Christopher Porter And Me circa mid ‘60’s

Jeesh...how the bindery housing the living moldy pages of this bookish fellow seem to flip by with ever increasing rapidity at a faster pace, particularly with each subsequent orbit Earth completed around the sun. Methought then (when just a wee lad) thee oblate spheroid planet Earth gradually shifted closer to sun eventually... Nevertheless, I could never foretell (predict) when remembrance viz series of unfortunate events occurred. Yours truly just a fraction his (mine) current age when misadventures elapsed. Odd also that unprompted, enigmatically, inexplicable... one (non bloody) recollection of long ago personal trials and tribulations seemed to snap, crackle and pop into mine noggin (like some kind of cerebral jiffy popcorn advertisement beckoning attention), thus the reason for sharing a childhood fragment asper the following.

This LVIII roughly aged estimated age neigh saying, when zee ole beastie boy horse drafted the following. No rhyme nor reason, why infrequent recollection (albeit sketchy details at best) regarding boyhood memory took place. Faux pas par faw the course of doddering along the downside parabola of consciousness, which unexpectedly got jarred back lid er reilly lee in time. At such nebulous petty coated junction, whereby me gummed rattletrap writefully, unexpectedly, suddenly... Ma rusty stock, lock and barrel piped, pickled, and packed peppery parable. I quick snatched bobbing and panting square spongiform parcel as if acquiring krabby patty, or the snatching secret formula thereof. Schooled in obedience wrought pet smart linkedin lumped in pro literate thinker. Lemme turn back the chronological clock some back countless decades invoking hair raising brush with angelic intervention. Unbeknownst to me why or what activated long dormant gallimaufry memories stashed somewhere within fifty plus shades of gray cobwebbed, whirled, widely dispersed (within skull) matter. An incident predicated on mein kampf as a kid in kindergarten in tandem with his bosom buddy came to light re: as a flash in the pan metaphorical nugget of gold. No explanation seemed to precipitate the following account, which harkened back more’n five decades.

Thus before the mere fragment of a what might be termed divine intervention visited upon myself and close chum, (who became fast friends with me) at Port Kennedy school for those gently cosseted, groomed, and linkedin to commence getting ready for first grade. That particular day began as usual, but ended up doling out my fifteen minutes of fame and fortune to remain intact and unscathed emotionally, physically, or spiritually.

Mother drove me to the nondescript building within which vital lessons, viz how to color (within the blurred lines), frolic, and impersonate a kiddy version of some industrial magnate, et cetera play acted. Hours of playtime ticked by in a flash. Upon dismissal, each child went its separate way. An arrangement got made for yours truly to sally forth with said classmate named Christopher Porter. He lived in Valley Forge trailer park, within walking distance for grown up less so a kid. Before describing the misadventure that involved this then cloyingly innocent, naïvely reticent sole son tied to my mother’s apron strings, and his flaxen haired long time friend (of a couple months) i.e. pal, re: Christopher Porter. I make a brief digression eliciting general habits jousting Kuritsky lass (maiden name of pa’s pretty queen) to inform a major influence upon my ineffable, malleable, and gullible crucible qua cerebral cortex. Ever the obsessively compulsive economical cutler, queen hoarder, and scraper of sundry residual tailings upholding veneer wrested from victuals provided by the modest income of my daddy (a mechanical engineer at General Electric), my mother secured, scrimped, and saved any shred of material and squeezed out every last drop of maximization from father time. This mindset to refrain tossing anything into the garbage receptacle indelibly etched in conscious on account of growing up in dire straits, hawking heirloom tchotchkes to stave off angst of a bleak, grim, and penurious poverty steeped into her temple mount. This predilection to maintain a skein of mediocrity, paucity, and scarcity indelibly deeply etched within impressionable, malleable, vulnerable... young brain. Despite our middle income family status, an imbedded a legacy of hardship, hand to mouth existence, and one among countless affected have-nots remained forever scored within the memory of thine late mum Harriet Harris, the Cinderella of Coney Island. She, thee prima donna adored youngest progeny, (who reaped the line ness iz share of parental love), per birth mother Rebecca (doled out blatant favoritism toward thy mother), and paternal parent Morris (Moishe) Kuritsky got instilled by dint of dirt poor travails retained many behaviors linkedin with those critical, primal, and vital early years. Thus, upon readily accepting the responsibilities of motherhood, the instilled atrophied, codified, and mummified manifesto naturally impinged on the habitués regaled upon thyself and mine elder and younger sister. So, rather than expend the extra fuel to drive a fractional distance from the trailer park, her credo found insistence logically ordering riding to aforementioned locale, whence arrangements stipulated to ferry me back to Lantern Lane, an end house nestled adjacent to a Super Fund Site in the potemkin village of Audubon, Pennsylvania.

