Shaped and Molded

 Late last night, before finally drifting off, I began thinking about how events in my childhood have (most likely) shaped my personality – making me behave the way I do at certain times. I don’t write this to make excuses, complain, blame or make anyone feel bad. It’s just interesting – at least to me.

     Nobody picked me up after basketball practice. This was during middle school “1980-something,” long before smartphones. If I had a phone, I could have sent several different emojis – the one with a teardrop comes to mind – or a gif of an animal with sad eyes. In all honesty, I would have called and probably yelled. I was forgotten twice - devasting for a kid who wore (and sometimes still does) his heart on his sleeve.

·       I have fond memories of growing up in our church. Many relatives worshiped there, and most that weren’t related felt like family. It seemed, from a child’s perspective, a close-knit community. One family we were close to was the Eberlys. Their house was where I first watched Michael Jackson’s spectacular Thriller video. As impressive as that was, it’s not what shaped my personality. Linda was in her thirties (I think) and was taken to heaven too soon. She was the first person I knew and spent time with that was here and then wasn’t. Just like that. No warning. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it, but my heart took the most brutal hit – as did her family and all that knew her. I remember putting the dishes away the day I heard the news – my tears alone could have washed three loads – asking, through my sobs, why?

·     I hate loud noises. Any bang, clang, thump and bump immediately raises my anxiety. And I think I know why. It’s partially parental instinct because the last thing we want is our children hurt. But it has deeper roots for me. When my dad had his seizure, our entire lives changed. My one brother and I were hanging out in the basement, and Dad was giving my youngest brother a bath. Next thing we know, the freshly-cleaned brother was telling our mom that dad had fallen and wasn't moving. Here’s the strange thing; we never heard a thud, but I’m convinced it’s why loud noises are unsettling. P.S. I hate brain tumors.

·       Some memories are crystal clear, while others are faded like a favorite pair of jeans. I have a vivid memory of a time I was in the kitchen with my mom. She was washing dishes at the sink, glancing out the window when sirens roared down Route 30. I didn’t think anything of it, but I noticed she was crying. After I inquired why, she responded, “somewhere, somebody is hurt.” I have never forgotten that, and my personality (and my heart) changed that day. Whoever it was hurt and in need wasn't anyone she knew. It didn't need to be. When my girls were younger, in the spirit of my mom’s statement that day, I would tell them to say a prayer every time an ambulance rushed by, sirens blaring.

    Ever wonder what shaped you?

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