sympathy and pity from others, to obtain support that subconsciously will reinforce their conviction that they are perfectly content, their life is essentially the life they want, and that everyone is out to get them or deprive them of happiness.

This is also evident in the relationships that the adult child enters into. While the adult child will be absolutely convinced that they are in “love” with someone they’ve managed to attract through sympathy, pity, or emotional manipulation, an objective assessment will confirm that what the adult child is calling “love” is actually DEPENDENCY. The adult child is actually dependent upon the other person in the relationship for support, affirmation, and the other person will invariably assure the adult child that they’re right about their skewed world-view in order to secure their own needs’ fulfillment.

This co-dependent situation persists until either the other person in the relationship realizes that the adult child needs more than can be given (and this need will increase exponentially as the relationship continues), or the adult child fails to secure what they crave from the relationship.

Relationships such as these tend to be short-lived, and each relationship that ends before the adult child is ready for it to end will lead the adult child into depression and frustration as they try to understand what it is that they are doing wrong–without realizing or acknowledging the reality behind said failed relationships. This depression and frustration will end, however, once the adult child as secured another symbiotic relationship–and so the cycle continues.

It is a sad fact of truth that adult children who live their lives like this rarely come around in their lives to realize just far off-course they are. In some cases when the adult child finally does come around, years and even decades can have passed them by and they suddenly realize that they’ve managed to alienate everyone that had ever been close to them–even parents and siblings. They find themselves alone, embittered, angry (at everyone else except themselves), and resentful–yet at the same time trying to recapture a time that has long since passed them by when things were simpler in their life, when they had people around them that truly loved and cared for them… people who had no choice but to let the adult child HAVE their Choice, to live the life that THEY wanted–even though it meant that there would be no room for them in that adult child’s life.

But in the end, it was all about Choice.

Life's lessons are SO painful!

Since I’m having so much trouble sleeping tonight because my mind won’t leave me alone, I figure I might as well do something, and since I haven’t written in a while, this will serve as an update on my life, as well.

As I have discussed recently, I’ve had the amazing privilege of being reunited with now two of my three daughters whom I was essentially coerced into giving up for adoption by the State of Michigan some 19 years ago. It’s been nothing less than miraculous, really, and more than I dared ever expect—even though that didn’t stop me from hoping and doing what I could to get my name out there on the chance they might want to find me someday.

Be that as it may, it hasn’t failed to provide its own surprises, as well as frustrations—one of which I talked about in the previous entry.

I found out, for example, that I am a grandpa five times over. I didn’t, I admit, see that coming. My oldest daughter, Brandi, has three children, and my second-oldest daughter, Danielle, has two children. Insofar as I know, my youngest daughter, Melinda—whom I have not had contact with as of this writing—does not have any children.

Strange new territory, this being a grandpa so suddenly! But I’m very happy about that (and who wouldn’t be, really?) and looking forward to watching them grow and mature.

But that isn’t the reason why I’m sitting here writing at 2am in the morning.

It’s the realization that I’m coming into their lives after so many things have happened that might have been averted.

I’m frustrated because I can’t help but feel that it is the curse of a parent to want a better life for your children than they seem to want for themselves. I want you to remember that, because I’m going to come back to it later on in this entry. But that’s later.

First, I want to elaborate on what I mean.

In getting reacquainted with my daughters after all of the years that I was forced to miss out on, I can’t stop myself from wanting to kick into what I’ve laughingly referred to when I’m with them as “Daddy Mode,” where the father in me kicks in and wants to set matters straight and get to the bottom of the mess as soon as possible. The catch is that I haven’t been a part of my daughters’ lives for 19 years. They’ve been raised by the adoptive family, and are a product of that environment—and environment that weighs as a heavy influence on their decision-making skills, morals, outlook on life, and even their view of themselves. I know that it’s unrealistic to think that I can come on the scene after all of that groundwork has been laid for them, and expect things to suddenly be able to shift direction. It doesn’t, however, stop me from wanting that to be how it goes.

