Page 80 - People & Places In Time

Growing Up In Exeter
I didn’t so much wonder why as pursue answers through psychology, philosophy and religion, anticipating these studies might help to define my place in a world where I felt so uncomfortable.
This does sound a bit off the wall, but I didn’t do well in school and there were too few who cared enough
to wonder why. Today having come this far, I look at
my accomplishments, as well as the failures from a safe distance. If I’m to write about my lifetime, then I must address this problem; prior to any examination of the high school years and beyond.
Perhaps this explanation might be labeled pre- sumptuous because it’s self-diagnosed. It is nontheless well thought out, and thoroughly researched. How else do I account for those things I’m so good at, and yet be forced to confront my failed attempts at finding success through my own efforts? There are clichéd offerings such as “fear of success” even “self-destructive” that still don’t offer the how or why.
DyslexiaN satisfies so many of my questions. Dyslexia is not thought of as a social impediment, but its implications definitely contribute to questions of confi- dence. Most importantly for me it helps to understand the road I’ve traveled. I can’t say that any help on this front would have changed a thing. Still, I can’t help but wish that someone might have been there to help.
All this said, I’ve always had the self-confidence to know that I could do anything, but then eventually, I had to deal with other people and my lack of outward confidence would soon defeat my efforts. Putting this to paper I’m all too aware that contradictions seem easy to point out, but you need to experience this, to know.
I missed a lot . . . when classroom work doesn’t show promise, teachers’ lose interest and you’re shuffled
to the back. When feelings of social competence become a barrier to the activities that are so much part of the high school experience, it shows, and takes a toll that only time can help recover . . . or perhaps to not recover at all.
Pretty much, I got C’s in my classwork and I didn’t even attend Prom as a Junior. If I hadn’t had foot- ball in the fall and track team in spring, I think I might have actually pulled into a shell. In addition to sports there was one other thing I excelled at; art and mechani-
cal drawing, and what a difference the teachers’ response. Mr. Stolz was my mechanical arts teacher as well as
my football and track coach; so for obvious reasons one teacher I was close too. Particularly in mechanical draw- ing, Mr. Stolz recognized by ability, to the extent of my becoming sort of a teacher’s assistant for the students struggling in his class.
One final comment on this situation: Because
my friends, their families, and most of the people I was
in contact, were focused on college prep, they all would soon go away to college. I felt a hidden pressure that I was unprepared to address. There was an emphasis on the future, and I didn’t feel that I realistically had one. On the one hand I wanted to do better, I just didn’t know how, I knew I wanted to be an architect, but without help and encouragement, deep down I didn’t see how this could happen.
High School Continues
As I finish my sophomore year, the summers are filled with working in the packing houses that so abundantly surround Exeter. This is a great job filled with eight to ten-hour days, five or six days a week. Work starts 8:00 AM the first Monday following the
last day of school in June until the Friday before Labor Day and the start of school in September. The work is physical, the days are hot, except when loading box cars from the cold storage. The pay probably wasn’t that good, but what did I know, this is my first real job and would become the means to buy my first car. Whatever my teenage angst this was the perfect way to drown my concerns. Physically and mentally, hard work was the best remedy. For the final two weeks of summer, football practice begins at night so this and the packing- house completely filled my days at the end of summer. These physical activities are easy for me, plus there’s no better way to redirect self-pity than lifting heavy crates of fruit by day and hitting somebody at evening football practice.
By the age of sixteen more should be going on in my life but I can’t recall a thing. I know this isn’t a big deal and more importantly, I wasn’t alone in my struggle finding a path through the complex social world of a
shy teenage boy. Though, there was one really dumb stunt that comes to mind. This happened during a particularly foggy Saturday night, most likely in January or February of 1962 my junior year in high school. Jeremey Estabrook was one of my oldest friends from before kindergarten, our families were close. Anyhow, he was someone with keys to every lock on the Exeter High School campus. I have no idea where or how
he got them, but these days he would be cast as the proverbial “nerd”. I was so gullible that it was easy to be on board with his plan. I’m sixteen years old and on this night, driving my parents tan 1962 4dr Ford Galaxy, not the coolest car for the clandestine adventure such as Jeremey proposed. He’s decided we will unlock the gate
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