Where would you start...?
Do I pick up from current, and work my way back to the start? When I get there, where do I pick up from at that point? This story has no end...
- And this is just the beginning.
I was born into a life full of art, wonderful intellectuals and a tight knit community. Countless adventures, lessons from elders, support from peers. I could not have asked for anything more. Although, I was not always aware of this blessing of a Life that I was given. The story of beauty, would not exist without the story of the struggle.
If you've read my "Behind the Lens" section on my website, you may be familiar with some of this story. If you've known me, you may know bits and pieces. But this is my first attempt at making a fully comprehensive account of my experience from childhood, up to present. Of course, this will still leave out some of the small details that may get revealed in future stories that will be shared. Nevertheless, let's get you caught up...
Leslie, (my mother), always would remind me, that it was not her doing that brought me into the incredibly beautiful hill-towns of Western Massachusetts, but rather Loretta, my grandmother. In 1986, my mom graduated from high-school in Wayne, NJ and left the burbs that she called home since her early teens. (Garrison/Sleepy Hollow in upstate NY was the origin of my mothers story, and where my Grandmother and Grandfather had split up. Then forcing my mom to pick Mother or Father, DC or Jersey approaching the 1980s.) This was in the late 70s, as the oil crisis began "slow down", but had undoubtedly put massive pressures on the average American family. Only the wealthiest of America was unaffected, and even then, many still had to adapt.
In Rowe, my mother was pregnant and looking forward to becoming a young mother. This was in 1993-94, but facing the reality that Rick, (my biological father), wanted nothing to do with raising me or being a part of her support. Jason, and Woody had been in and out of her life prior to my birth as dear friends and close supporters of her as she began to process what it would take to be a mother, while also preparing for classes at GCC to then press onward to Mass-Art in Boston later after my birth.
My mother, holding me and I believe her friend Lani. GCC graduation 1998 approx.
Jason was a very well educated man, incredibly talented sculptor and even more incredible comic/character. His mannerisms, ability to share joy and make people laugh was unchallenged. He always saw the best in others and shared their greatest achievements as if they were his own. He cheered on anyones good nature and begged for more from others. Truly, he was the best father figure I could have asked for. His family had owned Thunder Mountain (now Berkshire East, and much of the surrounding land, and landmarks... the plantation house, the railway house that burned down, etc etc). Boarding at Eaglebrook, sailing in the Mediterranean sea, having scholars and artists surrounding him in his early years, his life was nothing ordinary for a boy being raised in Western Massachusetts in the late 60s and early 70s.
Woody was in the picture before I was born, and although I don't know much about him. I can tell you he was one of my mothers first true loves. Someone who helped her grow, and connected her with many of the people who watched me grow up. He was a musician and woodworker. Many of the cutting boards that I grew up using as I cooked for myself starting as early as 8 years old... were made by him. He clearly left an impact on my mother that calmed her. Brought her back to center and helped her find the path if she ever strayed. It seemed that in the stories I was told, the moral would always be that he was a gentleman and gentile man. He was able to love in a way that was understanding, patient and kind. I wished this was something I had been able to witness.
At birth, my grandmother leaned into my mom and whispered in her ear the following: "Leslie, he's white.", and man... she was not wrong. I was as pale as A4 printer paper. I had chubby cheeks, and my hair was straight for a while until my mom brushed it backwards one day and the curls just popped up and stuck. We'll revisit this mention later, as I grew up struggling with identity because of how many times people questioned my race.
(top left) me, likely in a Volvo or Audi, kitted in the personally stylized fit by my mother.
(bottom left) Valley play school on Water street, Shelburne falls and my moms outrageously hip outfit.
(bottom right) behind Constantine glass studio, (now Baked!), in Shelburne, with the Iron Bridge in the back.
My first memories are from 72 Main St., a home that only exists in faded, almost movie like "Flashback" scenes. This was where we had a family. It was Jason, my mom, myself and Max. Light vignette around the edges, blurry and out of focus, occasionally stark details and quick flashes of vivid images. The Red kitchen table. Our sun porch. The day the river flooded and our canoe was swept away, never to be seen again. Jason was sure someone had stolen it, even though my mom was sure he hadn't pulled it up from the banks... Knowing a storm was coming. This home has mostly good memories, but again, mostly faded.
