by David A. Stuckey   Introduction

 

                                                – Henry James

 

Dear Rachel,

While I await your arrival into my life I have decided to prepare for you a collection of some of the stories that have entertained and amused my family – your family – over the years. I have also included a number of other stories, many of which the other members of my family may not know, that provide a glimpse into who I was as a young man.  I hope you will enjoy them all, and that you will perhaps develop some affection for the people in them as well.

I suppose, then, that this is an autobiography of sorts.  But only of sorts. There are more holes than plugs, and I have made no attempt to be complete.  Instead, I have included only those stories that seem important, significant – or sometimes funny.  But that’s fair: two hundred and seventy pages is enough of me, I believe, and I’m sure you’ll agree. 

Still, as I said, much has been left out, especially in terms of greater context and background.  Thus, if you want to know more about West Berlin in the 1970s or Pittsburgh in the 1980s (both of which I lived in), I’m afraid this is not the place.  Similarly, I’ve limited the number of “stories” which can be told in two sentences.  Thus, if you want to know about me playing league soccer for two summers during college or me going skiing in the 3^rd grade (about both of which there is little else to say beyond the fact that I did them), you will be disappointed. 

What I did include are stories in which I make a fool of myself, stories that seemed especially important to me (at the time or now), and stories of some of the people most important to me growing up.  Indeed, the accounts that follow are about many of the subjects that most concern young boys: love, death, sex, failure, triumph, school, girls, college, work, sports, friends, travel, art, hope, desire, and almost everything in between.  It’s a pretty wide-ranging collection, Rachel.

Does the collection have any kind of theme, you may wonder?  Well, not one I had in mind writing it, though on a trivial level, you’ll notice how often my memories are tied to specific movies, which will surprise nobody who knows me. 

On a more serious level, I noticed – as you surely will – that I was happier, that life was easier for me, as a young boy than as a teenager.  As a result, I found myself missing that happy pre-teen, and I found myself watching with some regret as his world became a lonelier, more difficult one to understand and negotiate, and as he started to like himself less than he had before.  Somehow, somewhere, the small boy who was happy listening to Helen Reddy with his Mom, playing board games with his Dad, and watching Carol Burnett with both, disappeared and was replaced with a boy who felt himself – and thus became – unattractive, got in massive fights with his mother, encouraged his father to steal, and contemplated entering the adult film industry (only sort of, and for about five seconds). I rediscovered a little bit of that younger boy while writing this, however, and I hope you will find him as engaging as I did.

As for the older me, the teenager, I hope that you will recognize the smaller boy in him, and recognize some of his frustrations and disappointments as necessary growing pains.  Regardless of whether or not he deserves it – perhaps because he himself did not always believe he did – I find myself feeling almost equally affectionate of him, flawed as he was, as I do of his younger self. And what the hell – he wasn't that bad a kid!

The quote from Henry James with which I started this letter to you, Rachel, I have found especially resonant and moving since I first came across it several years ago.  I hear in it not only the profound call for kindness apparent on its face, but also a gentle reminder – or maybe just a hope – that what really matters is how we interact with other people.  I certainly have not always lived up to Henry James’ standard and acted with kindness – yet I marvel at the number of people I have come across who did.  People who appear in these stories, like Jack Gray, my grandma, Susi Stiles, Steve Dielman, my parents, Michelle Parker, Steven Weatherbee – and many, many who do not, like Allegra Joerke, my first grade teacher Bertha, Ava Brown, and so many others.  They were all absolutely significant in my life, whether they appear in these stories or not.  Teenage boys are rarely kind, Rachel, and I’m afraid I was a work in progress at the end as I was at the beginning.  But I certainly can’t blame any of my failures on a lack of good role models.

In any event, I hope you’ll keep Henry James’ admonition in mind as you read this, and perhaps even after.  Be kind.

Sincerely,

            David at 39

 

P.S.  Hurry up and get here!

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