The story begins: Some rules, last names will be eliminated because the people involved might be recognized, this is composed of my memories, as I saw them and remember them, prosecutable criminal acts will not be mentioned, lastly any judgments on people are mine. This is the story as I believe it began:

In 1946 Joe Wisk met Emily Kisluk. The dated. I doubt if they had sex, but if they did mazel tov. They married. They began in earnest to have children. I can’t visualize them having sex because my present view of them is much farther down the road. They’re efforts didn’t pay off. They decided to adopt. They went to Catholic Family Services. Knowing my father, he pulled strings. I’ve said the above because they were opposites. she was the daughter of a factory worker who’d saved his money and bought a six family house. She was one of five kids, three girls and two boys. He was the member of a family of bootleggers who started during Prohibition and by the time he was of age he was in the business legally. He had two brothers and a sister. He also had an extended family that became attached because of his business.
About this time an unknown young woman had a problem. She engaged in premarital sex and suffered the consequences. She became pregnant. Abortion wasn’t an option though I suppose it could be facilitated if your family had the money. She showed up on the doorstep of the Good Shepard Home, run by the Sisters of Mercy for the Catholic Church. She had a son and departed, cleansed. CFS coupled Joe and Emily with the boy. The nuns had named him Thomas. He kept the name and gained a last name. They brought him home to 37 Horace St. New Britain. I had my own room with a crib and everything. I was bottle fed. As I grew I felt things, like the coarse fiber of the living room carpet. The cast metal airplane that I landed on when I fell off the couch. When I finished a bottle I tossed it out of the crib. This caused my parents to put nipples on Coca Cola bottles. My crib was in the middle of the room because I tore the wallpaper off the walls. I was one of a large Polish family. Every aunt and uncle had married. All but one had children. The childless ones, my godparents Sophie and Jerry. They lived with my grandparents, with my aunt Julia and uncle Pinky.
My aunt Julia had a television and every Saturday we would all congregate in her kitchen and stare at the black and white screen. In my grandparent’s apartment there was a large copper tub filled with bathwater. I remember my mother’s breasts just visible above the water as she washed me. After she dried me off I watched with the rest as they took turns in the tub. An aside, as I got older I often “forgot” items to have an excuse to go back and sneak a peek. I was curious then. After a while my father and uncle decided to move. My uncle Stanley and aunt Mary had two daughters. Together they bought a plot of land and erected a two family brick house. My aunt Ann moved in with Stanley and Mary. I spent a lot of time on the job site. Local kids hung around. One day a bunch of them began throwing dirt clods at me. I threw back. I picked up a rock and tossed it. the rock connected with the head of one of the kids. They scattered. Meanwhile, I was enrolled in St Mary’s School with my cousins Kathy and Roberta, Bobbi. Kathy was a year ahead of me and Bobbi was three years ahead. Bobbi was bookish and was headed for college. Kathy was smart and social. I was “He tests well and shows potential but doesn’t try.”. Look when you start reading at three kindergarten is bound to be boring. Yeah I was into books and words. Other stuff like math, not so much.
I was the chunky kid who was the best friend of the most popular kid in class, though you didn’t hang out with him during recess because the girls in school aren’t too comfortable with you. I got caught passing notes in class, or egging two other kids to lock the class dork in the broom closet. I was a little bastard. Hey, I had the pedigree. It was a biweekly routine for me to come home with a note pinned to my shirt or preceded by a phone call. The nuns expected that I’d get a talking to. It didn’t work out quite that way. My mother, before the cancer, used a belt. My father started with a belt and switched to his hands. Okay, I could come out and blame that for everything that I turned out to be. That’s bull. It was a response that was appropriate considering their generation. I would have appreciated a less violent means of punishment but the nuns method of choice for me was hauling me out to the coatroom and having me whack the palm of my hand with a half-inch thick ruler. I accepted it. Sublimated it.
Next, meanderings about school and theories I’ve developed.

For anyone who read my recommendation for Imelda May’s CD Mayhem, if you like her music and want to add it to your collection, buy More Mayhem. It’s Mayhem with added tracks and the same price.

To KS, started reading Blood Sugar Solution. Thanks. It looks like that’s the path I’ll take though I loathe shrimp, fish and scallops. Will work that out through their on-line resources. The program make sense.

Fred, the landlord’s partner/assistant will visit tomorrow to spray again. Still have bugs. Pillow covers might be next.

See you on Monday.