The next home was on Route 2, just near the Charlemont Boat ramp. Mom and Jason put a lot of labor into the home to fix the floor which was a massive structural problem and lead to a huge disagreement over work that should have been done before allowing someone to move in... Not much to say here, a short blip in my memory. The next home however held some of my greatest memories...
Judd Rd, Heath Ma.
We moved in when there was a dirt floor, flying squirrels in the loft, and no water hookups for a toilet. It was Jason, my mom and I. We spent a number of years here. I believe 99-03 if I am correct. The longest stint in any home, other than Maple St... We'll get there. Judd Rd might need it's entire own entry about it to do full justice, as it was the first home that I began to develop my character in. Being able to grow from 5 to 9 in the woods, run free, play in dirt, build jumps for my bike, ski in the backyard when school was closed and so much more. Some of my best memories are when my friend Laryssa got stuck at our house for nearly a week because of a snow storm.
We had built the cabin into a beautiful little home. A deep slate sink, wood-stove, the Cow print fridge. Our Backyard fire pit which we cooked many ears of corn, and countless pieces of red meat on late summer days. We had our 2 cats, house bunny and dogs. 3 of which were adopted from our landlord who was neglecting his animals. Pea-tree, the rabbit. Tipper, the Blue Tick Black lab. And Thomas the Cat were all adopted/rescued. We also had Gurt, Buster, Tringa (sp?) and Gwen the Horse, and a donkey that I don't remember the name of. The first winter we stayed there, pipes froze before we had out bathroom with a curtain as a door installed... So we had to trek a good 1,000 meters into the woods to the outhouse that was probably 100 years old, often in knee deep snow. That spring we found that we had another pet to care after, our resident Snapping Turtle who would come up from the pond and lay eggs in the driveway. It became my mothers mission to protect the eggs from being run over, and eventually it was tradition to prep the driveway for the Laying Mother each spring. I even kept a Snapping turtle for a summer and released it into the pond. Amongst other wild pets, like a Red Belly Racer snake that was found basking in the sun.
Tipper (above), Firepit in the summer (below).
Brigitta the Volvo 240 Wagon, and my sheepskin coat. (Above)
Gurt, the Slate sink and the Red Table from 72 Main st. (Below)
"Eviction Notice". It became commonplace to hear this word from here on out until I was in my late teens. But the first big change to get used to was a new father figure. Jason and my mom split up when I was 8. I was diagnosed with ADHD and was told I had a reading problem. But I tested like 6th grader... in 3rd grade. I wonder still, could they not have seen a child who was experiencing a tumultuous life? But I could not have asked for a better change in my life... Dwight Southwick, (Dewey).
Nobody could have prepared me for the life I would go on to live over the next 2 decades since Dwights arrival in my life. But if there was someone who would support me as a loving and caring father figure through all of those events, the universe knew it could only be him.
He lived off the grid, in the woods in Wendell. He was crafty, and showed me how to shoot a bow and arrow, hook a worm to go fishing with, shoot a BB gun, but he also spoke of Zen teachers, Monks, Black revolutionaries, and musicians. He spoke about the universe and it's infinite. He encouraged me to learn and be curious. He instantly became my Dad, and it was very welcomed in my time of confusion. My mother was experiencing incredible tests in being a single mother before Dwight was in the picture, and continued to still while they dated. But even just the time he spent with me was helpful to her, and he would cook, or take me to the river when she needed to get work done. (- usually prepping for a commission installation that now lives in Mama Iguanas in Northampton, or getting time in the hot-shop for the New Years sale that annual was put on at Mass-Art.)
