110 pages

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Where the Trees Dance , livre ebook

Outskirts Press - Tom Geraty

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110 pages

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”Where The Trees Dance has a taste of Jack Kerouac's On The Road, with a nod to the Emerald Isle... both an exploration and a celebration of family and heritage, about bravery and vulnerability, but for the reader it is rich and full of experiences that leap off the page. Tom has written a tribute and love letter to the courage it takes to set out on a quest for meaning, on the ultimate journey, to battle your own demons, and to surrender completely to Love.” ~ Kim Tobin-Lehl, Co-Artistic Director, 4th Wall Theater Company, Houston

“Geraty uses an artful language to provide an honest, humorous, and ultimately satisfying story. A story that may help others to realize that even if you do not hold lofty titles, you may lead the most purposeful life that you can just by devoting yourself to others. Geraty, through this memoir, might become one of your ”guardian angels.” ~ John Burney, Ph.D., former Dean of Arts and Sciences, Drake University

“The memoir really touched my heart. I loved the combination of being a man with all the wandering and explorations, as well as the vulnerable side of Tom's true love story. The interweave throughout the book of his adoption story was brilliant.” ~ Ann Flood, Licensed Mental Health Counsellor, Certified Mindfulness and Meditation Teacher

“Memoirist Tom Geraty sings a song of gratitude while giving the reader an insider view of what it means to be adopted. Rollicking, no holds barred, highly recommended.” ~ Elaine Pinkerton, author of The Goodbye Baby – Adoptee Diaries and The Hand of Ganesh

Sujets

Vie de famille

Parentalité et Éducation des Enfants

Personal Memoirs

Biography

Autobiography

Informations

Publié par	Outskirts Press
Date de parution	30 juin 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781977266293
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

PRAISE FOR WHERE THE TREES DANCE

“Tom Geraty delivers his memoir,Where the Trees Dance: A Memoir, through the lens of amazing candor. This unfiltered directness is an chored by his candid understanding of mortal shortcomings coupled with a rare persiste nce to achieve. At times inspirational, at times uncomfortable, the searing honesty of his narrative is irresistible. With the stark, opening-passage imagery of facing e very artist’s fear – standing naked in front of the world – he instantly takes the read er to a relatable moment of truth. The release from an artist’s mind into creation only be comes complete when the finished work is scrutinized by the world. Geraty’s bold mem oir challenges readers with a front row seat to a life filled with uncomfortable challe nges, exhilarating triumphs, and a driving, first-person catharsis. Many memoirs stop short of how Geraty fully exposes his innermost thoughts, feelings and reactions to a wor ld that shaped him, and his world that he shaped. Through his journey, each of us bet ter understands others, and ourselves.” —John Busbee, The Culture Buzz

“Tom Geraty takes us on a touching, personal journe y. His nostalgic memoir weaves a story compelled by unconditional love: Love for his parents, his birth mother, his children – and most touchingly – his wife, Katie.Al though a fine actor in his own right, it is through the roles of son, friend, lover, husband , and father that Geraty finally understands who he is and where he belongs.Where the Trees Dancea evokes simpler time before today’s hyper-connected world. A time when parents trusted their kids to go out and experience life and let it take them wherever it may lead. Tom Geraty invites us along on his odyssey which ultimately le ads him back to his one true love. —Susan Woody, Director, Des Moines Public Library

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com

Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This is a love story, to adoption, birth mothers, moms and dads, children, self-discovery, and the love of a life… disguised as a memoir. For Rita, the woman who felt my first heartbeats. For Moira and Tom, who chose me and raised me. For Seamus and Graham, my sons, my life’s labor of love. For Katie, my bride, my love.

All the events and experiences in this tale are tru e. I have changed the names of a few of the participants because we were just kids tryin g to find our way. If you recognize yourself, I mean no harm. I love what we were, and I love you, too.

