.
Part III.
If you were me how would
you feel about having the four strikes against you at birth? As you can see, my life was not just the four
strikes against me but the fascinating DNA issues and the myriad of other
factors dumped on me at birth and for a long time to come after.
I was born with a bulls
eye on my back.
Before my mouth even
opened confusion and torment already threatened my existence. Back when I was still in the womb I'm sure I
sensed the foreboding and when I was jerked out into the world the first thing
I saw was a women doctor, quite uncommon back in those post war days.
And then there was my
religion. Of course I already mentioned
I was really a misplaced Rothschild kid due to the screw up back at HQ. That made me Jewish.
In my reality show family,
remember the little discussion about my non-Catholic father's English family
helping to drive my Catholic mother's family from their birthright, titles,
castles and money in Scotland
Now fast forward to my
birth. My father was a recent convert to
Catholicism and when it comes to embracing religion there is nothing like a new
convert for enthusiasm and a bad case of religious fervor.
That meant instead of going
to church once a week for Sunday services, my fanatical father decided he
needed to go to church every day, probably to make up for all those years he
hadn't seen the light. So he drug us
kids along for the ride.
Sure don't know what he
expected with the hyper-Catholic activity but it didn't seem to get us any more
in God's favor. No matter how hard I
prayed I was never going to hit the game winning home run or score a date with
the beautiful rich girl.
Unfortunately, my dad's
family never got over the traitor, my dad, who would forgo the eternal security
of being non-Catholic to switch sides and join the dreaded mackerel snappers.
When we would visit the
rest of the Putnam family I always searched around for any signs of cross
burning or voodoo dolls, knowing the deep seated conflict between these
surrogate families for the English and Scottish/Irish causes.
Oddly, both sides of the
family accepted me, perhaps because I reminded them often of my true Jewish
heritage, which thus made me much less of a card carrying Catholic threat.
Now the fact they seemed
to accept me thus cast suspicion on my motives by my mother's Campbell side of
the family who seemed to think I had been spiritually hijacked by those
dastardly Putnam's and was probably already indoctrinated into the Masonic 50th
degree secret society.
I did nothing to
discourage the rampant rumors and innuendo, choosing to remain silent. I'm a great believer in the Tip O'Neill
philosophy about saying little, "it is better people don't know what you
know, than to know what you don't know."
On the other hand, I could always strike terror into the hearts of those Putnam's by threatening to join their Moose Club Lodge or Masonic Order, also secret societies I suspected of having a rather negative view of Catholics. They never had the heart to tell me I was ineligible.
Throughout my life I was a
most curious person about everything, which was another of my many demonic
virtues according to my mother, and especially according to those priests and
nuns.
Speaking of which, in spite
of the Putnam pressure against it I actually joined a Catholic secret society,
the Knights of the Alter. God's army for
Pete's sake. Okay, okay, so it was just
an alter boy, but I was armed to the teeth with bells and smoke bombs, oh yeah
incense.
It was during my early
Dark Ages, when the memory of my true Rothschild heritage was beginning to slip
away in the chaos of growing up. It was in
the latter part of grade school. At the
time I actually harbored the thought of becoming a priest, which I soon
rejected based on observing those of the faith I personally experienced.
Then I figured I should
not waste all those pious years of training to be a priest and I decided to be
a religious brother, but there were far too many rules for such a simple life. My idea of saving the world was not learning
how to weed a garden. I was thinking of
being more like Thomas Aquinas or St.
Augustine
So my last grasp at
retaining a link to all that Catholic education and training was to become a religious
hermit because by this time having a conversation with myself in a cave would
be far more intellectually stimulating than remaining in my environment.
What ever happened to
those glorious dreams of thinking I could save the world?
I was drawn to a world of
classical literature, Greek mythology, empires and kingdoms, warlords and
dragons. What I got were brothers who
hated to read and abhorred the very thought of writing. Intellectual stimulation was sticking your
finger in a light socket.