The eviction came, and we moved to a studio space that had no windows in some places. So weather and any free-willed animals, either birds or squirrels... would just enter as they pleased. This was clearly not a legal living situation, and my mothers fear of losing me kicked into overdrive. I went away to summer camp and spent a month with Langston, who is as near to a brother as I will ever get. His parents, Michael and Janice have been immense supporters of both my own personal growth and my mothers growth for my entire life. Rumor has it, Lang and I were fighting over either... An empty beer bottle, or a piece of candy and our parents tried to separate us, but the rest is history. Since 1 and a half, I have known Lang, who is just nearly 5 months younger than me. (But I swear, he has always been smarter than me, even if he won't admit it.)
Upon return from stay-away camp, I had a list of new experiences to talk about to all of my friends... Who I wouldn't see as often because I had to change schools for the first time. From Heath Elementary to Sanderson Academy in Ashfield, MA. We moved into the red tavern building that sits at the edge of Baptist corner road. The family across the street had a pet rabbit named Jasper. I met a new life long friend who was nearly half my age. Hunter and Dakota Nye, their mother would bring them to the lake and we swam together, biked together and jumped on their trampoline. I did not make many close friends in my grade that year. I was definitely not the best fit for my peers social circle. Heck... we were in 4th grade and people were talking about who they wanted to date.
I experienced bullying for the first time really at this point. I had been picked on before... But never BULLIED. A number of children in my class made fun of me for being fragile and sensitive, not knowing what my last 2 years of adjustments had looked like. Silver caps on my teeth would be cool if I was 25 and a rap or hip-hop artist. But it was an easy target for the other 9 and 10 year olds. My frizzy hair, halfway between curls and a full static fro was another easy pick. And my loose/baggy clothes because my mother always said "You'll grow into it!" with such enthusiasm that I never thought twice about wearing a shirt that had to be folded up to the elbows to fit my arm with 3/4's length. My mom thought it was race based hate, so she brought in a case full of books called: "And Don't call me a Racist", edited by Ella Mazel for Black history month. That did not ward off the bullies.
(left) 8 or 9 year old me. In the Sim Shady Limited fitted that Dwight gave me.
(right) 9 or 10 year old me, while mom worked for Crabapple Whitewater as a photographer
5th grade, we moved to a home right around the corner from 72 Main st., where this all started. I went to BSE this time, and was enjoying being with people I knew from other parts of my life. Daniella was the daughter of an artist, she became a very close friend throughout my years onward. A couple other people who became huge parts of my life as well, but I will not mention because I don't know if they would like me to write about them... I don't have many good things to say later, if they were brought up now. But let's just say that 5th grade was a great year of change. I felt somewhat accepted by my peers, and more importantly, by the adults, (teachers).
My mom began working at Mount Snow this year, and so did Dwight. It was a great year for snow... And even though I walked to school because I was quite possibly the closest student in the school's proximity, I would often go to ski school. Up at 6:00 am, with no sign of the sun ever dreaming of coming up. And I would load my bag into the car, skis and a book or some overdue homework. Likely, I would fall asleep on the ride up, and wake up to a bright sky and mountains covered in snow. Some of these days were actual dreams come true. Powder days with nobody showing up for ski school, so one of my usual instructors would just choose to free-ski with me until my mom got out of work.
The next year was different though. I skied a lot, which was probably what kept my alive, and that's not a joke. This was the first time I experience incredible depression. We moved from Shelburne falls to Whitingham, VT. in hopes of renting to own a nice home right on Route 100 next to the General Store and Post office. Like the Cabin on Judd Rd., this home needed work. The first task at hand was finishing some of the flooring upstairs which, if you walked too far in the dark, or got up in a rush to pee... You could fall through to the first floor. (Happened to Dwight.) This house likely shouldn't have been rented to anyone, let alone someone with a kid, but it was a beautiful memory. One of the largest homes we ever had. But yes... The Depression. Where does that come in?
Remember this picture? It's up at the top, 2nd slide.
This was 6th grade. I went to Twin Valley Middle School, unbeknownst to me 6th grade was when you entered Middle School in Vermont. I was not ready. In the picture, you see the construction site that was going on 5 days a week for the majority of our time living there. I met some friends at school, but for the most part I was misunderstood by my peers. Jazlyn and Carla were my two best friends that year. And Jazlyn will come up later throughout my teens.