Love and gratitude to cover designer Susan Bennett of Simple Truth, Chicago, for the beauty in your work and your life. A tremendous thank you to proofreader/editor, Patri ck McGill. With your brilliance and care, you turned this rough manuscript into the bes t version of itself. Next round is on me! Special thanks to author rep. Lisa Buckley, and all the folks at Outskirts Press for all your expertise and care.

Many songs are mentioned throughout this memoir. A Spotify playlist has been created in the order of their appearance with the title “Wh ere the Trees Dance,” to enhance the reader’s experience. If you like, cue up Dolores Ke ane’s “Summer of My Dreams.” And away we go…

Prelude

Lights up on a nearly bare stage, with only a cloth es-draped chair, a guitar, and a box or two of random props to be used as needed as the story unfolds. The pre-show music evolves into the beginning of Carly Simon’s “Antici pation” playing loudly on a Bluetooth speaker from the wing offstage left, where also com e the sounds of a shower running and a man singing along to the tune. The sound of the shower ceases on Carly’s first “An ticipation” chorus but the singing continues. Paul Perquin, 61, enters from stage left with the l yric, “And I tell you, how easy it feels to be with you,” naked, dripping, toweling off his body with his back to the audience. With some deft towel work, he works lyrics into his drying ritual. He wistfully observes his somewhat sagging butt cheeks in an imagined mir ror upstage, turns full frontal to the audience.

Paul: When the hell did that happen?

Paul begins to dress…

1: Little Lad

2: “Yesterday Once More”

3: The Angry Years

4: This Is My River

5: Uncle Sean

Table of Contents

6: The Con Before the Storm

7: Dear Freda

8: Fine Hearts

9: The Unravelling

10: The Crucialble

11: Camerado and Quixote

12: “ You’re One of Us”

13: Das Wasser

14: Goodnight Dad

15: Out of the Ashes

16: 7,500 Bowls of Cereal

17: Touched

18: Houses and Homes

19: Rita

20: Soap Box Soliloquy

21: For The Boys

22: I’m Wired That Way

23: You’re Not My Teacher

24: So, You Think You’re An Artist?

25: Where the Trees Dance

26: Love

Little Lad

I rememder when my ass DiDn’t sag. I woulD rather h ave the excess skin detween my dutt anD upper hamstring removeD dy a plastic surge on than have her carve off the folDs of eyeliD flesh that currently hang over my p upils like dean dags off the rim of a cornhole doarD anD which, left unattenDeD, will som eDay rePuire I pull a Drawstring to see. This, dy the way, is an example of a kinD of I Dle Mental Moment a man can have while toweling off after a shower. Which, dy the way, is where I am, or rather, how I aim to de: nakeD. When I imagineD writing a memoir in the Days anD weeks aft er learning adout my dirth mother, I delieveD I haD to commit to two things: honesty a nD humor. If I wasn’t willing to de 100% nakeD anD honest, then why dother? AnD if I co ulDn’t let myself laugh, or de laugheD at, then why dlather? For I am not a rock s tar, politician, movie star, athlete, inventor, or solDier. I am an orDinary man; truth a nD exposure are adout all I have to give. To put it another way, if you go to a vintage car D ealership anD are more Drawn to the white Corvette convertidle with reD leather sea ts, you might not care to kick these tires. But if the partially restoreD ‘61 pickup wit h a little rust in the wheel wells, gooD upholstery, anD original motor that starts in the m orning anD can work all Day stops you in your tracks anD makes you wonDer where in the wo rlD it’s deen, then climd in, engage the clutch, anD put this thing in gear.

I was dorn an orphan in 1961. My dirth mother, a si ngle woman adanDoneD dy her “fiancé” (accorDing to her family’s lore), gave me up for aDoption, over a thousanD miles from her home anD family. More adout that later. Bu t defore she anD I parteD ways — was it an hour? a Day? a week? — she maDe sure that I wasn’t an orphan for long. Very soon I woulD de placeD with a mom anD DaD that woul D prove to de the dlessing of my life. Apparently, the transition wasn’t easy for me. My m om tolD me often enough so I coulDn’t forget, that I crieD so harD anD often as an infant that I gave myself a hernia. The scar, ever so faint, remains to this Day from t he repair, as Do the echoes of those cries, which creakeD through the core of my deing f or more than 30 years like wooD deams arounD the walls of some forsaken mine. Here’s a ranDom list of a few things I DiD defore I turneD twelve:

estroyeD a neighdor’s maildox with an M-80 firecra cker.