So, it’s a learning process for me as I try to get acquainted with my long-lost daughters, encourage them where I can, help them where I can, and realize that they have their own lives that they are living. The way I explained it to them was “I’m not going to tell you what to do or how I want you to live your lives. But I will probably tell you how you should. I will offer advice, but it is your choice whether to follow the advice or do things your own way. Either way, I will never withhold my love from you.” I also told them, “I will not always agree with your decisions, but I will always be there for you and have your back.” To that, I added, “I do not expect you to jump through hoops with me in order to be approved by me. If I give to you, it is without strings attached, where I later hold it over your head.” But I also made one other thing clear to both of them: “I will do everything within my power to help you with whatever it is that you need; however, I will NOT carry you.” The way I explained it was that I won’t help them unless I see that they’re at least helping themselves.

And true to my word, I’ve been dropping fatherly advice into both of my daughters’ laps—sometimes delicately, sometimes plainly and bluntly. But it is SO hard to give advice and then let the matter rest, and watch them continue doing things the way they are used to or prefer. But the way I figure it, it’s their life, and they’re free to live it however they want to live it. The bottom line is that I’m going to continue to love that and endure whatever angst, frustration, and disappointment comes with that—as well as the bliss and memorable moments.

Years ago, someone asked me if I believe in unconditional love, if I thought there was such a thing. And typically, the answer would be no for most people. But I do believe in unconditional love, a love that is simply given—regardless of whether it is returned, acknowledged, or ignored outright. I know there is such a thing because I have children, because I have sons and daughters. But I also know there are parents who, unless their children live the life that the parents want them to live, or do things the way that the parents want them to do them, will withhold their love, or even stop interacting with them altogether, cutting them off from the family in some attempt at ultimate discipline. Perhaps they disapprove of the lifestyle, or the boyfriend/girlfriend, the career choice—whatever the reason or excuse they concoct to justify their simplistic, unloving approach to their own flesh and blood.

I’m certainly not going to say that unconditional love is easy. It’s not. In fact, it will often run counter to every fiber of our being—because we as parents naturally want our children to obey us and comply with us. Sometimes, it’s for the simple reason that we know where they’ll end up if they don’t follow our counsel or advice. But as much as we want to protect our children, to save them from cuts, scrapes and bruises brought on by life, we have to let them crawl, walk, and then fly. And when (not if, but when) they stumble and fall, we will be there to help them back up again. They need to know that. They MUST know that, and we have to be the ones to tell them. And any temptation to say “I told you so” or “Well, if you’d listened and did what I said to do…” needs to be stomped out of existence, plain and simple. It is pointless and just plain evil.

All of this, of course, is a sort of preface to what has been bothering me since recently.

There are two things, actually, so I’ll start with the first part, and then get down to business with the other part.

Both of my daughters are in what I will settle for calling predicaments of their own making. And the more I think about their predicaments, the more I want to go insane, because it is SO crazy to me. I’m at a complete loss what to do about it to help them. I’ve offered each of them advice, of course, and made recommendations, but they seem determined at this point to do things the way they prefer or are comfortable with. So, I am having to let the matter rest and let them see where their way takes them, and wait to see what happens next.

There are the predicaments, as I said, but there is also that “groundwork” that I referred to earlier, laid by the adoptive family. Then, of course, there are the obviously unresolved issues related to the whole family upheaval and subsequent adoption placement. Abandonment issues, emotional trauma (at least for the two oldest girls), insecurities—not even to mention them being told for the past 19 years that their daddy was a molestor and their mom was nearly as bad with issues of their own—a subject that I address in the previous blog with much frustration.

So, I completely understand that there are numerous factors in play here. It’s actually, at times, overwhelming how messed up everything is about this whole situation, and how it could have all been so different. But I try not to spend too much dwelling on that because it can’t be changed now—all that I have to work with is the here and the now, and potentially the future—IF I don’t screw this up by scaring them off with my “Daddy Mode.” Finding that balance is HARD, let me tell you!

