It happened 62 years ago

There are times before I begin an audiobook recording session that my mind wanders for a bit as I prep my mind to tell another’s tale. It’s just part of the prep work involved in narration. This morning a realization hit me like a 2x4 on the back of the head. It was a severe blow to my self-image. It is hard to believe that, as I type this, I am accepting the reality of being an official victim of “when the hell did this to me 60+-year-old man”. When did I get old enough that I can now be considered a Coot.

Really, the answer is simple. I did this to me. I was cautious and careful avoided self-inflicted WHOOPSIES! While growing up. While there was the occasional fun filled dumb-flippery, like building ramps and playing Evel Knievel, or playing tag with the neighborhood kids atop a three story hotel and running and climbing across the roof to get from one side of the hotel to the next so I wouldn’t get tagged and forced to be “IT”, or dropping 15 feet down from the Houghton Lake Heights observation terrace along the shoreline into 7’ tall snow drifts, even in my daring, always cautious. So, here I am. Healthy and happy and old. This third act of my life better be as good in reality as it is in my head.

Did I ever tell you how my story started? It’s not a story I tell very often. And that’s because most people just don’t believe it. But it is true. Every word I write is a real word.

I was born in the middle of the last century on Saturday October 27th, 1956 during a flash flood which swept through the City Park of Midland, MI at 3:45 in the afternoon. It was one week before my “scheduled” arrival. Scheduled, that is, by doctors who do math in their heads and make calculations to come up with guesstimates about things that can only be guestimated. They were wrong in this case. As is usual, probably because of the glorious weather for a Saturday picnic with girlfriends, I was early. Schedules be damned.

Believe it or not, I remember my own birth. Really. I do. Don’t feel too bad. I have seen that look before and am quite used to it by now. That sideways glance that screams FIBBER FIBBER FIBBER!!! But let me assure you with my most sincere of sincerest promises that I do remember my birth. Actually, I only remember half of my own birth. This is the part of the story where you can stand back all puffed chest and feeling all superior as I offer a twinkle of a back pedal. But not so fast cupcake. The shooting out of the womb part of my birth is what I remember. The other half of the story has been told to me so many times by my mother and grandparents and even by the girlfriends of my mother who were present that day that this story is stored securely in my brain as if it was something I myself had witnessed. This memory can be found in the library of the true story of my life endless film loop. It’s a private screening running 24 hours day in perpetuity.

Before I go further, let me assure you that this is not an autobiography. An autobiography, or a memoir, even a multi-volume biography is only for people who have done something worth writing about. I do not think being able to belch the alphabet, having a gift in which I can impersonate a heartbeat, or an endless volume of silly faces is worth an autobiography. So I won’t bore you by writing one. On the other hand, some memories, so vivid in my head, do need telling. If only to reassure myself that I do remember the life I have participated in rather zestfully. This includes the first time I died in a boating accident when I was just a three-year-old boy. Why I have a burn scar on my lower lip and the so remarkable it simply must be told trip to someplace else with Denise, my second-grade girlfriend. It was a someplace else that should not have existed, but which did and we visited.

A number of things have happened to me and I have never forgotten them. Each has made such a huge impression on me that I cannot, or will not, forget them or shoo them out of corners of my mind. That’s my gift. That’s my curse. Each of these memories, a 60+ on, is tattooed on the wall of my life. I don’t even have to try to remember them. I just pick a day and a time and I then I find myself eating an Oreo cookie and drinking a fresh from the cow glass of milk while I’m sitting on a porch in another town in another century watching the movie of my life. It’s pretty cool.

Some things are funny. Some are sad. Some are rather unpleasant. This is probably why I remember them so well. All are true-ish. Only the names, events, locations and people’s names have been changed to protect the truth.

The Chippewa and Tittabawassee Rivers converge near downtown Midland, Michigan. Midland is the third city that makes up the Tri-Cities region of central Michigan. The other two being Saginaw and Flint. In 1956, and continuing on into this century, this merging of rivers served as a backdrop for two city parks; The Chippewassee Park, as well as the St. Charles Park. You gotta admit a river that big simply has to have two parks. One park would just be an insult to the rivers. The parks were for people looking for places to picnic and play with their families and build their memories. It was an open secret hidden in the open place for high school kids looking for a good groping grove and a fondling field. It was also a good place to go with a couple of bottles of Carling Black Label and a blanket so you could lay back on the dewy ground and stare at the past and try to remember your future. Just don’t forget the bottle opener and the Zippo to torch the Pall Malls ablaze during your quiet sojourn.

25 miles to the east where the Saginaw River meets and feeds the Tittabawassee River, which, as you now know, eventually meets and merges with the Chippewa River, the Army Corp of Engineers, smart fellas all, complete with degrees and certificates and pocket protectors to show they were indeed clever, were busy upgrading several rusting valves at the pumping station on the west side of Saginaw, Mi that keeps the Saginaw River from filling the Saginaw Valley. This new system would rely on something brand new and exciting. Something called Computers. It was Sci-Fi come to life. Huge behemoths of science fiction wizardry that, with the insertion of the correct series of punch cards, the flipping of many pins and the dialing in of secret codes, would control the release valves that controlled the flow of water and keeping the valley safe and dry. What could go wrong?

