
Mickey, you iz now Sixtity-Won. You iz lookin’ kinder old an tired. Mebbe you iz needin’ to take a nap!’
I am indeed 61 today. I was born in a blizzard in Mason City Iowa’s Mercy Hospital on a cold November night when Ike was the president. I saw the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show on Grandpa and Grandma Aldrich’s black and white TV in the 1960’s. I also saw John Kennedy’s funeral procession in 1963 on the same TV. I saw the first man to step on the Moon in the Summer of 1969 on our old Motorola black and white TV at home in Rowan, Iowa even though we had to basically stay up all night to do it. Practically no one I knew got any sleep at all that night. I started seventh grade that fall. The first time I ever kissed a girl was behind the Rowan Grade School building. I won’t embarrass her by telling you her name. I think she avoided me for the rest of the time we were in school, and maybe even hated me. But I still remember her fondly even though that whole thing did not go as planned.

This isn’t her.
I played football for the Belmond Broncos in high school. I got my brains knocked out as a sophomore and quit football my junior year. I fell short of earning a letter jacket by one year’s worth of sports participation. I graduated in 1975. We had an outdoor ceremony planned for graduation. As I walking Julie F. out to the football stadium in our caps and gowns (paired by height… what can I say? I was short.) it started to rain. Not mere sprinkles, but a downpour, a run-for-your-life, drown-your-uncle-under-the-bleachers sort of downpour. We had to shift the ceremony to the auditorium. My grand parents had to watch on a video feed in the library with all the other soaked relatives. Our parents smelled like a herd of wet cats in the auditorium.

This isn’t her either.
I went to Iowa State University (Cow College, so named for the beauty of the women there) in the middle seventies. I got to draw seven different naked women there. (It was an anatomy drawing class and I also had to draw naked young men, though I think there were less of them, but I wasn’t keeping count). I voted for the first time, helping to elect Jimmy Carter as President in 1976. At the bicentennial parade in Rowan, the first girl I ever kissed was on the other side of the street, but somehow our eyes never met. In 1979 I graduated with honors and a degree in English. Rather than becoming an unemployable bum, I went to graduate school in Iowa City at the University of Iowa. I drew a couple more nude women there and got a remedial Master’s degree in English Education along with a teaching certificate.
My parents moved to Texas while I was in Iowa City. I found out where they moved to near Austin, and went to get a teaching job in Texas.

Ruben, Fabian, Javier, Emmit, Sonia, and Teresa, in case you were wondering.
I found a job teaching 8th graders in Cotulla, Texas. I had my life threatened once the first year and nearly quit. I decided I would not leave in defeat. So I stuck it out and taught there for 23 years. I was teaching the day we learned the Challenger blew up and NASA killed the first teacher in space. I was also teaching there the day we found out about the events of 9-11. But not everything about teaching was a disaster. I learned an awful lot. I fell in love with a lot of students (but only in the legal sense). I shared my love of Mark Twain, William Shakespeare, and the writing process with them. At least one or two of them actually listened during 31 years of teaching.
I got married to another teacher in 1995. My oldest son was born later that year. All three of my kids were born while we were teaching in Cotulla.
We moved to the Dallas area in 2004. I lost my first city teaching job because the Wicked Witch of Creek Valley wanted to protect education from fools like me. (I was rated as a master teacher both before and after that year by many different principals. That year I got zeros on my evaluation from only one principal. I must have only been stupid and incompetent for one year.) I went on to teach Reading and then English to English Language Learners in high school in the Garland district until I retired in 2014.
Now I am a writer and an Uber driver, neither of which conditions has proven to be fatal so far. So, I guess, in 61 years of life I have managed to earn every gray hair on my head. I have lived a good life. Robin Williams only got 61 years of life. I can’t claim to deserve more than him. But if it all ends tomorrow, I have no regrets. Happy birthday to me.
“Nappy berfday! Old Mickey! You iz reelie, reelie old! And der storry of yer life iz reelie, reelie boooring!”
Sorry. I guess I’ll have to do better in the next life.
























Why Mickey Writes
If you are wondering, “How in the Heck can Mickey write nonsense like that essay he wrote yesterday?”, then please be aware that Mickey is pondering that same question.
Seriously, why would a writer publish personal thoughts and allude to personal tragedies? Especially when they are about things that once upon a time nearly killed him? (Please note that when Mickey starts a sentence with “Seriously” it is probably about to lead to a joke, the same way as when Trump says, “Believe me” we should assume he is telling a lie and knows it.)
The answer is simply, writers write stuff. They have to. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be writers.
It is really not something to do to earn fame and fortune. Fame and fortune happen to rare individuals like J. K. Rowling and Steven King… and even Stephanie Meyer, to prove that it is totally random and not based on actual writing talent… except for sometimes.
You write to get your head right about bad things that happen in life. You find that factor in Mark Twain whose infant son died, as well as most of the rest of his family, before him, forcing him to face survivor’s guilt and the notion that life is random and death does not come for you based on any kind of merit system. Charles Dickens wrote about the foibles of his father, on whom he based the David Copperfield character Wilkins Micawber, a man who was overly optimistic and constantly landing in debtor’s prison because of it. He also wrote in his stories about the women he truly loved (who were not, it seems, his wife) one of whom died in his arms while yet a teenager. Dickens’ amused take on the innate foolishness of mankind gave him a chance to powerfully depict great tragedies both large (as in a Tale of Two Cities) and small (as in Oliver Twist). I wrote yesterday’s post based on the connection between the nudity I write about in novels and my own traumatic assault when I was only ten.
You write because you have wisdom, an inner personal truth, that you are convinced needs to be crystallized in words and written down on paper. It isn’t necessarily real truth. Lots of idiots write things and post them in newspapers, blogs, and even books. And it is often true that their inner personal truth is complete hogwash. (But, hey, at least the hogs are cleaner that way.) Still, your wisdom is your own, and it is true for you even if some idiot like Mickey reads it and thinks it is only fit for cleaning hogs.
And you truly do have to write. If I did not write my stupid, worthless novels, all the hundreds of characters in my head would get mad and start kicking the pillars that hold up the structures in my head. I do have structures in my head. My mind is organized in boxes that contain specifically sorted ideas and stories and notions. It is not a festering stew pot where everything is mixed together and either bubbling or boiling with hot places or coagulating in the cold corners. (That is how I picture Donald Trump’s mind. It is certainly not an empty desert like many people think, because deserts don’t explode all over Twitter early in the morning like the stew pot metaphor obviously would.)
And so, I have done it again. I have set down my 500+ words for today and made a complete fool of myself. And why do I do it? Because Mickey is a writer, and so, Mickey writes stuff.
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