Now, just recently, I was able to spend the day with both daughters that I have been reunited with at this point. It was, on the one hand, the most wonderful day for me since I can remember—and on the other hand, it had the most gut-wrenching, heartbreaking moments since I can remember.

I suppose a lot of it is due to the fact that the more I become acquainted with them, the more I am uncovering or discovering, and I am absolutely gutted to see just how broken they are. People who have spent any time with me online may be familiar with that expression because I’ve used it from time to time, where I’ve made the observation that everyone is broken—it’s just that some people are better at coping with it than other people are. Be that as it may, I’m not talking about other people, or everyone here: I’m talking about my daughters.

I want to make one thing absolutely clear here: I signed a piece of paper 19 years ago acknowledging that the court had the right to terminate my parental rights and subsequently adopt my girls to another family. I acknowleged that I was releasing all parental rights in that declaration. But in my heart and in my heart and in my soul, where the court could never reach or compel, I refused to stop thinking of myself as their father, and I refused to stop thinking of them as my daughters. They were taken—I did NOT give them or abandon them to the state. So, in every sense of the word, they never ceased being MY daughters, I don’t care what a piece of paper says or how I was coerced into signing that paper. And they will ALWAYS be my daughters!

And I suspect, as I become reacquainted with them, that I had made my fatherly impression on them to such an extent that they remembered my love for them in their very core, and that for their entire life they have had an insatiable void that they have tried to fill through lost, misdirected choices and relationships.

Be that as it may, I can do nothing except try to put the pieces back together, to try to repair the brokenness and heal and salve and bear the pain throughout the entire process.

What makes matters even more difficult is that they seem to be able to point out the faults of one another’s life choices and each other’s boyfriends—but they aren’t looking at their own lives and focusing on what THEY need to be doing with their own life. That, to me, is both crazy and frustrating. I’m torn between laughing hysterically and wanting to pull my hair out of my head! Worse still is that there are uncanny resemblances with BOTH of their situations that I won’t go into here—resemblances that I wish SO much they could see. But while they don’t like how the other one is living their life, they aren’t doing very much with their own life, either.

Which just goes back to what I was saying earlier in that they have that choice, and must make it for themselves. I can’t tell them how to live their life—I can only tell them how they should live their life.

But regardless, I love them both, and care for them beyond words. So, it hurts when I see them at each other. It hurts when I know where their choices may take them. And it hurts to let them have their choice. Love hurts, and at the same time, I would never want to stop loving them—even though I know the worst of the pain, heartache, and frustration is still ahead. But as bad as this gets, I want them to know that I am not going to step away from this. They can, but I will not. I will never stop being their father, or stop caring, or stop wanting nothing short of the best for them. Ever.

Which brings me to the final part of this blog, and the motivating factor that set things into motion.

To preface the final, closing point, I need to lay down a couple things to provide perspective.

The same day that I met Danielle, she had asked me if I could take her to her new boyfriend’s place. It was out of my way, and I told her as much. After a moment or so, I offered a compromise: ride back with me once I picked up her sister for laundry day at my house, and I’d swap vehicles and take her to her new boyfriend’s place. She agreed, and I picked up Brandi, and we headed back to Perry. After we got to my house, I of course, invited Danielle in and showed her around, introduced, and that sort of thing, and then we were on our way to meet her new boyfriend, outside his ex-girlfriend’s place, where Danielle said he had been staying for the past few days. I dropped her off, and headed back to Perry.

A short while later, I got a phone call from Danielle, asking me if I could take her home because she was hungry and hadn’t eaten, and her new boyfriend wasn’t ready to go home and would be staying behind. Of course, I said I would but that I’d bring her back home with me and feed her lunch and then take her home the same time I took her sister home. She said that was fine,  and was on my way to pick her up.