I enjoyed art class, and talking with the math teacher about doing extra round about ways to calculate things. In English class I would question words and try to break them down differently and most people thought I was somewhat of a "teachers pet", even though I was nearly failing out of school. I never could complete my homework, and most days at school I felt the threat of upperclassmen who sometime threw me against lockers in the gymnasium locker room. Classically my backpack would be thrown on the ground and emptied. Or I would be stuffed in a locker on the worst days. I had experienced being called a "Nigger" before, both in 5th grade and earlier in life. But never had I experienced it so much... And alongside other names like "Gay" or "Retarded". In no world should a 12 year old experience this much hate.
Obviously, my grades continued to fall. To a point where my mom "committed to homeschooling me", which actually looked like... me bringing books to the Mountain, and maybe doing work 2 or 3 days a week (Saturday and Sunday), and skiing the mid-week days. A dream come true.
Spring came and I re-entered the Massachusetts school system with 21 days left of the year. We lived at my Grandmas for a little bit. And then I stayed with my friend Justice for a month or so as well. I don't know how this worked out, but I got my 6th grade graduation certificate in the mail, didn't walk with the class and only took a couple tests and had a project that I submitted on Kenya and it's culture. This was Hawlemont, in Charlemont, MA. One thing I forgot to mention was that the class also took a multi day trip to Boston, while I was not able to go because I missed most of the important stuff to make the trip "Valuable"? So I sat in the classroom and took a bunch of tests for like 4 days and apparently did really well on them, which was ironic because I probably spent no more than 50 days in school that whole year...
I am sorry that photos might be a bit sparse from here until my later teens, but I actually deleted my facebook which was the only "Backup" I had of my photos, prior to me knowing the importance of backing up important data. But what a fucking weirdo, I was. I dyed my hair purple in 8th grade which turned orange, so I'm skipping a bit. But I was playing Alto Sax in band, and had actually picked up Alto in 4th grade at Sanderson Academy in Ashfield (forgot to mention). I also took private lessons because my downstairs neighbor was actually a Sax player and wanted to teach me. So yeah, I mean... I guess I was pretty good at one point.
Back to 13 Year old me. I enjoyed watching skits on youtube, mostly WKUK and NigaHiga.
I wore baggy clothes that were often just bright colors or pastel palette. I also had a pretty good collection of Tie-Dyes and Corduroy's. I was an easy target before the acne and frizzy fro, but I found my weirdos finally. I had friends who really enjoyed me in my classes and we all had our things. I would doodle on my hand, or scraps of paper and leave them throughout the school. I mentioned I played Sax in Band still, I also began doing Theatre for a bit. I played a fairy in "A Midsummer Night's Dream". But I also listened to Kanye, Lil Wayne, Eminem, Cypress Hill, Jurassic 5, The Fugee's, DMX, 50 Cent, Busta Rhymes... And the a bunch of Reggae and Classics like The B-52's, Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, etc etc. Oh, but also 3 Days Graces, 3Oh!3, Kesha and just writing this, I'm questioning my existence. Who am I?
My friends and I would shout "Free Hoop earrings!!! 5 DOLLARS!" in the halls. And for the most part... 7th and 8th grade was alright. I had one girlfriend for a week and I didn't even ask her out, (my friend who eventually kissed her at the Big Football game was the one who asked her out for me... even though I also didn't ask him to do that). But now I've mentioned the person I said I wouldn't. Hah... "TRIGGERED." And then I actually dated someone who went to another school for a good 3 or 4 months... And that was really nice to be fully honest. She was the first person I really was so interested in what she did, and liked... That I asked her out.
Well, 9th and 10th really changed a lot. We lived in the center of Charlemont after moving ON THE NIGHT OF A FINAL PROJECT THAT WAS DUE from Heath. Although I found a crowd of people who I enjoyed hanging with at Mohawk, (oh yeah, that's where I went to school for 7th and 8th grade), I really found my people when I went to The Charlemont Academy. These years are not only the most memorable in good ways, but also memorable in traumatic ways.
