Visiting Chippokes Plantation.

I visited Chippokes Plantation State Park today, located in Surry, Virginia. Walking along the banks of the James River, I picked up numerous seashells, barnacles, fossils and old pieces of worn iron. I suspect the iron came from old ships used in the settlement of the Jamestown area hundreds of years ago. Though windy and a bit chilly, the excursion was deeply enjoyable and satisfying. The ancient sea bed fossils found were intricate. Even more astounding was a collapsed cliff side. It revealed a layer of buried fossils and shells from when the entire area was under the ocean -- tens of thousands, perhaps millions of years ago. If you're ever near Chippokes Plantation, I recommend you visit.

You Can't Go Home Again: A Tour Of Lunenburg County.

While traveling to Richmond over the weekend, I took a small detour through the area where I grew up. Lunenburg County has never been the wealthiest of locales. In fact, the county still doesn't even have a McDonald's or a Walmart; that's just how rural the place is. I emerged in Victoria, Virginia; the town where I went to middle and high school. Not too much had changed considering I hadn't been there in nearly fifteen years. Some of the businesses throughout the town had changed names, but many more seemed to have closed altogether. I took notice of so many empty storefronts and factories. Such a shame, really.

I made a stop at my old high school first. Central High was already in fairly run down condition when I graduated from there in 2000. It doesn't seem much has improved. Many of the outlying buildings were in disrepair.

The amphitheater surrounding the old art complex was dreary, with some benches appearing to be scattered or broken. I can recall sitting on that stage graduating, to which I fell asleep in the hot sun waiting for the whole event to be over. The only highlight seemed to be the football field, which looked to have a new fence and seating. This came as no surprise to me, though. Even when I was still a student there, all anyone ever cared about was the damned football team.

I then ventured down to Lunenburg Middle School, which I attended between 1993 and 1996. Unfortunately, I simply wasn't prepared for the dilapidated condition of the campus.

The two buildings which comprise the middle school are in the active process of being reclaimed by nature. Most of the lot, including the sports fields, was overgrown with tall grass and weeds. The old gymnasium and wood shop looked to be suffering roof collapses.

Windows everywhere were broken or missing. Many of the doors were left open to vagrants and wild animals. Had I of wanted to, I could have easily gone inside and inspected the broken down structure. Approaching the cafeteria, I found part of its large window knocked out.

Inside, I discovered trash, animal waste and grime. The old murals which used to be on the walls were painted over at some point after I left. I can still recall my very last day at the school in 1996, waiting for my bus to arrive outside the main office entrance. Such a pity the school has been all but forgotten. I learned later on this weekend that a new middle school had been built recently, but I'm not sure when or where. To see these old buildings rotting away, though... that was a punch to the gut.

Heading on to Kenbridge, I stopped by the Tastee Freez. Much to my thankfulness, I was glad it was still open for business. This was my first job as a teenager.

At the time, I rather disliked working there. But, looking back, it was probably one of the best parts of my teenage years. On Friday nights, we practically served every mouth in the county. It was even worse after a Central football game. Whew... talk about hard work! I am thankful for the work ethic that job taught me, though. Not much had evolved inside the building. The same tables, same booths, same menu board, same ice cream machine -- it was all there! The current employees were really nice and friendly. It was comforting to see that not much had been altered since the last time I was inside; I believe it was 2002.

I drove by my old house on Broad Street feeling perplexed, unable to tell if it was being remodeled or just trashed by the current residents. Garbage and building waste littered the yard. The multiple gas stations along Broad were still open, but stifled by folks in loud trucks, cars with blaring music and foolhardy loiterers. All in all, it was quite depressing.

Coming back as a man, I was taken aback by how much smaller everything seemed to be. Had I grown larger? Or, the more likely scenario... things have the appearance of being so much bigger when you're in your youth. 

Thomas Wolfe writes in his literary classic You Can't Go Home Again:

"You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."

The harrowing words of Wolfe pierce my heart like a stinging blade of remembrance. I've avoided Lunenburg County for so long. Never proud of where I came from as a young man, it wasn't a place I wanted to be a part of my adulthood. Seeing Lunenburg's current state, I can say confidently that I made the right choice in leaving all those years ago. There's no hope for the area; no chance of broadened horizons. No likelihood of being successful or noteworthy. No chance of seeing the world or meeting new people. It was important for me to experience where I grew up as a man, though. To understand just how far I've come as an adult, I needed to see firsthand where I started from. In all things, perspective is the key to correctly gauging your trajectory.

With the stale breath of creeping death upon my neck, I left Lunenburg with a greater appreciation of all that I've worked so hard for. None of my success would have been possible had I of stayed there.

Notes From The Road, Part I

Hello readers,

I'm away from home visiting with family today. It's quite nice to step away from the sun-baked piedmont of North Carolina and visit... well, the sun-baked tidewater region of Virginia. I got to see plenty of turkeys and chickens today, as well as some sheep and goats. Spending time with farm animals is relaxing, honestly. They don't demand anything from you, other than food and petting, of course. If only the same could be said of most people.

