My parents were divorced when I was young. I can not recall my father or step-father ever speaking ill of each other. This alone speaks volumes of their character. My step father, Hank, really truly loved my mom. He did not have to accept me as his responsibility but he did…I know he loved me. He raised me like his own. I Love my dad but I was trained by my pop. The unfortunate reality of visitation agreements is that the second party has severely limited opportunities.
Hank helped me form my identity. His father was a colonel in the Air Corps; Hank was an electronic counter measures technician during the missile race. I proudly served in the USAF. I am sure Hank was not trying to prepare me for a special operations career but he did. Hank was playful and had a vivid imagination. We used to play a game when I was about seven years old.
He would trap me under the bean bag chair. I was immobilized for all practical purposes. Then he would tell the scenario. I was a cowboy and had been captured by the Indians. They tied me to a cactus and were torturing me for information. The interrogation took a turn for the worse when they made a rattle snake bite me. I could feel the poison spread from the wound site. “You must control your heart rate.” I am sure that child protective services would frown on this game but it did provide me with mental skills that serve me well.
Later I discovered fire and Hank had to effectively channel my pyromania before I caught the house or myself on fire again. Another story for another day…
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