Why Write?

I started writing this after reading many biographies, mostly about people involved in the music business, and came to the realization that even though I am not famous I’ve done just about everything they’ve done.  Initially, I was just trying to remember the various things I’ve done relating to music: bands I’ve played in, people that recorded in my studios, etc. which led to trying to create a timeline.  For most people putting together a timeline of their life would probably be pretty simple; graduations, a few job changes, a wedding date, children’s birthdays and major vacations might be all that is required but as I tried to recall people and events the layers started stacking up.  I soon realized that I’ve lived at least 9-lives (hey, maybe I am a cat).  Most people don’t have collections of guitars and gear they’ve collected.  Another thing that this research emphasized is how short periods early in life loom large in recollection.  Things that lasted a couple of years or even months seem so significant while more recent things that lasted many years get compressed into mere blips.

As I got deeper, I realized that there were areas of my life outside of music that might be interesting to various audiences – I still don’t know what to include but life is made up of events and characters and I’ve had a lot of both:

• Growing up in Levittown, NY
• Music
• Alcohol (and some drugs)
• Becoming a Christian – How God gave me a pizza and how the big evangelists blew it (What’s it all about?)
• HAM radio

So, write a book about my life? As my friend Dewayne once said, “You ask the question that can’t be answered: Why Not?” Following my own advice, I began.

Now, I’m a few years into doing research, playing with different tools for writers, trying to organize a lifetime of stories… ideally a biography should read chronologically, at least that makes the most sense for the reader but in reality that’s nearly impossible as we live in a world of intertwined stories… I’m now sure it won’t be chronological because I simply can’t get exact dates for so many things.

An interesting note on research: of course, my memory isn’t perfect but just because other people were involved in a place or event doesn’t mean they will remember either.  For example, going to a Facebook group of my peers to recall the name of a store where I once worked returned a long chain of responses and debate, and even some arguments.  Various people are sure they are right but have mismatched dates or places.  “We don’t know what we don’t know” is a true statement; just because I’m right might not mean the other person is wrong.  Stores move and change names, there were stores that I never heard of because they were gone just before I would have had any reason to care.  I’ve also had to adjust memories I was sure of when I found facts that proved them wrong. “For in much wisdom is much vexation, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow.” – Ecclesiastes 1:18 (ESV)

Oddly, going to the same high school group for names of bars was much more successful.

I find there are two perspectives I could use to look at my life.  The first is that we weren’t rich.  We were lower middle class; hand-me-downs were the norm; we didn’t go out to eat, get food delivered or get take-out, except for the occasional pizza; my dad drank whatever beer was cheapest that week and that was limited to a six-pack per week.  We never had name-brand stuff, I had a ten-speed bicycle, but it wasn’t a Schwinn, etc.  We bought used cars and did our own repairs.  We all were expected to get jobs when we turned 16.  We lived in a neighborhood where all of that was normal.   Compared to the next town to the east, or west, or south, we were poor.

On the other hand, if I list the highlights you would think we were rich.  We had a pool and a boat, there was a lake house in New Jersey, we frequently flew out west to see national parks, my father had a pilot’s license and had taken some of the family site seeing over New York City.  We had musical instruments.  College was a real option.  We each got a car for high school graduation.  We had stereos.  My dad had a collection of pellet guns, and real guns. More on this later.

Now over 5 years into this idea to write the book of my life, an outline that has grown to over 100 pages, and there never seems to be enough time to tackle the overwhelming task of putting it all together and fleshing out each story. How about if I just finish one little bit at a time? The book will have to wait but for now I will present here what it was like growing up as a Levittown Dirt Bag.

The Beginning

I was born in the mid-sixties and my family lived in Levittown, New York, which is about 20 miles east of the center of New York City and ten miles from the city limits. Less than ten miles to the south was Jones Beach and the Atlantic Ocean. By design you had to be white to live in Levittown, it was even written in the covenants that the house could not be used or occupied by any person other than members of the Caucasian race. Of course, I didn’t know anything about this growing up.

The yards were all 60 feet wide and 100 feet deep, but we had an extra 10 feet in the back because the electrical utility lines ran through, or maybe because there was a big sump, about 15 acres, behind us (we just called it “The Sump”). That meant we didn’t have any neighbors behind us. On the other side of the sump was the grade school we all went to, on the right was the south village green (a small group of stores), and on the left was a town park with football and baseball fields and a basketball court. At that time Levittown was middle class and solidly blue collar with lots of young couples raising lots of kids. This was a great place to be a kid.

Three lots from our house was a smaller lot we called The Empty Lot. The neighborhood kids played stick ball or would set up a bike jump in the empty lot. The ramp was usually just a milk crate with a board and all the kids would have a blast. I remember a Jewish lady from down the street we all thought was strange and kind of mean was walking by, stopped and said that we should make sure to stand up when we landed or we’d get hernias. From what I knew about her I thought she was going to yell at us to cut it out, so I was surprised and remember thinking that maybe she wasn’t so bad. Most of us were some form of Christian, at least in theory, but we did have two Jewish families on the block.

The empty lot was also the cut-through to the sump but every once in a while, the town would repair the fence. On one occasion I got there and saw some guys standing on the sump side, one was on crutches with a cast on his leg. Just then a guy came from our side with a bolt cutter and cut the fence. It seems that at some point after my generation the kids gave up and the fence stayed intact, the end of an era.