Tomorrow, I'll be traveling north towards Richmond to visit with more family. In the recent visits I've taken to the River City, I have noticed how many areas are experiencing a degree of revitalization. Good for Richmond, I say.

Writing to you from the road,

Jared

Memories From 4-H Camp.

I just got in from taking my first swim of the season. I spent an hour stretching, moving my arms and legs, floating and generally just trying to relax. As such, I'm fairly tired. My blog will be brief today. I don't have much to say -- just a few random memories tangentially related to swimming that you might find interesting.

The beach at Holiday Lake 4-H Education Center

I first learned to swim at 4-H Camp, specifically the Holiday Lake facility in Central Virginia. It was during the summer after my fourth grade school year. The swimming instructor at the camp was a kind, patient man. Unfortunately, I don't remember his name. What I do recall is that he was covered in severe burn scars. Some of the other campers were frightened by his appearance, but I wasn't. He took his time to help me calm down. I'll readily admit that I am not a strong swimmer, even to this day. The vast majority of my swim catalog is encompassed by the doggy paddle! But, I know enough to get by thanks to the man who taught me.

The rest of my stay at 4-H camp was quite memorable. I've spoken of the abusive incident with the girl who attacked me before, but that's not all. While walking to the dining hall one afternoon, I found a fifty dollar bill on the ground. It was a good thing I did, because I arrived at camp to learn that my folks had only deposited ten bucks in my commissary account. Without that fortuitous fifty dollars, I'd have run out of money really quickly during my full week stay.

My favorite class while camping was first aid, which happened to be lead by a really cool college girl named Tina. She taught me the Heimlich Maneuver, as well as CPR. One evening, we sat by a fire and talked about college after all the other kids had gone off to enjoy their post dinner recess time. She treated me like an adult and didn't talk down to me. Maybe she was tired of being surrounded by idiotic kids and just wanted someone decent to talk to... who knows?

One of the days at 4-H camp was extremely wet -- a massive thunderstorm moved through the area. I got caught in a big downpour on the way to a camp wide event. All of the campers and the staff were gathered in a large outdoor covered arena. I was late to the assembly and the last one to arrive. As I did, all of the other kids had already taken their seats. While walking along a side aisle-way looking for a spot to sit down, I could have swore I heard someone call my name. Remember that rain storm I got caught in? Well, the rain water had run down my ears and completely clogged them. My ability to hear was heavily distorted. Upon believing I heard someone call my name, I shouted out "YEAH?!" Though, because my ears were blocked, I unknowingly shouted extremely loudly. The entire arena turned to stare at me and laughed profusely. Realizing that I had one chance to not make a fool of myself, I walked up to the stage and got on the microphone.

"Saved the best for last... now who is holding a seat for me?"

A couple of kids' arms shot up. Needless to say, I had a place to sit!

Dead Soda Brands From Our Youth.

As I grew older, I came to realize the folly of drinking too many soft drinks. In fact, I haven't had a regular soda pop in many years. Every once in a blue moon, I'll partake in a diet soda. This is usually to create a mixed adult beverage, though.

Diet Cheerwine and Bacardi Black Rum, anyone?

When I was a kid, my parents kept our home fully stocked with all sorts of soda pop; so much so that drinking water seemed wrong. Yeah... thanks parents. I'm lucky I've never had a cavity.

Thinking back, I remember all of the great sodas I had in my youth -- RC Cola, Dr. Pepper and Cherry Pepsi just to name a few. But, what about some of the discontinued and forgotten sodas? Where did they go? Here are three to invigorate your memory.

Surge was released in 1996 by Coca-Cola to combat the rising popularity of Mountain Dew. Obviously, they failed miserably. By 2003, it was totally discontinued. Surge was marketed as one of the first soda/energy drink hybrids and played heavily into the extreme sports fad of the '90s. Ultimately, Surge was brought back late last year in limited supply -- you can only order it online at Amazon.

Here's an oldie that I loved to drink back in the day -- Slice. Beginning in 1984, it came in many different flavors, including (but not limited to) fruit punch, peach, mandarin orange, pineapple, lemon-lime and strawberry. The fruit punch flavor was awesome, as was the mandarin orange. I remember not liking the peach flavor, though. The lemon-lime flavor was the springboard for Sierra Mist, which has since become the chief national competitor to Sprite. By 2000, production of most Slice flavors was scaled back heavily. In 2005, the line was completely eradicated by parent company PepsiCo. I have read in multiple places that select flavors of Slice are exclusively available at certain Wal-mart locations, but I've never personally seen them.

