My First Kiss-(revived and revised after hackers)

We moved to Hudsonville Michigan when I was about nine years old. My stepfather, which I did not know that until I was around fourteen, would soon make enemies of the general community by hitting golfballs in the school yard, across the street from the duplex we lived in, on Sundays. Since, Hudsonville, was a zealously religious community, they frowned on everything but church and family gatherings on Sundays. It wasn't apparent to me at the time but now I see how he failed to research the community before moving there to regain employment, especially since I have done the same- minus the golf balls.

While attending Hudsonville Elementary, I was fitted with a musical instrument that was appropriate for my body type- the Trombone. This really began my music education and was much more intense than playing the Recorder, and more interesting as well. I felt like I was really on my way to chasing down my dreams of being a musician, as well as gaining the attention of my immediate family, that I was starved of all of my life thus far.
Had I known it would be a bigger part of my extended reality,
 I don't think I would have just wished it to gain positive attention from my parents.

Making a Wish to be famous, it was only to get the attention of one person in the whole wide world, my Mother.

Sooner or later, we found a small cement block shack with some outbuildings on it in, Marne, Michigan. We began going there on the weekends to fix the place up enough to live in. 
It was the fall of my tenth birthday when we moved in. I was a gangly boy with, unknown to me, visible emotional wounds- and though caused by severe familial trauma, and just as noticeable, a bed-wetter. 

It was here that I began writing, mostly because I was a deep thinker- brooding constantly, while nursing my various mental contusions. I did so because of the power of suggestion... a comment a teacher had made to my parents several years prior that stuck in my head, "...creative writing..."

The classroom had a pet tarantula. The teacher was female- it was hers. Apparently I had stabbed it with a pencil. Having no recollection of doing so, I can only deduce that I was preoccupied with traumatic events that took place prior. Namely, and most recent to that event, was what had happened at Christmas...

My step father had sent me off to "get out of their hair," and off to find something to do I went- right to the basement to play with a race track with the handheld, non-wireless trigger controller. It was the track that snapped together and you could make different curves or just a circle etc... it made a little bit of sparks and had an interesting odor- much better than the film developing chemicals that he had in the darkroom with photo enlarging equipment, which I had to go through to get to the "family room" that had a bar... remember the seventies? I was seven years old.

Well I happened to walk into the room where the Christmas presents were placed- right by the race track...  After receiving a very large "man-sized" whooping, he berated me, telling me how I had destroyed Santa Clause, along with all of the holiday magic and wonder for my siblings... mostly his own two children, my baby brother, Josh, and baby sister, Amanda. It's not certain if he was concerned how my full sister, Amy, felt. And, it was his dominance in the home that severed our bonds, which remain to be completely destroyed. I am the uncle no one talks about, when all along I should be the pinnacle in those children's lives but whatever. Divide and conquer.

Very soon after he finished beating me I clearly announced, directly to him, with great intent- and dead in his eye, that I was going to stab and kill him while he slept.... with a butter knife. It was very well understood that a dull knife hurts far worse than a sharp knife, and I wanted to convey to him EXACTLY how hurt and angry I truly was, and how much I wanted him to feel pain. He admitted years later that he didn't sleep for two weeks. He and his son, Josh, still fear me to this day, and I have not been able to speak to my only brother in many years... Not one of my family members will speak to me- because of my writing this story. 

So, Miss Ball, I think was her name, on top of the tarantula incident (that I have no recollection of) she made this comment because of some of the trouble I had gotten into, later in the year, over some of my own confusion about a blown up picture of the moon, that my "dad" had allowed me to take for show-and-tell, (I think it was just his way of getting attention from the teacher so he could.... come hither with her, let's just say)- telling the kids in my class that he went to the moon. 

One kid asked his name, and I said, "Musselman". The kid scratched his head, remembered "Armstrong", and the relationship was accepted as substantial. I still laugh at that, and how kids digest things. We were all confused- especially me.


. Now even more so than ever.
 Sooner or later we had added on to the place in, Marne, which gave me my education in the building trades and processes. It was well understood by myself, that everyone needs homes to live in, and that I would never get rich by paying people to do things for me so, I decided that I would venture into the trades and learn all that I could possibly learn, finally becoming a Master later in life.. but if I was to never become a famous musician, I would become a great laborer, gaining my mothers attention in that regard. I was ten or eleven when I made that decision.

Having no toys, the woods quickly became my shelter and my mother gets the credit because when I was bored she would tell me to go out in the woods and gather up every different leaf that was there in order to learn about the trees- just to, "get me out of her hair".

It was while doing this that I became best friends with my real mother- Mother Nature. It was while with her that I felt safe and secure. Everything that I needed was right there with her- water, air, food, the birds and animals and their beautiful voices. They sang and spoke to me when I listened, and when I was not listening because of my tears and grievances. 