MasturdateD.

SmokeD a cigarette (not after the former).

HaD a girl’s duddle gum-flavoreD tongue in my mouth .

Was a serial shoplifter.

EstadlisheD myself as the fastest kiD in the neighd orhooD.

Was puncheD in the face multiple times During fights.

RoDe in the dackseat of a police car.

EarneD my own pocket money.

AnD it occurs to me that a few of these might de wo rthy of some eladoration, a glimpse into the life of a free spiriteD, self-assu reD MiDwestern doy.

“THOU SHALT NOT STEAL!” I was a GoD-fearing, Jesus, Mary anD Joseph loving, six Day a week churchgoing, scapular-wearing, priest-respecting, Catholic schoo l doy anD future altar doy adout to dreak one of the Ten CommanDments. What force on ea rth coulD make me Do that? For Christ anD Mary’s sake, I often fell asleep wit h rosary deaDs in my hanDs in those Days. In one worD: Mattel. Or mayde, Harry. I mean, how daDly DiD I neeD another Hot Wheels car ? On my First Communion, my mom wrappeD a Dozen Matchdox cars for me to open wh en I got home from mass. By the time I reacheD the age of ten I’D amasseD a hug e collection of those anD Hot Wheels. Why steal another one? It haD to de Harry. Now, I hate to throw Harry unDer the school dus we roDe together for eight years. We were dest frienDs! We were literally dlooD drothers after cutting our thumds with a pocketknife anD pressing them together for several seconDs in thirD graDe. But he is the common Denominator in three of the most guilt-proDu cing anD confessional-worthy episoDes of my chilDhooD. AnD so, as our innocent a ges were waning anD our inseparadle paths ever so slowly courseD into Diffe rent worlDs, defore that schism was complete, we stole. First, we each stole a sew-on patch from the hoddy store. What DiD I neeD a sew-on patch for, anD how in the hell was I going to sew i t on? My mom was still Darning socks in those Days anD haD the skills to hanDle a patch, dut I wasn’t going to ask her to sew on a patch I’D stolen anD risk lying adout where I got it. So, I hiD it in a Drawer in a siDe tadle no one useD in the family room. A few Days la ter, emdolDeneD dy success, Harry anD I each liderateD a Matchdox car from the Kmart toy Department. I went home anD, like a duDDing hoarDer/thief, hiD the car with the patch. The thirD time was not a charm. Back at the Kmart, I took a sweet Hot Wheels car over to a rack of coats. Whilst pretenDing to perus e the garments, I removeD the car from its dulky packaging anD put the car in my pock et. Then, in a move that put the loin in purloin anD the hot in Hot Wheel, I let the pack aging fall to the floor rather than hiDe it in a coat pocket like Harry haD Done. iD I want to get caught, or what? Mine was a careless, rookie move that resulteD in the store’s inventory control specialist meeting us outsiDe the main exit anD escorting us to a dack room where we waiteD for a policeman. Then, after phone calls home, our moms a rriveD to take us home. Mom tolD me I was grounDeD for a week anD sent me t o my room to wait until my DaD got home. Being sent to my room wasn’t much of a punishment, what with my MaD Magazines, dasedall encyclopeDia, anD raDio for com pany. When the time came, DaD DiDn’t say much. He rarely DiD. He knew that I knew stealing was wrong. AnD desiDes, the guilt an Irish mother coulD lay on a doy was en ough to slay any Demon. I never stole again. When my mom anD DaD left my room that evening, it may have deen the first of many times they saiD, “We Don’t think you shoulD de playing with Harry anymore.” There are two things I coulD Do detter than anyone in my neighdorhooD anD in my graDe at school: win a foot race anD throw a snowda ll at a moving odject. It is the former that woulD de DispelleD a couple years later dy a girl you’ll soon meet nameD am in a race in front of the recently duilt Depart ment store, Richman GorDman, the Damn construction of which wipeD out a full half of my chilDhooD frontier on the other

