February 1981 – mid-August 1982
 Crayola was my crutch.  After Curtis was forced to leave my grandparent’s house, I delved into art.  I colored and drew everything that I could get my hands on.  I was already using art therapy, as ironic as it seems now.

As it is apt to do here in North Carolina, the spring lasted a week and summer came pouring down through God’s heating vents.  It was hot and sticky and Lisa and I were locked outside once again for our shifts of hiding under the car for shade.  Our only hopes for salvation were that Grandpa would be sick or that an encyclopedia salesman or the Jehovah’s witnesses would come around.  Though Grandma didn’t want to take care of, she would be damned if anyone could kidnap us.  As soon as she heard the sound of crunching gravel in the driveway, out the door she would dash and jerk us inside.

I prayed for these occurrences.

Late-August – December 1982
I finally got an escape pod, in the form of kindergarten.  I was thrilled to be getting away from the Wicked Witch and her soggy banana sandwiches.  I was going to embark on a new world with new faces.

I was in Ms. Hubbard and Mrs. Coley’s class.  I was a combo class, half kindergartners, and half first graders.  I was taller than any of the first grade boys and only a few inches shorter than the tiny Ms. Hubbard.  I was 4’5″ at the end of the year.

I met lots of neat kids, though some of them were obviously not as sophisticated as I was.  Some of them cried during naptime, ate crayons, sniffed glue … it was amusing to say the least.

I was the very last person in line for everything since my last name began with a “W”.  This was sometimes and advantage, and sometimes a big pain.  It meant I was last to get the playground, to get lunch, to get into centers, to get into music class and art class.  It also meant I had to turn in my work last and that I was last to have to do anything in front of the class.  Perhaps here, in this last-ness routine, the seeds of procrastination were born?

I was the only kid that was being raised by their grandparents.  This singled me out when the others would ask me about my parents.  I was already shy, but this was not a helpful factor.

I had led such a sheltered life; I was completely unaware that most people were not all wonderful and perfect.  I knew Grandma was mean, and there were “bad guys” out in the world, but they were traveling through Mayberry on “The Andy Griffith Show”, not sitting in the desk beside me.  Or so I thought, before I met Jason Fox.

to be continued ...

See the whole story so far here.