Unbeknownst to me the specific details underpinning what went awry that typical day. This aging memory can only bring to light a faded, gauzy and indistinctly nebulous picture, which principle outcome found thyself and above named equally demure, introverted and oblivious to threatening uber vipers waiting to prey on two precocious boys. Our respective comforts (referencing self and Christopher Porter) zones encompassed perhaps half dozen mile radius, whereat home sweet home purported ground zero. Unsure how either one of us went astray, since adventuresomeness an alien characteristic exhibited quasi bumpkin boys. Nonetheless losing our orientation did not require extreme effort. Since absolutely zero recall, (nor token memorabilia) exists, I venture to posit mere lapse courtesy cumulative cloudy (albeit foggy) pate saturated with lifetime of mundane events. Through some happenstance both of us lads found ourselves stranded in unfamiliar territory. We found ourselves to be in the middle of nowhere, perhaps Timbuktu, or possibly up 5^th and japip! Most feasible option to thread tattered anecdote with educated intimations. Thus information constituting primary circumstantial details gingerly grappled insync with second (third, fourth, fifth) guessing honestly absent knowledge less optimal to present gripping story. Whoever came to the aid of this coy, puny, and shy thing as well his similarly recalcitrant quiet temperament amiga forever unbeknownst. Perhaps fright compounded and especially intimidated by beefy Lower Providence police officers doing their level best to soldier onward to ask pointed questions. Most likely gentle inquiries met obstinate silence. Maybe at most frustrated men in blue generated shrug or blank stare. now a blessing paid to the fates many years plus Amber alerts reluctantly yielding zero positive results within adjacent zip codes municipalities. Though missing persons bulletins (with attendant reward) unnecessary, never generated cold case with grim nasty, short, and brutish discovery. Quite the contrary! Perhaps courage summoned forth either gratis one or either me or Christopher Porter.

The local newspaper ran a blurb, which clipping ma dear mama saved, though long since lost with other tidbits of mine storied past. What dismays this now midlife crisis dishabille entails how if that scenario occurred today, I would not be alive to tell of such deeds of daring do. So, this spottily recalled anecdote and subsequent belated praise and quite appreciation to those strangers (in tandem with enforces qua strong arm of the law – most likely no longer alive), whose existence today hinged on those fates that clasped faith in the milk of human kindness and at this day and age eclipsed with a plethora of angst riddled cruelty, fiendish incivility, and lackluster noblesse oblige. Hence, the nostalgic pang for a time that seemed more idyllic, when strangers reached out to forge a lifelong impression of positivity. Such a benediction imbues me with a feeble attempt within this body electric guaranteeing anonymous brethren to salve the ache that found trust to ramp down the doom per being scared. Ah all's well that ended well sans so much within myself (nor oh me oh) to tell this true story. Unsure whatever became pseudo sidekick Christopher Porter with restless leg syndrome, which outdated “fake” definition means to dare embark on serendipitous excursions, whether or not in toto wiz hard ding with spontaneity off to see favorite cartoon character come to life.