AIT Graduation Day at Fort Polk. Louisiana, USA

New ID Photo August '71

New Army ID Photo August '71, Fort Benning, Georgia, USA

Letter from home, March '72 - Bien Hoa, RVN

Prince - 16x5
US Army Scout/Patrol Dog
Bien Hoa, RVN 1968-1972
Euthanized July 1972 in-country.

There will never be enough words to describe what you meant to me, boy. See you again over the bridge.
I have heard that all successful artists have an "About" page on their websites.  So, to behave like a successful artist, let's get on with this "About Me" thing. ;~)

"Me" began in a small hamlet in the quaint township of Old Boston.  Ahem!  Just kidding.  I grew up on the mean streets of Boston in the 50s and 60s with a gazillion other kids born to hard-working post-WWII lower-middle-class folks.  Jamaica Plain...JP was my hood.  I had half a gazillion cousins whose families were spread all over New England and starting to show our roaming tendencies. Some were heading for New York, as far away as Texas, and even exotic California.  I would join them after I wasn't just a "me" and move west with my young family.  But not before some trials and errors.

September 6th, 1951 was the day.  Nothing exciting happened.  I checked.  A novelist was born.  A jurist died.  The Sox had the day off.  Then there was "me," the subject of this "about."  This is my birthdate - 09061951. The one number sequence I still remember (aside from my SSN).  Well, that and my paternal grandfather's phone number for some reason.  I still remember Grampa's phone #, PA9-0193.  My aunts taught me the number, so I'd know someone to call in an emergency.  We didn't always have a phone in my house, but someone in the neighborhood would indeed have one of those new-fangled "party lines," usually, and the corner drug store with its Pay-Phone Booth was only a hard five-minute run away...if you had a dime to spare.

I never met all my grandparents.  My father's mom and my mother's dad passed before I was born.  I heard that both were larger-than-life kinds of characters.  My dad's mom Julia, an Irish lass whose history going back somehow stopped at Galway port in 1906 when she started her journey west to the promised land as a teenager, indentured servant.  There she met her Lancelot, Frank Hurder the Ice Man, my grandfather.  As I recall, those two, my paternal grandparents, had more influence on our family than my mom's family did.  At least early on, that was the case.  It was a religious thing—the Hurders are dyed in sackcloth Catholics.  The Hurlburts weren't, and the Hurders would have it no other way.  ALL Hurder children are brought up Catholic.  End of story!  In the name of the father and the son, etc.

Once Julia Hurder was gone, grandpa lost interest, and the family went to hell!  Ha!  If the family ever does see this, oh boy, will TSHTF! We Jamaica Plain Hurders were the worst of the lot (damn city scum), and that wasn't so terrible compared to what I've seen over the years.  I can proudly say that at least the religious hypocrisy stopped with the last three siblings in my family.  Saints, we are not, and never we were!  Even now, as the lone survivor I know my place.  
EDIT-2019: There are just two now.  Dennis is in Maine, and I live in California.  The two who are most alike, and yet we are so far apart.  As to the others, we did not mend those fences.  The past's ugliness remains.
EDIT AGAIN-2022: 12-2022 Dennis passed. I am one.

Not to leave out the other side of the family, nana Hurlburt ruled with an iron rolling pin for as long as she was around, at least where my brothers and I were concerned, she did.  The Hurlburts hailed from Nova Scotia.  A tiny farming town called Windsor Forks in Halifax.  Coming from farmer stock out of that harsh northeast climate, Nana had to be tough.  Somewhere in that lineage was a Mayor of Windsor Forks (a "Benedict" and my Nana's dad, I believe) who once greeted the Queen of England. If my memory doesn't betray me, my mom was supposed to present her with a bouquet, but at the very last second, she chickened out and ran away.  Honestly, if true, this would explain a lot!!!!!

I was the last of five children.  I am like my father but with terrible eyesight- (recently addressed via cataract surgery on both eyes.  I see better now than I ever have.)  I am blessed with Hurlburt hair instead of my dad's monk-like bald spot.  In that respect, I look like my uncle Bob Hurlburt with his silvery grey hair right up to the end.  I hope to follow suit in that regard. Handsome devil he was, even If I say so myself.
(NOTE: 2023 - I have recently been informed that the whole "no monk-like bald spot" thing is a myth.)
(NOTE: 2024 - I still don't believe them!!!!!)


