Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

“The heart and the mind...what an enigma.” Charlie Chaplin - The Psyche

Introduction

My mother (Clara Meier Fisher) was of the Mormon faith; a descendant of Norwegian and Slovokian (gypsy) stock. My father (Donald Joseph Vine) was a Rhode Island RED ( Irish-Catholic). By that measure, my enigmatic life was set before me. They met and married in my hometown of San Diego, California.

I remember a story from my father’s past, related to me by an unrecalled family member. He was a gunner in the U.S. Navy during WWII. He took a shot of shrapnel to the head that would have killed him had he not been wearing his helmet.

That thought always kept me focused on how fragile the circle of life can be. They divorced before the birth of my conscious memory.

Chapter 1
In the beginning...
Introduction
My mother (Clara Meier Fisher) was of the Mormon faith; a descendant of Norwegian and Slovokian (gypsy) stock. My father (Donald Joseph Vine) was a Rhode Island RED ( Irish-Catholic). By that measure, my enigmatic life was set before me. They met and married in my hometown of San Diego, California. I remember a story from my father’s past, related to me by an unrecalled family member. He was a gunner in the U.S. Navy during WWII. He took a shot of shrapnel to the head that would have killed him had he not been wearing his helmet. That thought always kept me focused on how fragile the circle of life can be. They divorced before the birth of my conscious memory.
Chapter 1
In the beginning...
As an only child, my frst memory of life was being laid on my back in a crib, with the room bathed in shadows from a sliver of hallway light pushing through a partially closed door. My mother’s soft, gentle hands would move me gently to and fro, adjusting blankets and sleepwear. I recall holding a container of warm, comforting liquid snugly as I suckled long
and hard on the dispenser, wanting more than just a small taste each time. I was enveloped in a feeling of well-being and security with each gulp.


I remember hearing the sound of music. I found out much later that a Decca record player was scratching out Edvard Grieg’s, Hall of the Mountain King, after frst playing a 78 rpm recording of the Tales of Uncle Remus. This was a nightly ritual repeated for months. The contentment I seek on a daily basis always includes the attraction of those simple pleasures