Yup. You got it.

It was supposed to be a 6 and not a 9 dialed in. The letter V and not the letter A. Twice clockwise, not twice counter-clockwise. It was a card with an invisible fold in those dark days of “do not fold, spindle, or mutilate” that caused the something bad to happen in Saginaw that day. Something that resulted in meetings and memo’s and halted career advancement. Something that would lead to someone seeing the undercarriage of the straight to Hell express Greyhound as a result. At 3:40pm, just before the still flushed with glowing pride faces of the white short-sleeved shirts with black ties engineers shifted from their proud smiles of the job well done to the frozen horror of the permanent oh no face, valves opened and the floodgates released. Congratulations gave way to What The Hell!!! It took 13 seconds for David Calloway, the fresh from Saginaw Valley Junior College junior engineer, who’s job duty at this moment was restricted to “keep your mouth shut, your eyes open and just maybe you’ll learn something”, broke the glass and punched the “in case of emergency” red button. There were screaming alarms, red lights flashing and prayers were being prayed. Even by the un-prayerful. The valley stayed dry. This time. The Saginaw River though did take the hit. Its banks, while only raised a foot, left indelible damage along the banks and the river, for nearly 40 miles, became rapids. And the river did what it was supposed to do. It did its job. The now wild river flowed downstream toward the Tittabawassee River. The Tittabawassee carried the extra raving volume of the former Saginaw River further downstream where it had to merge with the Chippewa River.

This happened to be the exact location of a small gaggle of (which of I recall my conversion chart is equal to 6) 20-something girlfriends from back in the days at Catholic school where wearing patent leather shoes was a sin, were enjoying a late afternoon spontaneous baby-shower picnic beside the banks of the Tittabawassee. This group included a 21 year old woman with carrot colored hair who would, in just a few minutes, become my mother. I was her first child. I also happened to be the child with the best story.

As the flood waters raced towards Midland, toasts were being offered with paper cups filled to the top with Cold Duck, and to be really daring, cigars were being smoked, even by the non-smoking girlfriends. It was a festive day, with a clear sky and good food among friends. Mom was all swollen belly and should have been home, but the thought of being with old friends was just too much to consider missing. Dad was away in his rig making deliveries to Detroit on this day. So he missed the fun. At 3:40, mom felt the first pang of heartburn…or what she thought was heartburn. Or what she explained away as kick back from what she'd eaten.

“Guess I shouldn’t have had that second helping of Spanish Rice.” Is what I’ve been told, by her, she said to her friends. Spanish Rice with Cold Duck as a chaser can be a dangerous combination, even if you’re not pregnant. She excused herself to go stand along the banks of the Tittabawassee River where she would not rip a fart. Because, as we all know, refined Catholic girls and ladies of the time did not fart. Nor did they survive a 7.4 tremblor on the Rectum scale. There wasn’t a Backfire. She did not Blast off, Blast the chair, Blast a Bottom burp, or sing with the Brown horn brass choir. There was no such thing as Butt bleating or a Butt burp. She did not play the Buttock bassoon, Empty her air tank or float an air biscuit. And in no way, shape or form did she go Kaboom. She simply did the expected and stepped away to not offend her friends while her biological workings worked.

Standing along the rivers bank, where she tried to let slide an SBD, (If you can’t hear it, it didn’t happen.) the soon to be mommy felt the ground quiver beneath the only pair of shoes she could tolerate, a pair of moccasins her brother had purchased for her at the Iroquois Trading Post for her 21st birthday 8 months prior. It tickled my feet she has said in the passing years.

Turning around, she called out to her friends for help as she fought for balance. But different things happened. She didn’t get to “express herself” silently Instead, simultaneously to her water breaking, (she thought she was peeing herself), she felt the now crashing crest of water wrap around her pushing past as it followed its course. Because she was all swollen belly and puffy ankled from her maternal condition, she did the only thing she could do. She grabbed hold of the birch tree she was leaning against with a bear hug death grip. Then, as the rapids continued to wash over her she dropped the first of the many F-bombs that screamed out of her head for the next 27 seconds until the crest subsided and the hunt for her fresh born baby began. The cascading water tried to get her grip to the tree come loose. She screamed louder and clung tighter. Soon her feet left the ground until, seconds later, she was hanging horizontally from the birch and the river still tried to take her. Her moccasins slipped off her feet and she dropped another f-bomb of frustration. But, good Catholic school girl that she was, in her head she heard herself say GOSH!!! And there were three exclamation points punctuating her tone of fear and anger. She heard the voices of her friends calling out to her. Urging her to not let go. To keep hanging on. She was slapped with paper plates of fried chicken and Cole slaw caught up in the rush of water. A metal thermos smacked her on the nose, breaking her glasses and sending the three pieces in different directions. Worse still, the force of the water was pushing against her dress and she was afraid her dress might be torn off from her. That would be the worst thing that could have happened because one of her bra straps was held together by a safety pin and how embarrassing would it be to be caught in a bra held together by a safety pin? That would be the worst. There was something worse though. And something worse happened. The elastic in her maternity panties let go with a twang and they slipped off and scuttled along the banks of the river to gather with the other souvenirs the river had collected. And then the good thing happened. Hanging tight with her weakening strength, the just seconds away from being a new mother felt something move. She tried to fight, but the water was too strong. Her grip was getting too weak. It was going to happen now. Because of the after effects of Spanish Rice and cold duck, she didn’t dare break wind in front of her friends out of embarrassment, she was going to give birth to her first along the banks where the Chippewa and Tittabawassee Rivers meet in the City Park of Midland, MI. She fought to retain her grip, but the more she fought, the harder she pushed. And we know what happens when mothers to be push. Baby’s crown. And that’s what happened. With a push she fought against, with a scream to her friends, baby Scott showed up. The current weakened, and Mom fell to the ground with a thud. It was that thud that finished things.

