J. Michael Dew

I am not a creative person.  I am, rather, an observant person with a good memory.  I remember the rocking motion as we pulled into our rutted driveway.  I remember the smell of my granny's perfume.  I remember the woodshed, the Scout, the buzz of my grampa's chainsaw.  This is what goes into storytelling.  I must.  It is what I know.

Two quarters.  That's what it costs to buy a pop from a machine in Pennsylvania when I was growing up.  We coveted those two quarters, squirreled them away for when we might go to Quality or walk by the laundry mat.  Two quarters meant something.  Two quarters could get you a pop and fizz. This morning, my middle child woke up and reported on the tooth fairy.  "What am I going to do with five dollars?  It's just so little."

Just after my father had passed away, I took a walk to the small factory down the street from where I grew up to inquire about a job.  The building made noise and produced wood chips and saw dust, but what else, I couldn't say.  I figured I could sweep up those chips, that saw dust.  The big bearded man said I was too young, only ten, which is why I probably cried all the way home. I have since learned something from that event.  My life since that point has consisted of me doing my best to earn money no matter how menial the chore.  This attitude, this "I'll do it no matter how much you will pay me so long as it is something" way about doing business has, I have discovered, put me into a box of my own making.  There are successful people out there who do not undersell their skills.  They have a confidence about them that I, coming from a place of great need, have never had.  I think it is time to reexamine how I rate my skills and how I value my...

Peachy King seemed to know all the answers but mostly those regarding girls.  He was a Boy Scout like the rest of us, though with some rank, and he was the only one of us with facial hair: a slim, barely perceptible line of hair above his upper lip.  Peach fuzz.  Peachy.  The name went with the mature look.  After we had crawled into our tents for the night, Dale hollered out, "Peachy!"  "Yes," came the tired reply, and then Dale launched into a series of questions about the so-called fairer sex.  Peachy King answered each question succinctly and with a measure of "one who knows."  Of course, we all benefitted from the Q/A session.  We were Boy Scouts all trying to make rank.

Aunt Nellie and Uncle Gerald lived in an old house on the back of the hill.  Aunt Nellie had a hard time getting water to boil, though, because every time she left the kitchen, the pot would somehow fall to the floor, creating quite a mess.  After a while, Uncle Gerald had to tear out the water-damaged floorboards.  When he did so, he found a small bundle beneath the floor.  Inside was the skeletal remains of a newborn.  Apparently, the previous owner of the house had a daughter who got pregnant out of wedlock.  Her solution?  Boil the baby alive. Now we knew why Aunt Nellie could never get the water to boil.

I think it was John Updike who said that a person lives his life for thirty years and spends the rest of it trying to understand what happened.  At forty-three, I wonder if I have already turned that corner.  Have most of my mountains been scaled?  Am I now in the valley of self-reflection?

I think of my brother who, as a boy, was branded "special needs," and as a result, was put on a path that led to him being ostracized by many.  It amazes me how one decision, one twist in the road can alter a person's life.  Had he not been labeled as such, he might have ended up somewhere else.  We must all be aware of how we treat the littlest among us.