And then, as I was heading to the town to pick her up, my cell phone rang. It was Danielle. She said that Jeremy was wanting to go home with her now.

My stomach clenched. I didn’t know what to say. My first thought was that I’m being played, either by Danielle or by both of them—and I didn’t care who was playing me: I did NOT like it.

I finally bit my tongue and said okay, and let her go. The rest of the way there, I battled with myself, angry at feeling like I had been played. Should I take them home after I had already invited Danielle back to my house for dinner with everyone, or should I take them straight home like Danielle and said they wanted to do. What to do, what to do!?

And this voice came out of nowhere, reaching into the back of my frustration. “Now you know how it feels for me.“

Now I’m not a churchy, religious, Bible-thumping Christian. But I am a believer and a man of faith. And I’ve had my fair share of moments in my life that could ONLY be explained through my belief in God. This had to be one such moment. There is no other explanation that fits. Now you know how it feels for me.

In that moment, I realized that it must suck to be God. To love your children unconditionally, and let them have their choices and have to deal with the consequences of those choices. And do you still remember what I told you to remember at the beginning of this blog entry?

It is the curse of a parent to want a better life for your children than they seem to want for themselves.

I had been brought into this because God was wanting me to learn something about him. What it’s really like to be a parent—the good, the bad, and the ugly. And then letting me decide: do I want to be the sort of parent that He is, or the sort that I think I should be? If I’m going to talk about unconditional love, then I’m going to be put to the test, sure enough!

And sure enough, in that moment, I was. And yet the choice was mine to make. Nobody was going to make me choose or tell me what to do.

Now you know how it feels for me, the voice told me as I drove. You want to know how it feels to be a parent? You want to talk about frustration? Anger? Disappointment? About your children not listening to what you’re trying to tell them? But you know what? I never stop loving my children. I never said it would be easy for you, and you can still walk away from this. I’d understand. But I don’t believe that you will, and I want you to know that you won’t be alone in the tears or the happiness. I’ll always be here for you.

I can’t say that even then I wanted to do what I felt in my heart I should do. But the Voice stayed with me the rest of the way to Williamston, and once Danielle was sitting in the seat next to me, I made my decision. I AM in this, no matter what. Heartbreak and all. I love my children too much to do anything else.

So, I brought them back home with me, to have dinner with the rest of us.

But I did take Danielle for a walk with me as soon as we got the house, to tell her my gut feeling that I had been played and that I did not like feeling that way. I also did my best to assure her that I care about her, because I do.

Was I played? I’ll never know for sure. She explained things from her side, of course. But even if I was, I made my choice, and I accepted the consequences for that choice by having her and her new boyfriend come back to the house for dinner.

Besides, the remainder of the visit and day went fairly good, and in time I forgot about that initial frustration because my appreciation and gratitude for having two of my daughters together in my home at the same time was joyous and reward enough for me. If I had listened to by frustration instead, I would have missed out on that.

I think the way I worded it in a Status update on Facebook was that I had enjoyed a day with two of my long-lost daughters, and while are a few crinkles, kinks, and wrinkles needing to be worked out, I am SO thankful and grateful to have these two beautiful, amazing women back in my life.

And I mean every word of it.

Life changed forever after my baptism

It was within a year or two of that momentous event of my baptism that I described in the earlier entry that my young life was filled with an unimaginable turmoil. I say “unimaginable,” because to the mind of a seven and then eight-year-old child, some things are beyond comprehension. Some of the events I related in a separate work titled Welcome To MY World, but to bring context to this account I will repeat some of the details. The events that follow are etched in my memory and I only relate them here because they remain so clear to me as when they happened.

There was a neighbor boy who would constantly taunt and harangue me. Every chance he had, he would try to pick a fight with me, until one day he finally provoked me to the point that a fight ensued. I remember being held by his larger brothers so that he could beat on me mercilessly out in the front yard of the duplexes. I was pummeled pretty good that day, and when it was over I felt nothing but rage and hate. It was blinding, seething, pent-up yet boiling over. I picked up my bike that I had been pushed off from, turned to the boy and raged, “I hope you die!” and ran home before he could catch me.