Ahhhh... good old Crystal Pepsi. You were utter crap. I tasted you twice back in 1992 and was absolutely disgusted. I remember the exact place I first tasted Crystal Pepsi -- I was in the parking lot at the long shuttered Star Value grocery store in Victoria, Virginia. I got one out of a vending machine (remember when soda pops cost a quarter). What a waste of twenty five cents! My brother Josh seemed to enjoy Crystal Pepsi, if I remember correctly. How, I have no idea. I can still remember the flavor -- it tasted like a flat, bitter tonic water with a dash of syrup. It was absolutely awful. By 1994, it had vanished from store shelves. To this day, I can still recall the Crystal Pepsi commercial that featured Van Halen singing "Right Now". Yeah... your soda sucks RIGHT NOW is more like it. Crystal Pepsi hasn't been seen since, much to the delight of everyone.

The Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden... and Perhaps a Concussion.

Today was all about an unexpected adventure... and a little bit of pain!

On a whim, Crystal and I decided on short notice to visit the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden in Richmond, Virginia -- about a three hour drive north from my home. They were hosting a show for the Richmond African Violet Society, to which Crystal is an awesome collector and fan of these wonderful flowering plants. Though, I believe we were in for a surprise treat upon arrival. This Botanical Garden is one of the best I've ever had the joy of visiting.

From massive beds of tulips and daffodils to an amazing conservatory filled with tropical palms and orchids, this place had it all! If you ever find yourself in the Richmond area looking for something to do, then head over to the Lewis Ginter complex and enjoy the day. It is mostly child friendly and has a few playground areas. Bring plenty of sunscreen as well -- there's lots of walking and exploring to be had.

And now, on to the aforementioned pain portion of the program. Don't worry, it's quite humorous.

On our way back from Richmond, we took a break at a truck stop to use the restroom. This particular truck stop was remodeling. To provide a restroom to their customers, they had brought in a portable trailer unit. Believe it or not, it was quite clean and inviting inside -- nothing gross or grimey. But, the stalls were tight and cramped, to say the least. On the back side of the door in the stall I selected, there was a pleasant designer frame with various photos of New York City. As I was standing up from being seated on the toilet, I didn't gauge the amount of room I had correctly. I slammed by hard head into the picture frame, cracked the glass and bent the frame's border in half.

I kid you not, I believe I nearly concussed myself.

Due to the pain, I rocked backwards onto the toilet and evaluated the damage my skull had done. My head was spinning from a deep pain in my forehead. My brain felt as if it were thumping like a drum! Before me hung a severely cracked photo frame. I couldn't believe the damage I did with just my gigantic noggin! After a few minutes, I took my second attempt at getting up, this time tucking my head to the side and dodging the door. Thankfully, I didn't stab myself in the head with any glass!

Ultimately, perhaps my little accident was for the best. I've now learned that my head doubles as a secret weapon!

An Open Letter to Lunenburg County, Virginia.

My blog this evening will be a deviation in tone from the standard articles I normally publish. Those of you who have read my blog since the beginning will recognize the ire I'm about to share. For my newer readers... buckle up.

Broad Street, Kenbridge, VA -- A road to nowhere

To the Residents of Lunenburg County,

I had an in-depth discussion with my ever-so charming sister yesterday. She informed me of a particularly troubling situation, one that many of my readers in Southside Virginia will understand the context of. Apparently, there's an issue with the local community of which my siblings and I grew up -- Lunenburg County. I feel the need to clear the air. There is a terribly inaccurate narrative of what tore the Manning family apart -- one that's been largely fabricated by my father.

Our family imploded after a series of events following the death of our mother, Joyce. It was a long time coming, but her passing was the final nail in the coffin. After years of strife, physical and emotional abuse, it all finally came to a head. A few months following Joyce's passing, my sister and father were in a heated argument in which he physically assaulted her. I know this for a fact because I spoke with my father afterwards via telephone and he admitted as much to me. This was not the first time my father has physically harmed one of his family members (myself, my sister, my mother, etc.) -- long time readers of this blog are well aware of this fact. My sister ran away in fear for her life, only to be largely ignored by social services and the police within the community. Why? Because my father has keenly developed a cult of personality, one in which he is never wrong and always the hero of the story. Since that time, there has been no relationship maintained between my father and sister, nor has there been a relationship between him and I.

The aforementioned phone call, where he admitted fault, took place on December 27, 2011. It was approximately 10 PM in the evening. That was the last time my father and I spoke. We've had no contact since that point. During that phone call, my father talked of setting his children on fire if he wished -- they were his property to do with as he pleased. He clearly did not like the harsh judgment I levied against him, considering by the end of the conversation he hung up on me. How ironic... he hung up on me in our final telephone call; I hung up on his entire existence for the rest of my life. As far as I am concerned, he's just as dead to me as my mother. I spent nearly two years expunging my anger and grief over our relationship right here on this very blog. I'm not angry at him anymore -- I'm just disappointed at how ghastly a person he is, considering his inherent potential. There was a good man inside my father at one point; that man is now gone.