I think that my Mother should, at the very least, get the credit for giving me the greatest gifts that she never really intended to give me but for any other reason but to just have me out of her hair- music and nature and the mother that I found there.

Sooner than later, my father would take up Golf full time, giving lessons and shagging balls (LOL) on a range that we leased from, Elkterra Country Club. Mostly, it was just a convenient way to chase skirts, which he did as a side hobby- ( recalling him bragging about getting his "first piece" when he was 14, while working for the carnival).

And, although we made a lot of money from the driving range, we still went without for various reasons relating to skirts and golf.

And, yes, he did write a book but mostly, it was an ego trip, I feel. It fell short of success because of lack of financial allocations, or a better word, and more operable- COMMITMENT. Now that I think about it, knowing what I know and understand about consumerism (as I rewrite portions of this that have had the print reversed/censored) I think it was more of a vanity publishing- and that he is behind the hack, being an ex Navy person with lots of military ties... Not that it matters but if anything happens to me, everyone will know. He made subtle attempts at "disposing" of me multiple times, as has been, or will be, revealed in this story.
  


During one of my parent's fights around that time, whether before he was caught or after, he would make a comment about being my father for so many years. Well, me being a thinking kind of fool, I quickly did the math in my head- like when I exclaimed my true age at the drive in when he was trying to get a discount to get in. It was then that it dawned on me that he was not my real father at all. Now I was confused, relieved, angry, and befuddled. Who was my father, if not him? And why wasn't he ever there for me?

Anyway, people would call child protective authorities and have him cited for child labor laws. He would always talk his way out of it and everything would be fine, for him but they noticed just the same, and there may be something of it on file somewhere. I am betting that it is nowhere in MY police records though.

Well, he would have group lessons, and have as many as 20 people or more to teach. One of those people in the group, come to find out, was my Aunt Cheryl- my Uncle Gary's wife...

My Uncle Gary happened to be my favorite Uncle- favorite person. I wanted to be just like him, I wanted to walk like him, talk like him, do the things he did...everything. I LOVED my Uncle Gary to Death. Well, had I known that he would so soon lose his sentiments for me over it, eventually making it known that he blamed me! That I was the driving force that made Rick run off with his wife, well I might not have felt as bad as I did when I learned the TRUTH.

And for a minute, my mother paid attention to me but it was only out of her grief over finding out that she was cheated on after 13 years of marriage.

And had he not left me abandoned, with no way to go home, he would have never been caught till who knows how much later than when he did. And that was only because I had Ed Rode (Grand Rapids Press photographer for "Connections") take me to his motel room, where he was working on writing his book. (There's a lot more to this). What I found there, after the manager let me in the room, was a woman's belongings... 

Fleeing the hotel room, very afraid, I went to a phone booth where I called my mother at work. She instructed me to stay there but I think it was only because I had the evidence. I slept in the phone booth until she arrived, on Plainfield and Leonard- in the city.

Had he found me there, I don't know what he would have done to me. I might have been successfully gotten rid of that time. He would have seen to it.

It wasn't long after he had left, that I discovered the source of my psychological disturbances went with him as well.  

No longer would I have to feel the hood of the car in order to judge how badly I would be beaten,
No longer would I fear being at the dinner table.
No longer would I have to fear having been at a friends house when he came home from "work".
No longer would I have to find peace by going to or staying at school.
No longer would I have my pants yanked from me to see if I had hit puberty yet- or held down and forced to kiss my sister.
No longer would I be told that I had been peeing in the shower due to condensation on the ceiling.
No longer would I be baited with semen like substances- such as hair conditioner, dripped on the toilet, or by porn being left out, only to be spied on through the cracks in the doorway.
And it wouldn't be long before I no longer wet my bed.


And because of it all, I would not be enabled to take advantage of the only opportunity I truly earned and deserved- to go to Interlochen, whom had recognized my talents for being a Trombone player, awarding me the largest Scholarship that they give out- to One person, 75%. That is a memory I truly wish I could forget. I truly have been robbed of everything in life by everyone I extended my love and trust to. 

 My healing began when he was no longer there to constantly pick at my scabs to keep my wounds festering.

My Dreams were of having my own Wife, and raising Children that did not Fear my coming Home. But because of the visible mental wounds, I would never have a High School Sweetheart to help put all of that into motion.

Having never been loved, or not ever knowing what love was, I was truly handicapped in the worst way possible. And soon, I would become handicapped even further by alcohol, confusing it's sweet kisses for the affection I so desperately searched for.

Thanks for reading my stories.
I sincerely Hope that you find value in what it is that I am trying to do.
I Love You.

I am always watching- leave comments below.
Thanks-Zach 4-12-17