1982

In going back a few years, I've decided to blog about the year where I was mostly seven. I say mostly, because in fact, for all but ten months before I celebrated my eighth birthday, I was seven.

The ironic thing is though, in my mind, when I think back to 1982, I recall being eight, when in fact, I wasn't. But, that's neither here nor there.

I can't recall what grade I was in at the time. It's irrelevant, but I suppose if I went back and calculated it in a matter of seconds I could tell you. To guess, I would have been in 2nd grade. And after calculating, it was the year I finished up 2nd grade and began 3rd grade in the fall.

1982 was a pivotal year, a turning point as you will. Many will say that our lives are forever changed by a single event, a single episode. Something that veers the course of our destined paths. Whether this is true or not, one can only guess. Regardless, it was a year that I will never forget, in whatever existence of those memories that I hold.

I can't tell you exactly what month or when it happened exactly, but I know that it had to have been Spring or Summer of that year. I believe that it was during the midst of softball season, which always began sometime after Spring Break which would have been April/May.

It was a warmer day, which leads me to believe that it was summer. My dad and I had gone out for a bike ride. A bike ride of monumental proportions mind you, as I have never again ridden a bike without recalling that day, EVER. We lived in a subdivision and the back of the subdivision had dirt trails and occasional steep paved hills, one specifically that ended in a T. I was on the trusty, rusty, rickety, Schwinn bike. I believe it was blue and I was scared.

I remember pedalling fast to keep up with my dad. I remember the shake of the bike, the uneasiness I felt with every uneven pedal I made. I remember the trails and the way the bike wavered with every stone and pebble. I remember my shrieks and pleading for my dad to slow down and that I wanted to stop. That I felt like I was going to fall. Terror had taken over. One that I couldn't shake. A terror and fear that likely plagued me for what was to come. We went down that paved steep incline of a road. My bike shaking and the noise vibrating through my ears. My feet pushed backwards on the pedals in attempt to slow the bike down to no avail. At the bottom of the street, I needed to turn left. Left turn in deed, however, I didn't manage to keep control of the bike. I spun out on the loose debris of rocks at the bottom. I smashed hard into the ground. I chipped my front, permanent tooth in half, cut open my lip and had road rash and blood from at least one knee and an elbow. That's what I remember at least.

Crying, I had to continue on home, as we were half way around the subdivision from home. I don't recall my dad's reaction, but I don't remember it being warm, fuzzy and consoling nor do I recall him being extremely angry. I suppose in the recesses of my mind, I recall blaming him for not listening and understanding my fears and he blamed my fears for controlling my behavior and causing the accident.

Back at home, I laid on the couch in our front living room. The living room that was for looks. It wasn't that we couldn't use the living room, we just didn't. It had the stiffer, nicer furniture and it didn't have a television. We used the family room to actually live in. I remember being sprawled out on the couch, icing my aching body, gagging down some form of aspirin when the phone rang.

A call announcing the death of one of my grandparents. I can't tell you which. I don't remember. What I do remember, I lost a grandmother, grandfather and great grandmother when six weeks of each other that year. The year of 1982.

In addition to the loss of relatives, my dad's health and subsequently my parent's marriage took a turn for the worse.

My recollection is that my father suffered his first heart attack. He was 36. In addition, he was diagnosed with diabetes. His health was touch and go for a long time. Or so it seemed, to me. My mom tried to support him and we all had to change the way we ate. We were introduced to skim milk (a huge difference than the .5% we drank - seriously) and No-Salt - the imitation salt that tasted like pellets of aluminum foil. I started drinking Diet Rite - although I think most of the diet modifications may have come years later in all actuality. I also recall telling a teacher, I can't say which one, that my parents were going to divorce. Poor health forever changed my parents lives, our family's life, my life.

My parents remained married until my senior year of high school. My dad's diet fluctuated over the years. My tooth was ultimately fixed and over the years, I've had to have it replaced a few times.

But the reason for my posting, is more to acknowledge the loss of grandparents. Of the three that passed, my great grandmother was my favorite. She taught me how to play cards - Go Fish, War, Old Maid, you name it. I loved cards and I loved my great grandma. My grandfather lived in Illinois so my relationship with him wasn't very strong. I don't have many fond memories. The relationship with my grandmother was of course different than the memories that my aunt and I recently discussed when we saw each other a few years ago. But, again I was seven and she was my grandmother, not my mother. When my grandparents passed, this left me with one grandparent remaining, my maternal grandmother.

And my relationship with my grandmother, has forever molded any relationships that I have had with elderly from that point. Good, bad or indifferent. Sometimes, we try to change our perceptions and make new paths, sometimes with positive results and often times not. Maybe we are destined by the lives we've led, maybe not. But the year of 1982, will forever be a pivotal year in defining who I am.