(Pictured above) A seascape print that was given to me, and a print of a tree that was also given to me. On the lip of the wall, you see a photo of me in 2004, leaving Sanderson Academy, wearing my Slim Shady Limited fitted hat. And a book, written by my dear friend Zephyr.
I may have not mentioned when I started skiing, but I was 3. My mother taught me for the most part and I got into Devo programs at Berkshire East for formal downhill race training. I became pretty good, pretty fast. I generally don't brag or boast of my accomplishments in skiing, but I had eventually gone on to compete in freestyle, while also being one of the fastest people in my age group on and off for years. I came in first place in a Giant Slalom race, on a pair of Freestyle skies that had no edges, that was the Vertical challenge at Mount Snow. Throughout 9th and 10th grade, I raced on the team at The Charlemont Academy. Often placing top 10 or top 15 in both GS and Slalom. And that's where I reconnected with Zephyr.
We had been acquainted through a friend who also went to The Academy, years prior. On a ski lift, probably night skiing on a Thursday. My mom and Zephyr's mom knew each other and tried to arrange play dates, but apparently we didn't like each other then... Funny, because when I showed up to The Academy, he was the sunshine everyday. This man made me laugh so much I would cry. We had serious conversations on our drives to the Mountain, or we'd blast some music, riding in his beige Mercedes sedan that ran on maybe 3 of the 4 cylinders. He kept the thing going always, he was handy, smart, musical, theatrical and overall just one of the most incredible people I have ever met. I could not say no to him when he wanted to do fun things. We would ski the glades, or tear up corduroy in big sweeping turns, chasing each-other, speaking a language of "Yips" and "Yeeeeee's".
No one understood. The day it happened. He had graduated and was on his way to Reed College. Stopped in Jackson Hole with friends, and took one last run.
This wasn't about me. But I internalized so much of it. I had never had a friend that I could have so much fun with, doing something I loved so much. And just as quickly as our flame began to burn red hot... It was extinguished. And I know that this is just my personal perspective, and that many people who knew Zephyr on much deeper connections, for longer periods have every reason to think "oh you only knew him for a year or so really"... "How close could you really have been?"
Well, to this day... I never stop thinking about him. I never felt comfortable talking about sexuality with a friend on a deep level until I spent time with Zephyr. I actually credit him to helping me find understanding in myself just through conversation. Like genuine friendly support and listening. I found out I was Bisexual in 9th grade. I had never understood the feelings I had towards certain friends who were male. Some, I totally thought were bad people for relationships, but we made great friends... But I had interest in some people and had no way to figure it out unless I just was real about my feelings. But I never gained the confidence until many years later to fully embrace my Bisexuality and be open about it in conversation.
I spent 10th grade, failing hard and in Therapy sessions and skiing alone a lot. I was getting really good at freestyle at this point and began dreaming of becoming a professional skier. Then my mom helped me get into the Devo program at Mt. Snow in VT., and grew a network of friends to ski with. But nobody could replace Zephyr. He left us with his book "Lost Ski Areas of New England", which I bring with me almost wherever I got nowadays. It has inspired me everyday of my life since I first saw it.
He hiked, researched, photographed, skied and wrote and published a timeless piece of New England history. The book captures the dying age of Small Mountain culture and Family owned resorts in New England as larger corporations began making competitive swings to cut out profitability for the little resorts. With Global warming taking effect slowly (2011 this was), and the masses opting to go where fake snow could be blown to extend the seasons... Family owned mountains became a thing of the past, along with newer chairlift's and state regulations changing. This Ode to the Small Mountain life, the dedication of hiking, care taken for thorough documentation, through photos and writing, everything about his book is what inspired me to lead my life the way I have. He never doubted me. He always believed in whatever anyone believed in for themselves. He was the most genuine human that I had ever been blessed to know.
That summer of 2011, I was working for Zoar, and had been ski instructing during the winters. Probably a good reason for my grades to fall. I needed to make money to quite literally end up giving it to my mom to help pay rent at 16/17 years old sometimes. I didn't really like my jobs either. I never was treated the same as my coworkers at Mount Snow and I was often pulled to the side to be lectured, even though every group I worked with generally did well and progressed to the next level... And working at Zoar, my manager was a little bit hard to get along with. Maybe I was just a twerp, maybe he just needed to lighten up... I don't know, genuinely, because these days I run into him and he's a super nice guy. Greg, I hope you're doing well.