That night, as I lay there feeling sorry for myself and hating the bully, I fell asleep and nearly immediately fell into a dream where I saw the boy riding along in a car with a man during the night. Suddenly, the car door opened and the boy fell from the vehicle and was killed as the man drove over him with the rear tire of the car. I remember waking up in a cold sweat, everything had been so intense during the dream. So real. And eventually, finally, I went off to sleep again.

The next morning, as I was about to go outdoors, my mother told me to leave the neighbors alone, to stay away from them. I asked why and she told me that there had been an accident and something bad happened. She said that the boy had gone to visit with his father for the weekend, and had fallen from the car and was killed. I remember my initial response, coming from the mind of a frustrated, angry eight-year-old boy, “Good!” But that glee was soon replaced by dread after the initial shock of the announcement set in. I remembered going to sleep that night wishing that he’d die. I wanted him to die so much. Had I caused his death by the sheer extent of hate and rage that I had?

I wish I could say that an eight-year-old child could answer those questions, but I couldn’t. To this day, I sometimes wonder whether I didn’t play some part in the tragedy that befell him. I am left wondering what really happens when we allow our darker emotions overpower us to the point where our will becomes steeped in primal barbarism and instinct. Nearly everyone I’ve ever told this to has told me that it wasn’t my fault, that it was a coincidence. And I want to believe them, I really do. But there remains that part of me that can’t help but think that in some way, I did play a role, even if it was peripherally. The family of the boy certainly held me responsible. They had nothing but spite and disdain for me after that day, remembering what had happened to me, what I had said to him, and what had happened. But they never bothered me again after that day, either.

It wouldn’t be the only time that I was given to dreams that eventually “came true,” either. They seemed to come at regular intervals in those days following my baptism, plateau during my teenage years, resume from age 17 onward, and then diminish to irregular occurrences since my early 30’s. Today, they are fairly irregular, but no less intense and fear-inspiring.

On another occasion around that period in my life, my mother tried to commit suicide.

It was on a night that she sent me and my brothers off to bed earlier than usual. Maybe it was something in her tone or her voice, but whatever it was, I remember lying there in bed afraid. I kept wanting to go check on her. One time, I actually did. She was lying on the couch, no blankets or anything. I asked her if she was okay, and she told me to get back to bed, which I reluctantly did.

I don’t remember how much time passed, but I went back out to check on her and George, the man that she had been dating, was there. He was shaking her, trying to wake her up. I asked him if she was okay and he told me that she was “playing possum.” Somehow, I knew it was more serious than that. The next thing that I remember is riding in the station wagon in the thick of night, my brothers and I still in our pajamas, George driving really fast, and mom asleep at his side. It wasn’t until many years later that I would learn that she had tried to overdose on sleeping pills.

See, my mother had recently divorced my father. Our place in Lake Odessa was what she had managed to get as a single mother with three boys after the initial separation from my father. Most of it was kept from us boys, of course, but there clearly was angst and distress going on with my mother. Apparently, enough to drive her to the cliff of despair and willing her over the ledge. But we were young, and we didn’t understand all of that stuff. We just knew that on various weekends, dad would come visit us, and the rest of the time he didn’t.

In any event, that suicide attempt was only the beginning of the turmoil which would consume my home.

Actually, maybe I had been more aware of it than I was consciously aware of. My brothers and I took to loving to be outside. For me, bike riding was an escape. It was a sense of adventure and independence and soaring around the world at breakneck speeds. At least in the mind of an 8-year-old it seemed like that. Back then, the world was so big, and the possibilities endless.