“You just showed up before anyone was ready.” Is what I have been told in the telling of the tale over the years. “You just showed up before anyone was ready.”

I didn’t just show up though. Oh no no no no no. Because I don’t just show up anywhere. I make an appearance, I own the room, I bask in the glory of being me. I make my appearance and take my bows. With the sound of a cork blasting from a bottle of champagne, I made my debut. I debuted like the jack in the box jester.

Pow.

Hi.

Here I am people, early arrival because of a repressed fart.

And here I go.

Back soon.

It was so fast and so sudden that I was surfed along the wet grass along the river’s edge while being chased by panicked people playing a game of panic filled chase. I slid into the river and the current carried me down stream atop the still rushing water.

What is it like to be born? I’ll tell you.

I remember being in the dark. And I just wanted to be in the light. The dark was making me uneasy. I didn’t like the dark. Still don’t really. Then there was light. My first thought was, "Oh no. Not again!" I must have gone through this before. I remember the dark. I remember the light. I remember the warmth of a mothers forever hug. I remember thinking. I was thinking about nothing. I was thinking about everything. Though my teens were years away, I knew that I already knew everything I should know. It is an instinctive knowledge we all have at the beginning. We already know what we need to know. But, because of what happens next, we forget so we can remember it later. When we need to know it. As we need to know it. Those EUREKA moments we experience during our lifetime is just remembering what we once knew. Just before birth we are paid a visit by an angel. I like to call this the birth angel. This being, filled with pure love, has one job. To help make the transition from one life to the next easier. The angel takes away the memories of living before to help avoid the depression of knowing what was left behind. Do you know why we have a Philtrum? Let me tell you. The Philtrum, that indentation located directly under the nose, which extends to the upper lip, is where the angle places its finger. The slight pressure of the push is what causes the indentation. Placing the finger to the babies face, the last words heard before delivery is a loving “Shhhh…Don’t tell anyone what you know.” Look around. You probably don’t even notice anymore. But occasionally you’ll see a person, like me, who has no indentation beneath the nose. That’s because something has happened and we didn’t get our birth touch. I have no philtrum because I was born so unexpectedly that the birth angel didn’t get to finish the task. I heard “shhh…” and that I was gone. I never got the message. I never got the caress. So I remember everything from before. This is partly why I still remember everything from life since that time. I can’t forget. I just collect the memories and call them when I need them.

I was located 10 minutes after I was born. Police and park visitors scoured the park and ran along the banks of the river trying to find me after I had dipped below the rivers surface. I was found splashing along the rivers banks, barely above the waterline. It wasn’t me doing the splashing. A school of Carp had gathered together beneath me and pushed me to the surface, getting as close to the shore as possible. The splashing that attracted my rescuers was created by the swishing of their tails and fins as they worked together to keep my head above. Did you know that In Japanese Carp are named Koi? Koi is a homophone for another word that means "affection" or "love. So, an argument can be made in favor of, and you can say that I was born and schooled in love and affection.

With the help from her girlfriends, my mother, still in shock at what had happened to her and to her baby, was lead to where I was being looked after by the police officer who reached down to retrieve me from my fish bed. Their load removed, the Carp swam off. I was handed over to my mother who finally broke down and cried. She had a son. I was her first of three children. My father returned home two days later and, according to legend, didn’t believe a word of what he was told about my arrival. He was a simple man who believed simple things. Things like this did not happen in his world.

I was named after the Scottish ancestral heritage from the maternal side of the family. Because my parents were Catholic, I had to be named after a saint. And I was. I was named after the Saint of Assissi, and not the mule.

And that’s the story of how 60+ years ago, I was born during an accidental flood of the Chippewa and Tittabawassee Rivers in Midland, MI. It was an amazing beginning. And life has continued to be both amazing and amusing. And I’m glad I’m getting to live my life my way.

That is my story. I have to stick to it.