Keith, you get your own spot here man, (He was the assistant manager/part time therapist to me). He'd help me understand a little bit of how to just get work done, and not be the "cause" of a problem at work by just saying "Yes boss, I'm sorry, I'll fix that right now"... even if you never messed anything up, and just to go "Fix it again". And helped me understand that I was probably a bit different than most people, and that my mind is my worst enemy when it comes to trying to conform to society. He saw my creative tendencies and how I thought of things in ways that others struggled to understand. This was one of the first mentors that I found on my own.
Under the stress of many things, a week long work marathon, adjusting to my mom dating a new person after Dwight and her broke up while I processed the death of a friend, I collapsed at work. I broke my nose, and punched a hole in the drywall with my face. Apparently everyone in the office thought an Air Conditioner fell from the second floor or perhaps a kayak. This was the summer Irene hit on August 24th. We had moved again, and again. Once from Charlemont, to a very short term spot, and I even think I went to live with Langston and his parents. Eventually landing in Goshen. This was short lived.
I found myself in a position of having to defend myself in court, against some pretty incredible accusations... Mostly which I think were intended to hurt my mother, more than me... Because my mom was dating a literal Practicing Witch. Regardless, we tried to go home one night when the storm was hitting, and roads were flooding, and we found a policeman at the end of the driveway who then escorted us to get some of our things, and I then stayed with my friend Justice at his moms and dads in the center of Charlemont again. The case went on for a year and change, and while I was on probation I lost my job at Mount Snow coincidentally. I thought someone maybe called in with an "anonymous tip". Mount Snow obviously denied anything.
This was when I began feeling distain towards places I once regarded as my home. Having memories that sparked rage inside my body and made me want to crawl in a hole. Definitely not the last time I would feel that either.
I tried working different jobs that winter. Ski Check at the Mountain was fun but I ended up getting fired because one of the people who probably knew about the "tip", saw me working. He pulled my boss aside and said "He's not supposed to be employed at the Mountain", and I was fired that day. Funny thing is, Ski Check is a subcontractor, so I didn't work for the Mountain. And another funny thing is, I was told I could work at the mountain, just not in Ski School... So who's making shit up?
2012 comes around and everyone thinks the world is going to end, and I was in 11th grade, doing horribly again because I was working my ass off to help my mom pay rent because she was single again for the longest time since I was... Born? I decided I would drop out and pursue my GED after 11th grade. That summer I began working as much as I could at Zoar and stacking up money to try to buy a car or fix a car or pay for driving school, or anything to help me move forward with my life. Little did I know, I would save up $800 and give it to my mom for rent. And then save up another $500 and help her fix her car.
I entered adulthood with nothing.
After putting myself through a semester of Community college, with no car, living in the hilltowns, relying on a Bus route that had 7 stops in a length of 30 miles, working nearly 40 hours a week at times as well... I decided to move out. The plan was rough. But Lang's parents came in to support me with a dream... Moving to Colorado.
This is the night before I left. My mom and I.
Arriving in Denver in August of 2013 was a trip. I had a backpack, a bicycle and a lot of ambition to try to make something happen. The summer leading up to August, I was raft guiding for my 2nd season at Zoar. I biked 2,700 miles or more, back and forth from Buckland to Charlemont. I worked at a Pizza place at night. I found rides to get home, or biked in the dark with a flashlight. I did what I wanted in my free time and even professed my love to someone I had met years prior when I first began teaching skiing in 9th/10th grade. She was moving to Colorado to go to college.
My dream in Denver was to find a way to make money, get a license, rent an apartment, and buy a car AND GO SKIING. Pretty straightforward. As long as you don't end up popping the tire on your bike 8 times in the first week you are in Denver, and spending most of your pocket spending that was meant for food, bus tickets, etc... on tire patch kits, a new rim, and new tire. I had free housing, as long as I did work. But the work ended up stacking up so much that I couldn't find a job to become free from that work I had to do. And when I got a job, I was expected to pitch in more than I thought I'd need to for just cutting back the hours I committed to working at the house which was found through "Workaway".