As I would ride my bike up and down the sidewalk of Second Avenue there in Lake Odessa, I would see an older gentleman every weekend carry from his house armfuls of boxes. He would then bring out several tables and pull the contents of the boxes and place them on the tables. There was oodles of stuff, all of it priced. Every weekend he would do this, and every weekend people would stop and buy from his array of items. At one point, I finally allowed my curiosity to get the better of me, and I stopped to see what he had. And I kept doing that for a couple weekends, and each weekend he’d talk to me and ask me if there was anything that I saw that I liked. And of course there was! There was a treasure trove of memorabilia–at least in the mind of a young boy. But I always had to tell him the same thing, I had no money.

One weekend, he asked if I’d help him. I could carry out the boxes for him while he set things up on the tables. In exchange, he’d pay me and then I’d have some money to get whatever it was that seemed to catch my eye every time I stopped by. Of course, I readily agreed. He told me to make sure it was okay with my mom, to get her permission.

So, I raced home to ask. My mom seemed awfully reluctant when I told her about the man, but she finally relented after much Please mom! and other boyish pleadings, but only after she made it clear that I was to come right home afterwards. That was enough of an answer for me, and I profusely told her Thank You Thank You and raced back to let the man know.

And so it began, my weekend adventures in yard saling. The first few times I was absolutely awestruck by the number of boxes that he had stacked there in his bedroom all along the wall. I had never seen so many boxes. I would find out during one of our conversations that he went to auctions all of his free time, and would then try to sell the items in his yard sale to the locals, for the extra money. He seemed to do really well, too.

He was my first real adult friend. I admired him. He was the most kindest-hearted person I had ever met. In many ways, he became a father figure to me in the absence of my own father. Like my dad, I could only see him on the weekends because he worked the rest of the week. But in many ways, he seemed so lonely, too. He seemed to enjoy my company, and he tolerated my endless chatter in ways that my mother didn’t seem to have the patience for.

My mother still expressed her disapproval of my ongoing associating with “that man” but never stopped me from going over there. Nor did she ever tell me why it was such a worry for her. For me, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong, apart from the man’s loneliness, as he lived alone. And even then, there were sometimes weekends when he had a much older kid stay over on a Friday or Saturday. The term I’d use nowadays would be that the older kid (early 20’s?) crashed there. In spite of that, I always got the impression that the older kid was not liked by the man, who’s name was Bill. But for whatever reason, he tolerated letting Randy (the older kid) stay there from time to time.

The most exciting times for me then were when I rode along with Bill to the auction sales. I had never been to bazaars and auction sales before, and they were a whirlwind of activity and bustling people and a cacophony of voices above the stir. People would gather around a man standing on a platform and raise their hand in beat to his cries, it seemed. Afterwards, I’d help Bill load his purchases into the car and we’d take it all back home to store for the following weekend’s yard sale.

It was only after doing that for the entire summer that I finally managed to get my mom to let me stay at Bill’s for a night. The deal was, I’d help him with his yard sale the entire day, and at nightfall, I’d help him carry it all back in and help him count his money. Afterwards, he’d feed me dinner, we’d watch tv, and then it was time for sleep. In my mind it was an exciting new adventure. As always, my mom expressed her reservations and I wore her down with my typical boyhood reassurances.

The one thing I remember most about Bill’s house is the absolute quietness of it. There was none of the chaos that I was used to at my home. It was smaller than my house, about half the size. A small kitchen, a sitting room with a television, a bathroom, and the bedroom with no closet. The only closet was the one out in the pseudo-hallway that led to the bedroom and bathroom, off from the sitting room.

I wasn’t always allowed to stay the nights at Bill’s, though. I’d sleep on the sofa when I did. Occasionally, Randy would show up and ask if he could stay a night or two, and Bill would reluctantly but graciously allow him to. I found myself liking Randy less and less over time. He’d tease Bill and berate him in ways that reminded me of when that neighborhood bully would taunt me unceasingly. But I enjoyed my time with Bill, as well. So I put up with Randy so that I could see Bill every chance I got.

But something would happen shortly afterward that would change all of that, and forever change me, as well.