|May 31, 1985...|
My 'triumphant' return from the Air Force. My family was proud (because they had no idea what I did in Air Force Intelligence) and everyone thought I'd turned my life around and wouldn't end up in the hood with a pony tail and beard, smoking crack with my six illegitimate kids. I think Daddy was a little worried about that. He hated beards.
Just two hours off the plane, I jumped on my rusted Schwinn bicycle, zoomed down to see my friend Robert (photo of us below) at his grocery store job, and on the Maryland Street bridge I crashed, head-first, into the concrete. It felt like I'd wiped-off the top of my face. I managed to see Robert after a detour to the men's room to wipe off blood, and the feeling eventually returned to my face. My thumb was jammed, I had a bloody hematoma on my forehead and various blood-letting at joints, and one of my reflectors disentigrated. I've worn a helmet ever since. Seeing me limping, bloodied, along the highway, a nice man tossed me into his pickup and drove me to the hospital.
Next photo down was my great aunt Rose Dippel, 93 years old. She was practically blind and my mother told me she couldn't read letters so I wrote her using HUGE letters four-lines tall. She could read that! She so loved the attention too. She died in 1990 from a bad case of death.