This entire story relates to the experiences my sister faced when she recently returned to the Lunenburg County area for a visit with a dear friend (you know who you are -- thank you for always being there for Julie). She encountered multiple instances of public scrutiny and rude comments from strangers whom believe they know our father. Apparently, the previously mentioned false narrative has floated around that my sister betrayed our family; that she spread lies about our father beating on her. This is just not true. Everything she has stated about her experiences is accurate. The Manning Family exists as a fractured mirror -- one that reflects the deep seeded agony of a family burdened by poverty, poor parental choices, jealousy, infidelity, avarice and a cycle of abuse that goes as far back as the Mannings have been in this nation. My friends, I come from a family of turmoil. The name that I carry is one I'm not necessarily proud of, but I aim to make it as decent as possible in my time. There will be no more Mannings to carry on this name, though. We are done. I'll burden no child with the sorrowful weight that this family has to offer. Out of all the vast Manning family children, grandchildren and cousins, myself and my two brothers are the last in line to actually bear the surname. I have no children. My brothers have no children. The nefarious blood of our family tree, which at one point was quite wide with many branches, will die with our generation. An entire family name shall be wiped out... and no one will shed as much as a tear.

Now, I speak to you, the well established families of the Kenbridge, Victoria and various other Lunenburg communities. You are well aware of who you are -- the family names that have circulated in Southside Virginia for an eternity; the Lunenburg Royalty, for lack of a better term. You consider yourselves to be the elite of the community -- the same ones whom cast glances of contempt at my sister, whom allow my father to continue his fantasy. Yet, here I am to tell you what few others will -- you are hollow, inept clumps of snobbish detritus. Just as I faced ridicule and scrutiny by your kind as I was growing up, you now turn an undeservedly judgmental eye upon my sister.

No -- you shall not do this without consequence. You will be publicly castigated.

You serve no other purpose than to continue the cycle of drama in your little fish bowl called Lunenburg. Never have I been so abashed of a community of people. And to think, many of you wonder why I left the area as soon as I possibly could. I despise most of you -- many of whom I attended Lunenburg County Public Schools with. Look at what you have become... pathetic excuses for human beings who couldn't handle the outside world. Many of you returned to Lunenburg after college. Why? What was the point of seeking a higher education, only to return home and not use it? Did you like being a big fish in a small pond? Did you like the comfort of an illusionary life? Or, did you just lie to yourself and say it was for the best? In the end, it doesn't matter. Instead of writing your own story, you've chosen to continue the stage play acted out by your parents, your grand-parents, and so on. You're all calamitous fools who couldn't see past the end of your own dirt roads and driveways. I'd pity you if I didn't think you were such deplorable scum.

I am deeply, deeply ashamed of what you, the Lunenburg County populace, represents.

Lunenburg -- You're a small town atmosphere filled with narcissistic ants, swarming over every little piece of gossip you can. You're the type of folks that hang out at Lunenburg Country Club and think you're powerful titans of industry. You eat at Mildred's Meals and believe your derriere has the scent of roses. You yearn over Timmy Dogs and the K-V Dispatch. You take skiing trips with your hunting club. You watch Charger football and kissed the rump of a certain bloated, clique-friendly coach. You go to your houses of worship on Sunday and stab your friends in the back on Monday. You form self-serving networks within the local fire, rescue and police departments for your own benefit.

You are everything that disgusts me about small town life.

Of note, there are some wonderful, compassionate people in Lunenburg County who have always been kind to me and my family. Just to name two that immediately stand out in my mind -- Jean Kunath (who always encouraged me to be artistic and treated me like an adult) and the departed Roberta Rickers (who inspired me at a very early age to treasure books and writing). I haven't forgotten what they did for me. I am very thankful. Without their influence on my creativity, I probably wouldn't write this blog day in and day out.

I've stated my peace. If the entirety of Lunenburg County was obliterated by a meteorite tomorrow, I'd breathe a sigh of relief. Good riddance.

You're not my home town, nor will you ever be.

Sincerely,
Jared Manning

Why I Don't Ride Carnival and Amusement Park Rides.

There are two reasons why I will not get on carnival and amusement park rides. Besides generally being unsafe and not fit for humans, I had a couple of terrible experiences in my early childhood. In short, I refuse to become a statistic.

The first incident involves a type of ride that's known in the carnival industry as an Octopus (SDC Polyp Variety). A half dozen cars hanging on beams are positioned around a center axis. The cars will go up and down as they spin around. The speed at which the cars travel steadily increases. To make matters worse, at some point, the cars slow down for only a brief moment, then go quickly in reverse! I had the displeasure of riding this sort of attraction with my parents. I must have been four years old because my brother Joshua hadn't even been born yet. We were at the South Central Fair in Chase City, Virginia. I sat between my mom and my dad in a ride car. As the speed got faster and faster, the centripetal force of the ride caused me to get squished like a sandwich. It took all the air out of me and I simply couldn't breathe. When the ride was over, I tumbled to the ground and immediately vomited everywhere. If I remember correctly, my dad lost his glasses as well. All in all, it was a terrible evening.