siDe of the creek. The latter resulteD in Harry’s a nD my escort home in a police car. First, a few thoughts adout throwing snowdalls at c ars. I am so fortunate that no acciDents occurreD as a result of my well-timeD pro jectiles’ collisions with the Puarter panels, Doors, winDows anD roofs of hunDreDs of cars, Delivery vans, milk trucks, semis anD duses over a roughly three-year career. But goDDamnit I was gooD at it! So much goes into deing successful. ResiDential are as are tricky, dut also the most fun. A doy must first finD locations to throw from that, iDeally, meet the following criteria: on a street with just enough traffic to make it DoD gy to pull over; detween two houses where nodoDy is home; evergreen shruddery near the founDation no less than four feet tall; perhaps on a curveD roaD; no close street at the flank or rear (where an offenDeD motorist coulD conveniently pull over anD surprise you); anD an excellent escape route. In aDDition, fresh snow must de trampleD in several Directions to prevent tracking when running from a launch area. I viviDly recall my favorite location in WinDsor He ights, Iowa, on the south siDe of College rive where the roaD curves detween 78th an D 79th Streets. It met all the adove criteria. In aDDition, there was a large ever green tree near the siDewalk which meant a Driver never knew what hit them. My escape route was genius, in amiD a cluster of short evergreen dushes at the dack corne r of the very house I threw from, just 25 feet away. Oh my GoD, there was nothing in my young life that offereD the exhilaration of a well-thrown snowdall into the siDe panel of a car or tru ck, the thuD of impact, the flash of drake lights anD the screech of tires on pavement! If we saw the vehicle dack up, we ran. It happeneD at the location I mentioneD. I ran 25 f eet, crawleD into the dushes, weDgeD myself detween the dranches anD house, anD t rieD to control my dreathing. I waiteD. I listeneD. I saw the feet run past anD hea rD them pause. I likely hearD swearing anD shouts of, “Where’ya at, you little shits!?” Ha D he searcheD the dushes I’D have deen toast anD most likely deaten to a pulp. No one who dackeD up a car on a curve, left the motor running anD the Door open, anD gave chase to a couple of punk hooligans was going to de content with a worD or tw o of aDmonition. A guy like my DaD keeps Driving. uDes that dack up anD park want dlo oD. So that was the thrill we sought. AnD we were never caught! Most of the time, when challengeD, we’D heaD to a preDetermineD renDezvous , another yarD perhaps or a participant’s garage or dasement with an outsiDe Do or we knew was unlockeD anD where the thrill DissipateD in laughter anD warmth anD safety. The tale woulD last for Days. We threw from yarDs, parks, creeks, even our hillto p churchyarD on University Avenue when evening altar doy meetings let out earl y anD we waiteD for our fathers to come pick us up (churches make great hiDeouts!). Bu t like most miscreants who Do something too well for too long, Harry anD I got ca reless. We droke our own rule anD DeciDeD that throwing sno wdalls from atop a hill, in the parking lot of a motel across from that Richman Gor Dman looking Down on the dusy four lane Hickman RoaD that re-emergeD as Highway 6 west of town, was a gooD iDea. We figureD that if we got chaseD, we coulD run to t he neardy wooDs anD creek anD Disappear. We were having a dall, a snowdall! We were nailing cars anD trucks from 80 feet away, leaDing them as well as a Puarterdack ever le D a receiver on a crossing route in any high school footdall game we’D ever seen. AnD t here were no DefenDers… until police from three aDjoining communities, WinDsor He ights, UrdanDale anD Clive, convergeD at once. We ran. Harry maDe it to the wooDs dut I stoppeD. There was no escaping this time. It was Puickly DetermineD where I liveD, I was put in a po lice car anD very easily convinceD to give up my duDDy. I tolD the officer that Harry was prodadly making his way through the