I Know How Men In Exile Feed On Dreams Of Hope

A little bit of my background.

If you know me fairly well, then this will just add to what you already know of me. If you're just now starting to get to know me...then this is about the best starting place.

In my younger years I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, my grandfather particularly. At the time my father was doing heavy equipment [something he’s been doing for 20 years, and still doing to this day] and my mother was a practicing nurse. It was more practical for me to get on and off the school bus at my grandparents’ house being as how it’s not even a half a mile up the road. I still think back to those times when my hair had more of a blond color to it, and it makes me smile. My elementary years could be summed up with glass bottles and Old Spice. The extensive time that I spent with my grandfather led me to want to be like him – which is where the Old Spice comes into play. On some days, I would go into the bathroom with the florescent light that flickered and I’d find his bottle of Old Spice after-shave. I’d put some on; maybe even a bit too liberally. My grandmother would talk about how strong the smell was but it made me happy none the less.

The other key element of my upbringing is glass bottles – specifically Coca Cola bottles. My grandfather and I would frequently go to the Flint Hill General Store owned by the Cardin family. It’s a quaint little place where Hornet nests hang from the ceiling, and loafers are numerous. I would excitedly dash to the cooler with the sliding lid and get a glass bottle of Coca Cola. I’m not quite sure what brought about my fondness of them – maybe it was the fact of popping the lid off. [I returned back to the General Store over the summer and Wesley Cardin reminisced about how I could work the bottle opener with ease and how it would absolutely stump the majority of adults. And wouldn’t you know it, I ended up buying a Coke. In a glass bottle. Even to this day I will contend that Coca Cola tastes better in a glass bottle. Some things never change.

A little known fact is how I received my name. My full legal name (for those that do not know) is John Michael Murray. The John comes from my grandfather, John Thomas, and the Michael comes from my father, Michael Thomas. Growing up there was a slight resentment towards my father for which I can not find any reasoning. I never referred to him (that I can remember) as Dad or Daddy. Even when speaking with others, I never said Father. I always spoke of him as Murray, which has evolved to Mikey over the years. Whenever someone would ask me what my name was, I would always respond with John, even though my mother persisted that my name was John Michael. Back in the spring, I had a slight breakdown and while in talking with someone, I found out what might had led to this hidden resentment towards my father. To my knowledge, he had never told me that he had loved me or that he was proud of me. He would always take me to ball games or at least show up, but this meant nothing. He would supply me with money when I needed it (and it was appropriate) but I didn’t feel loved. The thing that sticks out in my mind the most when I think of my father is a leather belt. The sound of it speeding through belt loops. Feeling it wrap around my legs. Grasping my legs while laying on the couch sobbing. I believe in some way this helped nurture my temper/anger issues that I have. He would lash out at me for things that I considered to be minor saying that he intended to make me mind. He still asserts that the school system was better when you could paddle kids, and that there wouldn’t be any school shootings if these measures were still in place. I no longer receive the belt treatment but our relationship will never be as strong as it could’ve been.