Never Good Enough

   My earliest childhood memories are plagued with thoughts of, "You're a failure, and will never be good enough. You will always be second rate." I was the skinny kid with glasses no one wanted to pick to be on their team. I wasn't good at relationships because I didn't think anyone would want to be my friend. So of course, I didn't have many.
   I studied hard in school, thinking I might find a subject I could be really good at. I passed, but it never felt good enough. I tried working on TVs and radios when I was ten because my dad was an electrical engineer. After nearly killing myself with the high voltage in those old tube type circuits, I became interested in cars. I rebuilt my first engine at thirteen, a flat-head six. It ran, but not good enough.
   I eventually found a girl who would have me, got married, and joined the Navy. Maybe a career in the armed forces was where I could succeed. That didn't last either. We never had much money, so instead of trying to pay someone else, I learned everything I could about construction and built our own home. There are very few pieces of heavy equipment I can't operate. I can work concrete, frame a building, plumb it, run the electrical, hang sheet-rock; you name it, I've probably done it. Just not good enough.
   I am the poster boy for the phrase, "Jack of all trades, master of none." I've spent my whole life looking for that one thing I might be able to master. It soon turned into a cycle of changing jobs or focus every five years. It felt like after that period of time, I would lose interest because I could no longer improve.
   When I entered the last season of my life, about four years ago, I started writing. I really couldn't do much else since my health had deteriorated, and construction was no longer an option. I laughed at first when my kids convinced me to enter a writing contest, (I received an Honorable Mention), and a local small publisher I met at the library told me I had great potential and wanted to put me under contract. I never took her up on her offer. I didn't feel I was good enough.
   I started sharing scenes I'd written on social media, and kept a folder full of all the positive comments I received from others. Comments such as, "You are a master story-teller", and "Your writing lifts me up and transports me to another world," gave me hope I might have finally found something I could master.
   If there was a market for books filled with awesome scenes and nothing else, I'd be a best seller. As usual, I just can't seem to find that final piece of the puzzle to put it all together. As I work on my third book, I continue to get praise for my scenes which is hard for me to accept. I can't help but think that when it's all done, it'll receive three star reviews just like the other two.
   I'm afraid there will always be this voice in the back of my head saying, "You'll never be good enough."

   Thanks for reading.

My Life's Story

   Yesterday we hosted a birthday party for one of my granddaughters who just turned thirteen. That leaves only on grandchild who isn't a teenager or older. I love watching them grow up, but I hate the fact it means I 'm getting older at the same time. I was going to try and get a blog post written, but her birthday took precedence.
   Even though they all have the latest I-Pads and Kindle Fires, the kids love coming over to grandpa's house because I have all the cool old board and card games. Giggles and laughter ring out when they gather around the dining room table with the game of Life set up. Or the sound of dice rattling across the table fills the air when Yahtzee is in play. It only gets quiet when the cake and ice cream is handed out.
   It seems lately that whenever the family gets together, the same question always comes up. "Grandpa, when are you going to write your life's story?" OK, I give! Although I never really considered my life to be very interesting, being a Baby-Boomer had me growing up during some interesting times.
   The question is, where do I start? Should I go back to the little boy living in an abandoned chicken coup in the deep south where returning GI's with a Nazi war bride were treated worse than blacks? Or maybe I should jump forward as a young teenage boy trying to find his identity while watching his mother die of cancer, and believing for some reason that it's his fault. Then there is always Vietnam.
   I wonder sometimes how many folks would actually believe any of these stories who hadn't actually experienced it for themselves? I doubt I'll ever share these publicly, but at the rate my memory is fading, maybe the kids are right and I need to put my life down on paper.
   Thanks for reading.