The second incident involves the long defunct Smurf Mountain ride at King's Dominion, just outside Richmond, Virginia. This was a train-style ride that carved its way through a man-made mountain. In the tunnels that the train passed through were various animatronic scenes depicting the Smurfs in a plethora of scenarios. I would have been approximately eight or nine years old at the time. As the train pulled its way through the tunnel, it suddenly came to a screeching halt. Myself and the rest of the passengers sat motionless in the dark for a few minutes. Eventually, a park attendant told us that we'd have to exit the ride and walk out of Smurf Mountain. It wasn't as simple as it sounds, though. Because of the way the ride was designed, there weren't any escape doors or hidden passage ways to leave the mountain. I had to walk on a tiny ledge along the train track pathway in the dark. The attendant told us not to fall onto the track because it was electrified. With my back against the tunnel wall, I walked sideways ever so carefully. All along the way, the robotic Smurfs, evil wizard Gargamel and Azrael the cat were moving and reaching towards us. I was the very last person in line and absolutely terrified. Eventually, I made it outside and into the light. It was one of the most horrible things I ever experienced as a child. Afterwards, I learned that the ride had a major mechanical failure, never to be repaired. This was partly due to the declining popularity of the Smurfs -- it just wasn't worth returning to operation. As such, I hold the distinction of the being the last King's Dominion visitor to ever ride Smurf Mountain. It sat dormant for a few years before receiving a total upheaval. Smurf Mountain became what's now known as Volcano, the Blast Coaster and is still in operation to this day.

Here's a video that illustrates what Smurf Mountain looked like on the inside. Please excuse the poor image quality -- this is obviously a promotional video recorded in the 1980's.

So there you have it. My two reasons for not ever setting foot on a carnival or amusement park ride ever again (except for the reasonably secure carousel or bumper cars).

Sleepless Nights and Why I'm Thankful.

A common scene in my room as a child around 2:00 AM.

For many years as a child, and right on through my teenage years, I didn't sleep much. At one point around age nine, I'm almost certain I developed a case of chronophobia. I'd lay in bed at night, just staring at my clock and counting the minutes away. I was so stressed about making myself fall asleep that I'd become increasingly agitated and upset as the minutes flew by. At some point, I'd simply pass out from exhaustion between 3:00 and 4:00 AM. When you have to get up for school around 6:00 AM, it can be a challenge. Though, somehow I did it and made great grades. My willpower is what pushed me through.

Oddly enough, this blog isn't about my lack of sleep. It's about a side-effect of my condition.

As a consequence of not sleeping, I did a lot of things in the night while my folks were asleep. Books were a common source of entertainment -- I must have plowed through hundreds as a child in this manner. From Chaucer to Conrad, I read it all. Some of my most favorite books were first encountered in this way, like Betty Smith's "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" for example. Many nights were spent drawing and doodling by flashlight and moonlight. One of my favorite late night activities was enjoying music and talk radio. Of course, I made sure to use headphones. Sometimes, my mom or dad would wake me up in the morning and ask why I had a headphone cord wrapped around my neck. What they didn't realize was that when I finally passed out, it would be with the headphones still on. My dreams were often filled with music from the outside world, acting much like a soundtrack to the visions in my head.

To this day, I still have a hard time falling asleep without background noise, like a running television. I guess falling asleep for so many years with headphones on changes you permanently.

During these late night explorations into music and radio, I discovered many things not necessarily intended for children and teenagers. It's at this time that I developed my passion for Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull and Dire Straits. Unbeknownst to my dad, I'd lay claim to the cassettes he'd stack up and never listen to for my personal collection. Pink Floyd's The Final Cut and Jethro Tull's Crest of a Knave were (and still are) my two most beloved albums. I listened to them so much that I could remember them in their entirety in my head. Without having anything to listen to, I could close my eyes, concentrate and listen to a playback of the albums purely from memory. The strange part? I still can. I have permanent copies stored in my brain. While in class at school, I'd often get bored with whatever the teacher was saying. So... I'd zone out, enter my own world, "listen" to my music and escape.

Interesting side note -- the The Final Cut cassette that I co-opted from my dad came from Robby Batte, a highly talented photographer whom many of you may know. It was a copy he loaned my father, to which wound up ultimately in my possession. I still have that tape. To this day, I can remember the first time I looked at it in his car (the Battemobile). I'm eternally grateful to the Batteman for unexpectedly introducing that album into my life at such a young age. How cool is it that ripples from the past still influence our present in small, but powerful ways? Thanks Robby!

