I still don’t know what to write about, not really. While taking a shower I considered writing about a knowledge in which I am infinitely familiar with: myself.
I am a relatively no one. I expect my life is no different from many others, but it is my life. To say my life is perfect is laughable, but many have had it worse than myself. Considering what I have seen, I am one of the luckiest people.
That being said, there are some things that I cannot being myself to write about. I will not be able to give you a wholly truthful account: sometimes because I do not know it, sometimes because what I have told my self over and over again has become my truth, and sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction and you would not believe me.
I will try to keep things relatively organized temporally, but I cannot guarantee consistency.
First, I will give you the facts. I was born in the mid-80’s, second and last child to my mother and father. My father was a military man, having just left the Navy and entered the Army. He was stationed at Fort Benning and my mother lived with his mother and my sister in Eufuala, Alabama. I was born in the fall and we lived there for almost my entire first year.
My father received orders to go to Erlangen, Germany, and my mother, sister, and I joined him. We lived in Germany until 1989.
I enjoy remembering g those first few years. Nothing makes sense. I cannot tell you what event occurred first because all of my memories of Germany are vignettes: partial memories with intense feelings, colors, scents, sensations; others are false memories created by seeing to many pictures, hearing to many stories. I no longer can differentiate the two. I remember my father buying firecrackers for 4th of July at the PX and going to the community basketball courts and lighting them off. I remember the smell of the gun powder. The bright yellow bursts of light. I wanted one firework of a Parachuter because I thought that it was a statue of my father.
I remember one winter day when we convince my father to try to make an igloo in the field alongside our apartment. We took two loaf pans and tried to make bricks using that powdered snow.
A group of boys collected snails off of a tree outside of the apartment complex. One older boy snuck over the fence and handed snail to each of us. I lined up with the other boys and took handfuls of snails an placed them in my pockets of my overalls.
The memories of Germany are good memories, filled laughter and smiles.
In the Summer of 1989, we moved back to the United States. My father was no longer in the military. We moved back to Eufuala.
My Quest 