I was born to two loving parents (though, like all parents, not without their faults), Stephen and Lois Lesnick, their third son (the second living one, #2, William Christopher, died of what is now known as SIDS in 1957, aged 2 months), younger brother of Stephen Jr., seventeenth consecutive son to bear that name in the family. A year and 5 days later, John Paul was born, missing St Patrick's Day, and being named for the Saint by a single day, a fact for which he still professes his eternal gratitude. I never knew either of my grandfathers, both having passed away before my birth.
After living a typicalish childhood in the house my father extensively remodeled in Clifton, NJ, a wierd series of events all occurred whirlwind like in the life of our 9 year old hero. First, my mother's mother died, from complications related to intestinal disease brought on by years of alcoholism. Then, revealing his genetics (more on this later), Stephen died at age 19 of congestive heart failure. My mother, now enabled by the insurance money from these two deaths, packed me and John up and moved away from her abusive alcoholic husband (our father), subsequently divorcing him. Childhood got somewhat less happy through this time as my mother was forced to rely on the remainder of the insurance money to supliment her income from working as a medical secretary. Eventually the money ran out, and we found ourselves living in low rent housing in Paterson, NJ.
At some point (early 1979), my mother and her boyfriend decided it would be a good thing to get the kids away from all the high speed turmoil which is growing up in New Jersey, and they settled on the idea of moving out to New Mexico, where Walt had a friend from when they'd served together on the same ship in the Navy. So, we packed all our things, and dragged ourselves across the country to the sprawling metropolis of Carlsbad, NM (pop. 27,000).
Oh, yeah, the genetics/heart thing. The males in our family seem to exhibit various heart ailments. It's certainly genetic, as my father's father was dead before I was born from a heart attack, Stephen died at 19 from congestive heart failure, I had heart surgery at age 6 to correct a kinked aorta, and dad died when I was 18 (he was 57, and the oldest man ever in my family) of a heart attack after some particularly strenuous sex with a woman 20 years his junior. At least he had a good death, but that doesn't change the fact that he, too, had heart trouble. The only one who hasn't had any trouble is John, but if I were him, I'd be worried.
So, the scorecard for the New Jersey phase of our story is:
Two operations, a tonsilectomy, and a coarctesion of the aorta.
Over 50 stitches to repair various tears, wounds, and surgeon inflicted cuts.
One bad concussion. (Unconcious for over 4 hours, and a neurological change which has altered all my childhood memories.
All of my memories from before the bicycle crash are now in a modified Black and White look, instead of color. Well, this
isn't exactly accurate. I see colors, but only two, green and orange, where green takes the place of black and orange
takes the place of white in my Black and White memories. Even better, though, is having recently dreamed a recurring nightmare that I used to dream before the crash, and it, too, was in green and orange)
NO BROKEN BONES (None that weren't done during my heart surgery, that is.)
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