Status: W.I.P.
So Far Away
002.
"Let's go Ian, up and at'em! Chop, chop!"
It was Tuesday, 6:00 a.m., and whoever felt it was necessary to be 'up and at'em', was clearly not of sound mind.
"Ian, I mean it! You're going to be late for school."
And whoever actually wanted to be on time for a day at school, let alone attend to begin with, was also void of sanity.
However, regardless of the mental status or desire of any particular school age child, there was usually a constant opponent which helped him/her achieve a fairly continuous attendance record-and that was his/her parents. I was no exception. In fact, my father was the most persistent- if not adamant- supporter of a proper education. I would attend school until the day I graduated. There were no 'Ifs', 'Ands', or 'Buts' about it.
"Ian-"
"Okay, okay I'm awake. Don't get your panties in a bunch..."
I could hear my father grunt a rather groggy and unhappy, 'okay', from the hall as he made for the stairs.
Today was another 'great' start, to another 'great' day.
I found a shirt and a pair of pants from off the floor, whether or not they actually belonged in the laundry bin, I couldn't say for sure.
And while I'm being honest, in my opinion, a couple wrinkles weren't going to hurt anyone.
It was an easy five or ten minutes before I was ready.
My father was in the kitchen, the pantry door was open to showcase the array of breakfast cereals, and there was milk on the counter.
I really wasn't into breakfast- food this early often made me nauseous- however after the 'Frosted Mini-wheats commercial', my dad was all about anything and everything, that would help my school performance.
"I have to go into the studio today, are you going to be 'OK' to let yourself in after school?"
Even at the age of fifteen, when I was more than capable to fend for myself, my father would often ask if I was 'OK' to be left alone once-in-a-while.
"Dad, I think I can handle it."
As I began to pour milk into my cereal, I could hear my father as he made for the car keys on the kitchen counter.
"Ok. I have a couple errands to run today..."
A 'couple errands', usually meant he was going to go and 'see' my mother at the cemetery.
"Behave, and I'll be home around seven."
After a 'pat down' of his pants for his mobile phone and wallet, he made for the door, and left.
School wasn't easy for me both prior to, as well as after, the accident.
In the second grade I learned I had a DRD (Developmental Reading Disorder), which the Elementary school's Special Ed. teacher referred to as Dyslexia.
I had trouble learning the alphabet, word phonetics, and word syllables.
I used to get bullied, a lot because I wasn't as academically 'proficient' as my peers.
Like I said, school wasn't easy.
There was a loud knock on the front door as I put the utensils and dishes in the sink.
"Orange County Police Department, we have a warrant for your arrest."
I turned off the coffee pot, which my dad had left on, and boiling.
My shoes were situated in a heap by the front door, and my hoodie was laid across the top of the sofa.
"Open up, Baker. We know you're in there."
Like father, like son I did a 'pat down' of my pants and opened the door.
It was Tuesday, 6:00 a.m., and whoever felt it was necessary to be 'up and at'em', was clearly not of sound mind.
"Ian, I mean it! You're going to be late for school."
And whoever actually wanted to be on time for a day at school, let alone attend to begin with, was also void of sanity.
However, regardless of the mental status or desire of any particular school age child, there was usually a constant opponent which helped him/her achieve a fairly continuous attendance record-and that was his/her parents. I was no exception. In fact, my father was the most persistent- if not adamant- supporter of a proper education. I would attend school until the day I graduated. There were no 'Ifs', 'Ands', or 'Buts' about it.
"Ian-"
"Okay, okay I'm awake. Don't get your panties in a bunch..."
I could hear my father grunt a rather groggy and unhappy, 'okay', from the hall as he made for the stairs.
Today was another 'great' start, to another 'great' day.
I found a shirt and a pair of pants from off the floor, whether or not they actually belonged in the laundry bin, I couldn't say for sure.
And while I'm being honest, in my opinion, a couple wrinkles weren't going to hurt anyone.
It was an easy five or ten minutes before I was ready.
My father was in the kitchen, the pantry door was open to showcase the array of breakfast cereals, and there was milk on the counter.
I really wasn't into breakfast- food this early often made me nauseous- however after the 'Frosted Mini-wheats commercial', my dad was all about anything and everything, that would help my school performance.
"I have to go into the studio today, are you going to be 'OK' to let yourself in after school?"
Even at the age of fifteen, when I was more than capable to fend for myself, my father would often ask if I was 'OK' to be left alone once-in-a-while.
"Dad, I think I can handle it."
As I began to pour milk into my cereal, I could hear my father as he made for the car keys on the kitchen counter.
"Ok. I have a couple errands to run today..."
A 'couple errands', usually meant he was going to go and 'see' my mother at the cemetery.
"Behave, and I'll be home around seven."
After a 'pat down' of his pants for his mobile phone and wallet, he made for the door, and left.
School wasn't easy for me both prior to, as well as after, the accident.
In the second grade I learned I had a DRD (Developmental Reading Disorder), which the Elementary school's Special Ed. teacher referred to as Dyslexia.
I had trouble learning the alphabet, word phonetics, and word syllables.
I used to get bullied, a lot because I wasn't as academically 'proficient' as my peers.
Like I said, school wasn't easy.
There was a loud knock on the front door as I put the utensils and dishes in the sink.
"Orange County Police Department, we have a warrant for your arrest."
I turned off the coffee pot, which my dad had left on, and boiling.
My shoes were situated in a heap by the front door, and my hoodie was laid across the top of the sofa.
"Open up, Baker. We know you're in there."
Like father, like son I did a 'pat down' of my pants and opened the door.