So a few years back, I decided to start writing my autobiography. Apparently I figured my life was something someone would want to read about. Lol I ain’t famous yet, so probably not, but here’s Chapter One anyway. Cheers.

Chapter One – The Earliest Memories

​The first thing I can remember from my childhood is waking up in the middle of the night on a couch. I didn’t know where I was, so I cried out. It was my uncle that came to quiet me down and explain that I was at my grandparent’s house. My dad was out or working. I can’t remember. I often wonder if I dreamt this or made it up, but I guess I’ll never know.

​My parents had gotten or were going through a divorce. I was four. My dad had picked me up from our house and brought me to my grandparents’ for the night I assume. My sisters stayed at home with my mom. That’s the whole memory. I don’t remember anything else. Most of my memories are trivial or things I made up. The only problem is, I don’t actually know which is which. 

Most of memories from my early childhood, few of which I actually have, are this short and simple. I listen to other people talk about their lives growing up and I stare at them in disbelief. Do they really have these memories or are they stories they heard? Why don’t I have any? I’ve seen pictures of my youth and I’ve been told stories about it, but those aren’t my memories. Those are somebody else’s.

No part of my younger years do I feel like I lived because I remember so little of it. Did I push it away? Was it so bad that I chose not to remember it. Is it buried so far down that I’ll never find it? I have no recollection of my parents ever fighting or arguing. It wasn’t until far into my adulthood that I heard real reasons for their divorce. As far as I was concerned and to be honest, I still feel this way a lot, they gave up without a fight. They didn’t even try. My sisters and I were not even a small thought when they decided to walk away from each other. Did they owe us that? Maybe not, but even now, sometimes it feels like they should have.

Another flash from then is of my grandfather. He was big man and a loud man, but those early memories I had of him were of a man who traded hockey cards and stickers in the old hockey albums with his grandson. I remember my Uncle Johnny and my dad had books too. We would buy a ton of packs of those stickers and stick them into the book to try and fill them up. Gramps always wanted the Leafs players and Dad wanted The Habs. I wanted both. My Grams would always be baking something and I would always be trying to find ways to get to eat whatever it was.

I remember John and Jerry Marchenkowski. That was a life before the divorce. I remember their faces. Jerry had a chubby face, but one of the nicest, most kind faces. His whole family had kind faces and were kind people. They lived on Lillian. They lived in a bigger house across from the townhouses we lived in. I can remember sitting in their kitchen eating and having a great time. I’m told we played a lot of street hockey. Even though I was only about two feet tall and they were all basically adults or at least late teens. My dad once told a story about me playing goalie for these games and I once took street ball to the head, no mask. I fell down, dusted myself off and got ready for the next shot. Maybe that’s why I never wanted to play goalie when I got back into hockey when I got older. LOL Simple life and happy times.

We also lived next door to my Aunt on my mom’s side. I have no memories of my uncle, but I do remember my cousin, Andrew. He was so much taller than I was, but not much older. When I was younger I can remember seeing him in this sort of hero light. That all came crashing down as we got older though and even though we never really saw each other for a long time, I can remember the night he actually lost his hero status very clearly. It was after an event for my grandmother, I believe. He was driving me home and he  was telling me about his hero, Arnold Schwarzneggar and how one day he was going to be as big as he was. He was working out a lot and then he told me he was doing steroids too. He was also selling them. Roids and Coke. Any hero worship I had for him left that night. I lost respect for him. I was maybe 16 and I had just lost someone I considered a role model. People will constantly let you down. It’s just what they do and this was the first time I remember that feeling.

Wallaceburg, Ontario…

The next thing I remember and I could be wrong about the order, as I said earlier, my memories are few and short, is of Wallaceburg, Ontario. We went to visit or stay or live with my mom’s brother. That, I have no idea. I do have a few memories of there though. They may be all from a day or a weekend, but here they are.

I remember playing marbles in the sand with my sisters and my cousin, Crystal. I may have spelled her name wrong or even called her by the wrong name here, but unfortunately, that’s how close we were with my mom’s side of the family. We weren’t at all really. We still aren’t. (There’s a lot of blame that gets thrown around for that. I’m inclined to take my mother’s side for this because the story I’ll tell you later, will explain it.) The part that sticks out for me is the snake eyes marble. It’s where I first remember ever seeing one or learning about it and marbles in general.

My next and last memory of Wallaceburg, Ontario is a bit gruesome. No one has ever told me if it’s real or not and I’m pretty sure I have a scar to prove it, but it could be entirely made up in my head too. I was having a swordfight with a neighbor kid and we were using two by fours as our weapons. To this day, if I close my eyes and even with them open, I can see him look up at his sword, see a nail protruding from it and bring it down upon my head. The nail entered my skull and I’m sure I screamed, but I don’t remember that part. The next thing I remember is walking into the kitchen to tell my mom that  I was bleeding. I wasn’t crying, although I’m sure there were tears, and blood was dripping down my face and the back of my neck. My mom looked up and screamed. She dropped the phone she was holding and that’s the end of the memory for me. That was Wallaceburg, Ontario.

Thinking about it now, I remember going to two different schools before I actually went to school. It’s funny how your mind can play tricks on you. I don’t remember teachers or being taught, or if I ever attended them, but one may have been in Wallaceburg. I remember looking out the window from a classroom that I think was there. The other school was in Windsor. James, maybe? My older sister went there. I don’t remember anything about it except the rare times when I drive by it. The first school I remember attending full time was Coronation. I always had a love/hate relationship with school. I was smart, but had no attention span, so I sometimes got behind because I wasn’t paying attention. Then I would have a hard time catching up. I always managed to do well enough though. The social construct was something I craved and feared because I never knew if I could trust them. Any of them. I wonder if that had something to do with my parent’s divorce? I lived this happy life and then out of nowhere it was taken from me. My dad was no longer at home with us and I had to learn to live this new life. It’s not like my dad disappeared, he was just a weekend dad now. It was a major life change for a four year old.

And that’s what I have before I started kindergarten. Not much. The first four or five years. I’ll update the story of, The Tin Cup (and yes you’re hear where that name came you be),  every now and then. Cheers.