By now I had experienced
the mysterious Catholic world of Baptism, First Communion, Confirmation and
Exorcism, I was ready to try something new.
It was time to experience rowing, croquet and polo instead of kick the
can, cowboys and Indians.
By the time I reached the
end of grade school it was obvious I had greatly miscalculated my potential and
possibilities. I needed a fresh start.
In my 8th grade year I was
playing football without a helmet in the big game against the 9th grade high
school kids. We were barely ahead but
the 9th graders were driving for the goal line in the last seconds for the win.
The archangel was on their
team. Great incentive. So when the big fullback came blasting toward
the goal line and I was the only thing that stood between him and the score and
thus win, I did what anyone would do, if they were crazy like me.
I threw my head toward the
giant's legs and my head met his knee at full speed. The two bodies were fused from the collision
and rose in the air, hanging there for what seemed like eternity, then slowly
we toppled over away from the goal line.
Victory was
preserved. A new legend had been
discovered and a new hero had been born.
I remember being carried around the field, to the cheers of all the kids
watching the spectacle.
Then everyone started
leaving to go home. I stood in the
middle of the now empty field with no where to go. To my astonishment, I had no idea who I was
or where I lived.
A brain concussion is a
most complex thing. It can leave you knocked
out cold or without any memory, but if you are still conscious as I was you can
remember what happened to you during the time you lost your memory.
How odd.
I remembered nothing of my
Hayseed life in Iowa or real life in Rothschild's
London
High school would bring
better days. For one, I was going to
learn more about my Jewish culture.
After 9 years in Catholic schools I'd about given up finding out much
about my Jewish people. It was time I
met a real life Jewish person to teach me the ancient ways.
So I grabbed my kippah and
Torah and set out in search of a Jewish family to meet in the farm towns of Iowa
It was a steel slide
guitar incident that miraculously morphed into meeting my first real Jew in the
summer of 1960.
Let me explain.
Once I discovered Elvis
and Buddy Holly in the late 1950's moral decay and deterioration immediately
set in from the cosmic exposure to rock and roll, the demon's tool of fatal
addiction for the innocent and gullible minds of all those Christian virgins.
Suddenly I discovered a
replacement for all those stupid Spike Jones drum sets I used to get for
Christmas that were always smashed to pieces by New Years. Come to think of it, when you look at the
drum it was a pretty demonic image to give a kid whose life was already filled
with enough darkness.
Anyway, I wanted a rock
and roll guitar like Elvis and Buddy. My
parents were more the Hit Parade types having been raised in the days of swing
bands and hot jazz. Oh they were into
music big time, but the wrong kind for my rebellious nature.
While I listened to Teddy Bear and Peggy Sue they listened to all kinds of stuff like Hank Williams
and the Andrews Sisters. In fact my dad
could never stop singing "Your
Cheating Heart" which should have triggered all kinds of warning signs
in terms of the family stability.
Still, they decided to
give me a guitar, but a steel slide guitar like Hank used in his songs. I didn't care what the Hell kind it was as
long as I could learn rock and roll on it.
After a handful of lessons
from a country purist who thought my learning style was some kind of punishment
for his years of booze and women, and bloody fingers from picking those steel
strings, I'd had it.
So I took the guitar back
to the little shop where Santa had bought it, just outside the main downtown
area along the railroad tracks. Lo and
behold, before me stood my long sought Jewish connection, Bernstein's Music
Store. I nearly burst into tears of joy.
Exploding through the
doors of that old store I broke out in dazzling version of the "Hora",
the traditional Jewish wedding dance, to the absolute astonishment of my new
friend Mr. Bernstein, proprietor of the most important shop in Iowa
The store was not nearly as big as I thought as I went careening off the
counters along the narrow aisle nearly wiping out a full orchestra of
instruments to the laughter of Mr. Bernstein.
When I told him I was there to trade in my stupid steel guitar and learn
about my Jewish faith and culture he laughed so hard he had to go get a drink
of water and dry his eyes. It was the
beginning of a long and trusting bond between me and my first Jewish mentor.
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