A story of my father, a new relationship with fear, and two wheels.
Brothers, sisters, and everyone in between- I have a tale to tell, and I’ve committed myself to the sharing of it. Of all the story worthy adventures I’ve had, this is by far the most important one, because it’s about the core of who I am and the humans that raised me, and where I’m going. This story is about the essence of my family culture — but don’t worry. I know you really don’t care about an exhaustive family history, so I’m going to keep that shit very brief — barely enough to set the stage.
I grew up with a disabled father. I’ll explain more about how it in an upcoming chapter – for now, it’s enough to say that I didn’t have a “normal” Dad growing up. My Dad’s condition created it’s own gravity in our family. His disability limited the kinds of jobs he could take, necessitating my mother working, and placing us in that “we have the essentials but nothing more, and barely” socioeconomic status. My Dad’s situation often put me in the position of…
Today is Father’s Day. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than tell you for a moment about the the bad-assery of the OG Duane. Some of you may know that Duane is not my last name, it’s my middle name, my father’s first name. I go by “Paul Duane” for a couple of reasons, one of which, is to pay tribute to my Dad with my work.
“I know. Someone already told me. They asked me not to tell you who it was.” There is a very short list of people who this could be, and within seconds, I’ve narrowed it down with 99% confidence. I’m pretty certain it’s my Aunt Maureen – she means well. If only I could have had some knowledge that my Mom already knew. This would have saved me from all of that stress. I’m both frustrated and relieved.