So much so that in truth it is just short of a miracle that I was ever able to take my proper place in society and be accepted as a leader of the community. That disease is seldom heard of today due to significant efforts made medically, societally, and politically to eradicate it; especially by the apologetically elite. But as is often the case, the cure can be worse than the disease.
Known as “GBA” this disease crippled people by the tens of thousands, limiting their performance, income, success, and happiness; my symptoms began with a breakout rash the September after my 9th birthday as I attended my first day of Fourth grade.
Every teacher, while slowly calling roll alphabetically, ultimately got down to the “V’s”.
I watched, period after period, as they reread my name before calling it out. I watched adam’s apples bob, beads of sweat break out on foreheads, and heard muttered epitaphs. All right before a “Marty Vandermolen?, Do you have a brother named….”
Yep, GBA: Guilt by Association.
It turns out that this disease is rather similar to leprosy and incites many of the same societal responses; isolation, derision, and burning torches in the hands of mobs at night with the odd animal sacrifice or obscure occult protection ritual thrown in.
And often times it places unreasonable demands on those who suffer from it as well.
Such as when on my first day of high school my eldest brother who was a senior and middle brother who was a junior, came up to me and said: “No matter what happens, don’t ever turn in a note with Mom’s signature on it to anyone at the high school”.
My unsophisticated innocent self immediately objected. I mean what about notes for doctors, or illnesses, or field trips, or lab fees? “No, never”, I was told
But what about driver’s ed classes and authorization to try out for the football team? Again, I was told “never”.
“You see”, Barry and Jeff went on to explain, “While the school has lots of notes for doctor’s appointments, sick days, missed days, and what not; no one at the high school has ever seen Mom’s signature. And if they ever do, since we’ve never been able to sign like her, they will know that all those other notes were forged; just bring it to one of us and we will sign whatever you want.”
Or the time when we were bike riding and Jeff cut in front of some old bag, er, I mean nice middle-aged woman who immediately gave chase in her car. Up and down the streets, around corners and over curbs and through parks we went to keep from being caught. Finally frustrated that gal played the “ultimate trump card” by jumping out of her car and yelling “Come back here, I know your mother”.
She acted like she thought that would work, and sure, maybe with any normal kid who didn’t suffer from GBA it would have, and they would have stopped and ridden back to her in an effort to stay out of trouble.
Not so in our case. Jeff replied in “teenage sign language” just in case the distance was too great for clear verbal communication; while Barry and I pedaled off figuring, what the heck, if she really did know mom, we were in for a world of hurt either way.
And don’t even get me started on the whole Catholic Church catastrophe.
Or the time when we had gone out for a hike around town and through the arroyo behind College Avenue. It was a day that threatened rain, so we were all carrying our backpacking ponchos.
Now, I’m not talking about one of these wimpy saran-wrap ponchos like they sell these days, nope, those buggers we had back then were made of rubberized canvas, with brass grommets in the corners and metal snaps up the sides. They weighed in at close to 5 pounds each.
Part way through the walk we were wandering through the local grocery store parking lot, mostly taking up the entire auto lane I suspect as teenagers are wont to do. And pretending to be totally oblivious to the gal who was driving a Galaxie 500 that wanted to get by.
She leaned on her horn to express her displeasure. Barry’s grip slipped a bit and as we stepped aside and she began to drive past, Barry swung his poncho against her right rear fender.
There was a pleasing resounding “thump”.
Jeff immediately threw up his hands, spun around and collapsed on the ground as if she had hit him.
The gal’s eyes grew saucer sized in her rearview mirror.
After a moment’s indecision, she stomped on the gas and tore off, leaving Jeff writhing on the asphalt and Barry and I doubled over laughing.
And how can I not mention the fact that Jeff was anything other than conciliatory when he led a Boy Scout patrol. And while there are quite a number of prescribed and suggested methods in the leadership training courses to help the youth leader keep younger boys focused and in control, I have yet to find any reference to a 35 foot lariat or the liberal application of a fully charged cattle prod.
Yep, GBA; Guilty by Association.
Is it any wonder then that I grew up shooting paperclips at the geometric shaped mobiles in geometry class whenever the teacher’s back was turned?; or that I glued a remote controlled music box movement to the bottom of an empty metal desk in Chemistry class?; was known to walk around middle school lighting stick matches on my blue jeans?; and milled gun barrels in shop class; or openly ignored various high school teachers and walked out of class to go to the snack bar?
It was nearly impossible for a sweet, gentle soul such as I to even hold my head up around town all in all what with knowing that I was always going to be considered the youngest of “those Vandermolen boys”.
© Copyright 2016 Marty Vandermolen
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