Overall, Denver was an incredible growing experience, but I never went skiing. I never got my license. I never got a car. Instead, I ran out of money, got fired for being late because my tire popped again, and I had to walk in the rain. When I decided to call it quits on this dream, I spent two weeks with my girlfriend in her dorm and a hostel. On the day I left, it was my birthday. I turned 19, and traveled 1,900 miles or more over the next 24 hours. Flying commercially for my first time. When I landed, I had uncountable numbers of missed calls and texts, assuming I had died or ran off with some woman. I called a quit to that dream too. But that's not the end.
Back in Massachusetts, my buddy Riley's parents put me up for a bit and I worked at Zoar and the Pizza place again. I got my license, I gave my mom some money to fix one of her cars again, but this time... So I could drive it. The Black Volvo wagon. My first car, and probably first cause of cancer if I ever get it. A constant pool of coolant splashed around behind the drivers seat and never froze or evaporated. It was from the heater core leak into the cabin. I'll probably have lawsuits for anyone who rode in that car more than 5 times later in my life because it was a rolling toxic steel coffin. I can't tell you how many times the exhaust would just fall off and go flying 50ft into the air. That thing was never legal to be on the road.
At the pizza shop I found out that a coworker that I thought had the hots for me, actually did have the hots for me. I was in love again. My godmother gave us a place to stay, and we then moved down the street into our first apartment. We stayed from Spring until late summer and then moved to Jacksonville VT where we had a beautiful little apartment, and began really hunkering down together... But the finances were not lining up.
She had been kicked out of her place by her guardians because they didn't like me.
(I'm used to it.) We needed to get her a car, and she found one, but it died pretty quickly. So I helped her sell it and we then found another car. I helped pay for it while my car began falling apart entirely, while working 80+ hr's a week between Mount Snow (I was allowed to get a job in the kitchens...), the Pizza shop and becoming the Ski coach for The Charlemont Academy. She was not used to living in New England as she had moved to the US from the Philipines when she was a teenager. We ended up having oil and electric bills in the upper 600-800's because she did not know how to use the wood stove that we had. We began fighting over money and the relationship fell apart after a year and almost 8 months. To this date, still the longest relationship I have had without a break-up.
After the break-up, I stayed in the empty house as long as I could. I had no car, no money, and felt that strange feeling about what I once called home... Distain. Ugh, it's the worst. I even don't like the word. I had brought my grandma and grandpa together for a Thanksgiving meal with my mother and her. She's the only girlfriend that ever met both grandparents... And they loved her. I cooked a wonderful meal that everyone continued to praise. I felt like a real man.
We spent my 21st birthday together and had a great celebration with my friends. We went to NYC and spent a weekend with my friend Libby from high-school. We did so many wonderful things together that burned when I thought about them over the next years.
I was homeless. Instantly. I had no car, no money, no hope. It was almost rafting season, and it was a big risk to hire me with no real plan of how I would even show up to work. I also pulled nights at the Pizza shop again. I worked crazy hours until I actually fainted one day, walking to work. Stress. It's what takes me to my knees. I worked so hard that I went from having no money, to buying a car two weeks later, in cash. I got a sleeping bag and began sleeping in my car by the river, under the stars, in the woods. Wherever I pleased. I was my own man now. Developing fully with freedom.
This pattern of homeless and sleeping in a car, to being with my old partner who I started dating when we both went to Colorado, and staying with her, or staying with my mom, and then fighting and finding a new spot went on for years. And I'd rather skip a lot of the stuff in the middle. But the most important part to not forget was that I was always taking pictures. I went to Community College and took a photography class alongside my GED class, and a student ambassador course.
The adventures I took over these couple years were very formative moments. I dove into exploring with meditation, seeking understanding from mindfulness and looking to the stars for guidance. Listening to my heart became the only thing I could do. So I began building.
To be Continued...
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