I also enjoyed many radio programs throughout the night. In the late '80s and on through the '90s, you could still hear actual disc jockeys on the radio playing real records. Even though I was in Virginia, I could dial in Oldies 100.7 WTRG from Raleigh late at night with little interference. They played Oldies from the '50s and '60s, which is probably why I grew to appreciate rock and roll at such a young age. Their disc jockeys had personality and explained information about the Oldies tracks and their respective artists. Ron McKay was one of the best jockeys on the station and he served WTRG very well -- right until the station changed format in 2004.

On Sunday nights, I could dial in WRDU from Raleigh on 106.1. I'd stay up all night eagerly awaiting Rock Talk with Allan Handelman. Allan was (and still is) a great interviewer. He'd cover the gamut of topics, not just those necessarily related to music -- paranormal, history, pop culture, current events, cinema, television, etc. If you ever get the chance, check his show out at www.ifitrocks.com.

Another program I listened to regularly was LovePhones with Dr. Judy and Jagger. It was your typical sex advice show where people called in with their questions and concerns. This would also play on WRDU 106.1, Monday through Friday at 10:00 PM to midnight. My mom or dad never gave me "the talk", but I never really needed them to anyway. Thanks to programs like LovePhones, along with lots of books, I was already very-well acquainted with the human body, sex and dating. If only I'd had the courage to use that information to get girls to like me in school! I would have been UNSTOPPABLE! The program went off the air around 1998, to which I eventually transitioned to Loveline.

As I look back on that time in my life, I'm thankful I had all those sleepless nights. They certainly played a role in defining my personality. Without them, I don't think I'd have grown up to be so gosh darn interesting!

Make an effort.

Holidays typically prompt me to reflect upon the friends and family in my life, no matter the particular celebration at hand. Today was no exception. I can't help but think about how small my circle of family and friends has grown over the years. I realize many of you reading this fall into either of those two categories, but let me clarify even further. Within the span of a year, I will probably see between three to five relatives (not including those whom actually live with me) once or twice. Likewise, I may see one or two friends within a year (again... once or twice). Many of the people reading this will be doing so through Facebook - extended family, those of you whom I went to grade school with, worked with at previous jobs, etc. We haven't actually seen or spoken to each other in person at any point within the past seven to twenty years. Let me repeat that - seven to twenty years.

Are we really friends? In fact, wouldn't it be better to call us acquaintances?

Are we really family? It takes more than shared genetic material to be family in my book. To place this point in perspective, any two humans from anywhere on the planet are 99.9% genetically similar.

I've heard rumblings through the proverbial grapevine that many members of my extended family have taken offense to not seeing me for many years. They feel slighted that I don't come to Virginia to see my father and all of my kin. Yet, these same individuals made little to no effort to have any sort of tangible relationship with me before while I still lived in Virginia. Only now, after I have lived for many years in North Carolina, do they feel as if I should make more of an effort to be "closer". You want to know why I don't visit my father? Read this entire blog and learn the answer. You could ask him, but I doubt he knows himself as to why I don't speak to him. In correlation to this point, I'm not the type whom constantly clings to family for my survival (both financial and emotional). I don't live in a collective. I don't rely upon the kindness and assistance of relatives. I stand on my own two feet. Independence is important to me. Relying upon family goes against my very nature.

Some of you I have maintained close contact with, though we may not have shared the same airspace in quite a while. Distance has not kept us from staying in contact, to which I am grateful. We are certainly family and/or friends. You know who you are. Thank you.

The point I believe I'm winding a path towards is this...

If you want to be a part of my life, then you must make an effort to do so. It's okay to be a past acquaintance or a member of my extended family. Yet, don't make it out to be more than it really is. If you want things to change between us, then make a concerted effort. Or don't... it's your choice.

"When I see a bird that walks like a duck and swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, I call that bird a duck." -- James Whitcomb Riley

One day too late.

In my life, I have collected a vast assortment of 'What If' moments.

As I sit here writing this blog entry, I can't help but consider all the paths my life might have taken had certain events not happened how and when they did. I'll discuss a few.

What if I weren't born?

Well, my mom and dad certainly wouldn't have stayed together. In the time since my mother's passing, I've learned from others some important details as to my birth. Apparently, I was the anchor that kept my parents together. Though my mother was in an abusive relationship, the pregnancy made her stay. Great - so my spawning kept her in a bad marriage. And I wonder why my mother and I never really connected! Deep down, she probably despised my existence. Everything that was wrong in her world was manifest in me. When my mom was real bad off before her demise, I asked her if there was anything she needed to tell me; anything that she needed me to know before she was gone. She said nothing. There is one positive spin on my parents staying together... my younger siblings. Josh, James, Julie - you each hold a piece of my heart. You are my family, forever and always. Nothing will ever shake us. You are my rock and my everything.

What if I'd gone off to a proper college?

