There once was a boy named Shad …whom I loved.
Recently, I’ve started doing some painting- fixing up old houses, and the place I was in last week was chock full of memories from my childhood. People and places I hadn’t given much thought to in years…. like 20 years or so. But Shad was a name that kept coming up by others in conversation and a face that kept coming to my mind. I had learned from the owner that the house I was painting had been last painted by Shad. During the week when I was patching some sheetrock, out of the blue a fellow worker at the house commented that he’d never met anyone as meticulous as Shad when it came to drywall. Mudding and sanding, mudding and sanding, mudding and sanding to perfection. I’m sure my patchwork paled in comparison to Shad’s attention to detail. I spent about 50 hours in that house and in those memories... sorting, analyzing, recalling things buried in my past.
Shad is a part of my past. He’s gone now… a self-inflicted gunshot wound. But I have always wondered how much different his life had been if he’d just gotten a lucky break once in awhile or if he didn’t always live out Murphy’s Law…. you know the one: anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. I wonder how different his life would have been if he’d been born into a situation with opportunity, resources, a support system, and self-confidence. Shad never knew his worth. Deep down, he always felt inferior. He was born to a single mom who did her best... I don’t condemn his mother at all.
From the time we were kids, I always wanted to rescue Shad. I wanted him to have what I had. I remember the times he would wake me up in the middle of the night, tapping on my window, and I’d let him in to sleep on my floor. I knew he'd be safe there. Or the times in school when I’d turn my body just so for him to copy my test answers. I didn’t want him to fail. He wasn’t stupid; he just didn’t think he could, so he didn’t try. Eventually, he got tired of my mothering, and he would just a soon pick a fight with me than to see my pity for him. He was so infectious with his snaggle-tooth smile (I was there when he broke his tooth off on armer Mel's pick up) and his personality that even when he’d push my buttons just enough for my pity to evaporate, soon we’d be pals again. I loved him very much and I was very afraid for him, too. I guess that was well-founded. Over the years we pretty much lost touch. I couldn’t help him. I didn’t have the power. Oh Shad, I want to wring your neck. It didn’t have to be this way, but I guess neither of us knew how to fix it. I count this as loss. Happy would-have-been-birthday, Shad.
Recently, I’ve started doing some painting- fixing up old houses, and the place I was in last week was chock full of memories from my childhood. People and places I hadn’t given much thought to in years…. like 20 years or so. But Shad was a name that kept coming up by others in conversation and a face that kept coming to my mind. I had learned from the owner that the house I was painting had been last painted by Shad. During the week when I was patching some sheetrock, out of the blue a fellow worker at the house commented that he’d never met anyone as meticulous as Shad when it came to drywall. Mudding and sanding, mudding and sanding, mudding and sanding to perfection. I’m sure my patchwork paled in comparison to Shad’s attention to detail. I spent about 50 hours in that house and in those memories... sorting, analyzing, recalling things buried in my past.
Shad is a part of my past. He’s gone now… a self-inflicted gunshot wound. But I have always wondered how much different his life had been if he’d just gotten a lucky break once in awhile or if he didn’t always live out Murphy’s Law…. you know the one: anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. I wonder how different his life would have been if he’d been born into a situation with opportunity, resources, a support system, and self-confidence. Shad never knew his worth. Deep down, he always felt inferior. He was born to a single mom who did her best... I don’t condemn his mother at all.
From the time we were kids, I always wanted to rescue Shad. I wanted him to have what I had. I remember the times he would wake me up in the middle of the night, tapping on my window, and I’d let him in to sleep on my floor. I knew he'd be safe there. Or the times in school when I’d turn my body just so for him to copy my test answers. I didn’t want him to fail. He wasn’t stupid; he just didn’t think he could, so he didn’t try. Eventually, he got tired of my mothering, and he would just a soon pick a fight with me than to see my pity for him. He was so infectious with his snaggle-tooth smile (I was there when he broke his tooth off on armer Mel's pick up) and his personality that even when he’d push my buttons just enough for my pity to evaporate, soon we’d be pals again. I loved him very much and I was very afraid for him, too. I guess that was well-founded. Over the years we pretty much lost touch. I couldn’t help him. I didn’t have the power. Oh Shad, I want to wring your neck. It didn’t have to be this way, but I guess neither of us knew how to fix it. I count this as loss. Happy would-have-been-birthday, Shad.