I'm 5' 6", and when I was at my best, I weighed in at a hard-muscled and harder-boned 145 - 150.  I could fight with the best of them and run all day long.  (I topple the scale at 190 if I hang half a leg off the side now. Ugh!)  I inherited my dad's propensity towards fighting and anger in general. I was and, to some degree, still am a power-packed mini-Mack if you will.  A diplomat, I am not.  My mouth goes on automatically the very second, I'm offended, and a lot of today's normal offends me.

EDIT-2023: I have gone berserk on food. I hit 210 and put the skids on. NutriSystem diet and I'm down to 195 after eight weeks. Fingers-crossed. Lips-sealed.
EDIT-2024: I made it down to 170 before I decided I had it licked.  Ahem! 180 now-😣

Back to me, or pre-me:

I had more friends and cousins growing up than I could count.  Both sides of the family were quite prolific, and it seemed like all families had five kids at least.  The funny part was that my dad's side had almost exclusively boy kids, and my mom's side was mostly all girls.  I remember thinking before family outings, 'Oh, cool.  Uncle Jimmy's house.  Baseball with Jimmy Jr. and Joey.'  or 'Ah, nuts!  Uncle John's house and all those girls.  What are they gonna make me do this time?'  Then, "Moo-oooooom?  Do I have to play with the girls?  Can we bring the dog?  Can I bring my bike?" 

"SHUDDUP MYKA!" came a bellow from the front seat.

I mean no offense to my newly re-found and favorite cousins.  Remember, Rose, you told me to do this!!! ;~)

I spent my spare time playing Army, baseball, football, or hockey at three in the morning.  Anyone who hasn't done these things you haven't lived yet.  And yes, we walked to school in knee-deep snowdrifts, uphill both ways.  I have no complaints about my youth.  No family or person, for that matter, is perfect.  We all have spots.  Mine was a nondescript upbringing with highs and lows like everyone else's.  My folks did as well as anyone else's and just as badly at times.  I had chances and choices I squandered and had some taken away because of my bad decisions.  It's called life, oddly enough, even when you don't get to live it your way.

My way would have been as a flyer.  When I first watched those old action movies about heroic flying men, I wanted to be one and planned on it.  When it came time, I went to every recruiter but walked away with no joy.  "You're too short; you have lousy eyesight and no college. Strike three, and you're out, kid!  UGH!  This rejection was as big a crushing blow as not making it onto the Red Sox Little League team in sixth grade.

 Humiliation!  Abandonment!  Lost!  Forever! It stayed that way until I was drafted about a year later.  I went to war as a ground pounder instead of a fly guy.  That was okay, though, in the end.  I met my other best friends while serving, and one, in particular, will be with me every day until I join him on the other side of Rainbow Bridge.  My war dog, Prince, 16x5, but that's another story.  He got me through that one.  It was the aftermath that was the actual test.  It took another lifelong friend to get me past that.

Coming home wasn't a homecoming, not in the traditional sense. It was a disaster.  I'd never met anyone who hated me face to face before then.  Even in Nam, the enemy wasn't in my face.  He was an elusive phantom.  When I came home, my fellow citizens wanted my blood and threw bags of dog shit at me.

At first, I lashed out.  I went underground for a while when it became apparent, I would not survive in this environment.  I was angry and stayed that way, but I learned to quash it.  Jail scared me!  There wasn't much going on for me for a while, and if I hadn't found love, somehow, or it found me, I might still be there.

I did fall in love with the only real "lifelong" friend I've ever had, even if it did take a miracle.  Her name is Donna, and as I've said repeatedly, she saved me from me.  She still is.  "Thank you, dear.  Yes, dear, I'll take the dogs for a walk now."

I, we live, and we've thrived.  I'm retired, as is Donna.  We have been blessed with three incredible children who have their own families now, and they have re-blessed us with six of the most awesome grandchildren ever.

My passion, after the family, lies in writing, and image-making.  I hope to nibble someday at Adams's prowess with light, glass, and film.  I have learned to see a little bit and will, I hope, continue to do so.

"To see, we must forget the name of the thing we are looking at." - Claude Monet.

And so, to show you, I click, click, click.

Popi

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