This one is a frickin' joke and upsets me to this day. I like to think I'm a smart guy. At the very least, I'm versatile, eager to learn and quick to pick up information. Some perspective: I had no desire to be my high school class valedictorian because it meant nothing to me (the soured-up socialite that took that honor can keep it). If I'd wanted the "honor", it would have been mine. To this day, I still laugh at our graduation ceremony. Literally, I fell asleep on stage with the other honor graduates out of sheer boredom. Upon graduating high school, I'd been accepted to not one, but three different colleges. Those institutions were Boston University, Emory and Washington University in St. Louis. Did I go to any of them? No. Why? Because I was too nice of a guy. I hung around Southside Virginia for the sake of an unnamed family member to assist in their entrance to community college. Yet, they ultimately never went to school because they copped out. And there I was - a guy that could have gone on to a finer institution... dealing with rudimentary hogwash at a two-bit rural community college. It still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And to think - my folks didn't assist one bit with college. Not a book, not a class... nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not even a "Kiss my ass, Jared". You know... taking some interest in my continuing education would have been appreciated.

What if I'd spoken up sooner?

I've never spoken about this information publicly, so please bear with me.

The year was 1999. I cared about a fellow classmate in high school very much; had for a few years. I'm not going to say I loved her because I was young and wouldn't have even known what love was. Not only was I young, but I'd never even had a date with a girl. That being said... I had feelings for someone quite special. We were friends and worked together on our school yearbook. We exchanged emails fairly often. Sometimes we'd eat lunch together. I was still a timid young man, though. Talking to a girl was scary, to say the least. As her senior prom rolled around (she was a year ahead of me), it took me forever to work up the nerve to ask her to go with me. And... I waited too long to ask. Some other schmuck had asked her already (yes, he was and forever will be a schmuck). But, she didn't get weirded out by my asking. Surprisingly, she responded positively to my asking. Even though she graduated, we stayed in touch. We'd call each other on the phone and talk. Finally, roughly two months after her graduation, I'd worked up enough courage to ask her out again. And... this time she said yes! I was thrilled beyond anything I'd ever known at that point in my life. She said that she'd already made plans for that evening, but that we'd definitely go out the next day. Boy... was I a happy guy.

Then, the next day came. She was gone.

Little did I know at the time that the plans she had for that fateful evening would lead to her own passing. I won't go into details out of respect for her. Many of you, my former classmates, will know the particulars of what happened. If you're curious, contact me directly for further info. Albeit, I was devastated. I didn't show my pain - I bottled that up too (just like everything else). There I was, facing my own fear and realizing a horrible truth - I waited just one day too long. What if I'd asked her out one day sooner? I could have saved her life. I could have taken her to a different place to be around better people. I could have done something... anything... and she'd still be on this planet.

I was one day too late. It was all my fault.

To this day, I still can't listen to Don Henley's The Boys of Summer without choking up. That song was playing on the radio when I learned she died. The girl in the song? That's her - brown skin shining in the sun indeed. Her face will never leave me. I can close my eyes and still see her. Sometimes, at night, thinking about all this and her keeps me awake. What am I saying - it's quite often in fact. Now obviously I can't speculate that we'd have worked out. Who knows where life would have taken us? But, had I of spoken up one day sooner, perhaps a beautiful young woman would still be with us. I'll always carry this burden, as I should.

I remember.

When I was fourteen years old, I got my first job. It was nothing fancy or magnificent, let me tell you! Like most teenagers being employed for the first time, I went to work at a restaurant. There I was - a young buck looking to score some cash as a proud new employee of Tastee Freez in Kenbridge, Virginia!

Photo Credit: Malcolm, http://www.panoramio.com/photo/43892083

Yes, that's a photo of the actual restaurant. Keep in mind, I grew up in a county where there STILL is not a Wal-Mart, Burger King or a McDonald's. We didn't even have a major grocery store until after the year 2000. Tastee Freez was THE place to go for a quick bite to eat. Soft Serve Ice Cream? Check. Burgers and Fries? Check. Fried Chicken? Check. Livers and Gizzards? Check.

I look back fondly on my first job. It was certainly hard work. Friday nights were the toughest night of the week, especially during football season. I busted some serious ass working at Tastee Freez. Thankfully, I had some great friends to work with that made my time there enjoyable. Steve, Tommy, Stephanie, Jessica... you know who you are (and hopefully you're reading this). Being able to work with you made my first job memorable. I'm very thankful for the three years I spent there. I learned how to work under pressure, how to deal with not-so-friendly people and when to swallow my pride.

I experienced a great deal of heartbreak and abuse in my life during this same time, so my memories of working at Tastee Freez will always be bittersweet. The first girl I ever truly had feelings for tragically passed away; I found out one morning when I arrived to work. I won't go into any details to protect those involved, but those of you who grew up with me surely know the inside story.

