Who Is Rob - The Early Years...

Me, with my little brothers. 

Today I want to talk a little about me, and who I am. I can already hear you all groaning. I know, this is going to be a tough read. But at least you don't have to write it. At least you don't have to journey into the dark corners of my mind, and talk about someone that, to be completely honest, I've never really liked. But I'm going to do it. Maybe if I talk a little about myself I can get some of those demons out of my mind. Or maybe I'll just create some more. Either way, this is going to be more of a chore to write, than it will be for you to read. So just be quiet. Sit down, and let's get this over with.

I was born fairly late in the 70's. Late August of 1979. Despite it being so late in the decade, I'm still a product of the 70's. I don't know exactly what that means, but it's a fact I just enjoy telling people. I imagine it was hot the day I was born, as it happened in Omaha, Nebraska. And we have some pretty warm summers there. I will admit that it could have been overcast that day. Maybe there was a nice breeze, and light sprinkle. So the temperature could have been pleasant. To be honest, I simply can not remember for sure. I guess I was doing more important things that day. Like being born! I don't know why you all have to focus on a detail that is really so small. One thing of note that I should point out: I had two feet when I was born that day. Remember that fact, because it may come up again, 38 years later.

My parents were both there that day. My mom seemed to be the center of attention for much of the pre-show. She's a ginger. Though you can't really tell as well these days, her hair was very red. She's probably my favorite ginger in the entire world. I don't know much about the person that she was that day. But I can tell you that she was a great mother to me. She tried her hardest. I think that shows in her hair. The poor woman did give birth to three boys. But I guess that's getting ahead of myself a bit. My dad was there, too. He is not a ginger. He was a blonde dude. He played football in High School, though I'm not sure how good he was. I wasn't there. I do know that he was, and still is a big music fan. That fact will play heavily into my own story. He tried hard too. He provided for us. Though he missed a lot of my childhood.

So there we were. My parents, and myself. A ginger. The tradition of red-hair continued. My mom's bio dad was Irish. I guess we should blame him for the ginger thing. I did not know the guy, though. He left my mom when she was very young. I did know my grandma though. She was pretty amazing. I love her so very much. She married the man who I proudly called "grandpa". He was a bit intimidating to a kid, but he was a good man. He had to be, to step in and raise three kids that weren't his own. I'd talk about my dad's parents, but to be honest, I don't really know them well. I guess we weren't really religious enough for them to want to know us very well. I'm fine with it. At this point, it is what it is. But it might have been nice to know them when we were younger.

For the first year and a half of my life, I was an only child. It was amazing. We went to carnivals. We were always out and about, seeing the sights, and painting the town red. It was such a busy, but exciting time in my life. We partied with celebrities. We golfed with the elite. We even swam with dolphins off the coast in Florida. Okay, so none of that actually happened. I mean, even if we had the means, I was but a wee lad, and probably just cried, and pooped a lot. At eighteen months, I stopped being an only child.

It was January of 1982, a temperature that was completely different from my birth, I'm sure, then my brother Nick was born. Again, I don't remember a lot of those days. I was pretty young. The only clear memory I have of then, and to be honest it might have been a little later than that, is a recurring nightmare that I had. I can remember hearing trains, which makes sense because the city I grew up in (Council Bluffs, Iowa) is a pretty big train town. When I heard the trains, I always had this huge need to get out of bed, but I knew that if I did, a train would hit, and kill me. I know, that's such a sweet story. I guess it might be a precursor to life metaphorically hitting me with a train for so many years. Okay, probably not. But it does make sense. Does it not?

About eighteen months after Nick was born... Nick, being another blonde in the family... my next brother, Dereke was born. He was another damned dirty ginger. I guess I start having some more scattered memories around that time. Just little things that are mostly not worth repeating here. Some memories are part memory, and part story from my mom. Other memories aren't memories at all, but just stories. Some of them are pretty interesting. So there was our family. Myself, two brothers, a mother who had to deal with us pretty much full time, and a dad that was gone most of the time, driving a semi, and paying the bills. We weren't a perfect family (hell, three of us were gingers... there's nothing perfect about that), we didn't have a lot of money, but from my memory, it was a good life. I think I was happy.

Okay, maybe I'll give you a couple of those stories first. There are a couple that I find to be pretty entertaining in one way, or another. They may be a perfect excuse for you to stop reading this. That's my way of giving you all an out. I'm a sweetheart like that. I will always do my best to give you folks an out to reading this drivel. A spot where you can stop reading, and not feel bad about it. If you want to take that out, now is the time. And I wish you well for doing so. Even if I am a little disappointed in you for doing so.

So here it is, the first story:
This one is a memory. It's strange, and brief. It also shows how scatterbrained I've been. Even since an earlier age. I remember that my parents got me a can of soda. It was a Pepsi. I don't know why I remember that (or any of this!), but I do. It wasn't cold. It was warm, my friends. And Rob, he don't care much for warm soda. So I figured that I could either put that can of soda in the fridge, and have  frosty treat later in the day. Or, I could go with option two, and just get a cup of ice. I went with numero dos. I quickly poured my soda down the drain, and got my cup of ice. If you don't see the problem there, then it's best that you stop reading the rest of this. You are wasting your time. You are wasting my time. And with that kind of mentality, we'll never see Obama's birth certificate.

The second story is part memory, and part story that my mom told us, years ago. If you learn something about me from this story, it's that I am a caring, animal loving person, who thinks that even dead animals deserve some dignity:
I remember when I was growing up that my dad always had the most beautiful fish tanks. If memory serves, they were, for the most part, salt water fish. Now, if you haven't seen a nice, well kept salt water fish tank, you are missing out my friends. It may not be as beautiful as a scene played out in the ocean, but for a boy growing up in Iowa, it really is a wondrous thing of beauty. The problem with it is that, as the circle of life would dictate, the fish would die. Any time a fish would die, that fish would get a "burial at sea". Which was really just my dad flushing the dead fish down the toilet. I think it taught us to respect life, or something like that. One day, while on a walk with our parents, we encountered a squirrel in the road, that had been cut down too soon by an automobile of some type (I like to think it was Batman... that asshole). After the walk, and my mom had laid down for a nap, we went back and collected our dear sweet (flat) friend, and tried to flush it down the toilet. From what I was told, it made quite the mess, and the plumbing has probably never been the same in that building. Needless to say, when I die, I want to be flushed. I think that it sounds like a beautiful way to go. It sort of brings a tear to my eye.

This final story will let you know just how creative we all were. And how we would overcome boredom in the most wonderful way. It was a Saturday, of that I'm sure. My parents were sleeping in. And there were cartoons to be watched. So many wonderful, Saturday Morning cartoons. We were hungry. But we also wanted to play a fun, and charming game. So, as I'm told, we took our parent's Monopoly game, and we poured it out on the kitchen floor. After the game was firmly in place, we hid it, by taking all of the food in the house, and dumping it on top. I guess we were playing "hidden treasure", or something like that. I don't know who told Dereke to eat it, but I guess he didn't really find us to be very good culinary artists.

I think that brings me to the end of my early childhood. There are some other memories up there in that scary old noggin' of mine. Quite a few. But none of them are quite as profound as what I have already shared with you. There's a whole history of my love with music that I need to touch on. There's also a whole 'nother brother that I haven't even met yet. Plus, a lot more life. But... not today. Today, I am ending this. This is only part one of the story of Rob. And to be honest, I don't really like talking about myself. I'm not really the sort of person that I would hang out. I'm not my biggest fan.

I'm sure you'll all be back for part two. Right? Bueller?

fin.