Oddly enough, I also started paying my father rent with my first job. Yes, I'll repeat that -- I was fourteen and paying my father rent. I won't whine about having to pay for my keep at such a young age; it certainly plays a factor in my current success and independence. Yet, I can't help but question the motivations of my parents. What parent demands rent money from their underage child? I know of none other than my own. Between age fourteen until when I moved out at age twenty-two, I can put a pretty close estimate on the amount of money I paid my parents at $38,000. That's not to cover college expenses either -- I paid my way through college without assistance. I can understand charging an adult child rent who isn't attending college, but I was fourteen years old! Nor was I some vagrant or stranger, I was your own flesh and blood. Yet again, my lifelong feeling of being used as a tool to further my parents' (let's face it, my domineering father) own agenda was validated. I grew up a babysitter to my three younger siblings, only to be charged a fee to be your child and remain the general caretaker of your other children. There's a reason my two younger brothers and younger sister look to me for parental guidance -- it's what I've always done (and I will continue to do, you three keep me alive).

There's a reason I'm not upset about my dead mother. She didn't talk to me or express much love towards me. I've found out so many things post mortem which she told other family members and not me. I am your oldest child mom -- am I not worthy? Or did you just not give a damn?

There's a reason I don't speak to my father. He started off strong as a dad. I remember the walks we'd take in the woods and the road trips into town. I remember the records we'd play on the record player; the comic books you shared with me (I learned to read very young because of comics). I remember the care you gave me when I burned my hand on the kerosene heater. I remember my first wallet -- the brown one with a zipper and a horse on the front. I remember all these things... and you blew it... and it literally breaks my heart. I'm angry with you, but more so... I'm disappointed in you.

My parents are gone.

One of the reasons I started this blog was to work through and express all of the anger I have. Today is one of those days where I'll be more personal with you.

If there's one thing that causes more anger in my life than any other source, it's my father.

Let me provide some back story for you. My father and I have not spoken in over a year. December 27th, 2011 was the last day we spoke to be exact. I'd just driven to Virginia to see my dad and siblings for Christmas a few days previous. After I returned home to North Carolina, I got word that my sister and father were in a massive fight. I called to see what happened. Our last conversation did not end well; it was filled with a lot of screaming and agony. Much of the conversation related to how he treated my sister, whom was only seventeen years old at the time. Both physically and emotionally abusive, I'd finally had enough of my dad harming my sister. Mind you, this was not something new for my sperm donor. He'd spent decades treating myself and my two younger brothers the same way. Throughout those years, my mother was complacent to this abuse, right up until her own demise.

Speaking of my mother, she passed away September 14, 2011 after an eighteen month battle with lung cancer. Mom was only fifty-one years old. She'd been a lifelong smoker and did the damage willingly to herself. Mom gave birth to four great kids, yet she tossed it all away because those cancer sticks were just so darn tasty!

After that last conversation, I cut my father out of my life. My sister also moved out and spent the last five months of her high school senior year with an aunt. Following her graduation, she came to North Carolina to live with me; she's been here ever since June 2012.

For all intents and purposes, my parents are gone. One is six feet under; one isn't worth a damn.

I spent years putting up with senseless abuse, as did my three siblings. The pushing, shoving and punching I gradually grew to accept and deal with. I even became adept at knowing what set my dad off and how to avoid such triggers. To be honest, the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional pain, though. At one point in high school, my dad (and mother too for the matter) confronted me and asked if I was a homosexual. This was followed by a series of vulgar accusations as to my manhood. I remember the last question they asked me during this incident.

"Don't you want to have sex with a woman?"

Yes... because I was extremely introverted and never dated a girl, I must be gay. Never mind the fact that I was emotionally abused, not allowed to go anywhere or experience anything beyond school... I must be a homosexual! That makes a LOT of sense, doesn't it?

On a side note, a thought just occurred to me. This incident must be why I'm so vigilant about supporting equal civil rights for the LGBT community. I might not be a homosexual, but I sure as hell know what it's like to be put down because of your sexual preference.

So what prompted me to discuss this very personal information today? Well, I spoke with my sister concerning her desire to attend college (something my father had no desire of allowing her to do). Even though she's eighteen years old and living independently of my father, she still has to claim dependence on our father in order to receive financial aid. Folks with the Lunenburg County Social Services Department (yes, I'm calling you out) will not assist her in being declared an independent. Why? Oh... would my father being a deputy sheriff have anything to do with it? Would my father's enduring facade of being a charitable, community driven, caring Christian (oh, he loves to harp on the 'good Christian' part) have anything to do with it? YOU TELL ME!

A man who is not involved in our life; who is a bastard; who won't admit wrong-doing or say I'm sorry -- my sister has to go through him just to get on with her life?! Screw that! It pisses me off to no end. When can my siblings and I move beyond the greasy, self-serving grasp of our father? When? Can we not just live our lives without the toxic taint of our parents? A father in name only; a mother who didn't give a damn.

I'm getting pretty upset right now just writing this. I'm in a bad place. This will continue later. I have to stop for the time being.