Chapter 1 … Extra-Ordinary

My Mama must have loved me. That’s the only explanation.

I have no writing talent, but I’ve written a bunch of books. I have no music talent, but as long as I adhere to the mantra of “loud, fast, the get-the-hell off the stage,” I can fool some of the people. I’m not an intellectual, but people give me credit as one. I know little to nothing about business, but I’ve earned a small fortune as a marketing guru, and I’m not funny, but many people know me, first and foremost, as a humor writer. The truth is, I’m just a wise guy who never quite graduated from adolescence. I am the Eternal Sophomore.

Here I am in my mother’s arms visiting the home of Flora and Logan Fields on Little Squam Lake in New Hampshire.

I blame my Mama. Because she loved me, I grew up invincible. Because she loved me, I grew up thinking I could do anything. Because she loved me, I knew that all the best of life would come my way.

As my life is heading for the inevitable finish line, I am forced to acknowledge that I have fallen short of some of my life expectations. Fame and fortune? Let’s just change the definitions. I am a household word, admittedly in a small number of homes, but they are the homes I care about. In terms of money, unless I am unlucky or stupid, I should have enough to last until I die. World’s greatest lover? It’s quality, not quantity, that matters.

Beloved? Um-m-m, not my style. Talented? By my definition, yes. Respected? Well, who needs respect, anyway?

Why, then, a memoir? Aren’t those for exceptional people living in extraordinary times, who accomplished amazing feats. Why yes, yes, and yes! I am that person, the one who stands out from an entire generation, the one who inspires myth and legend, the one celebrated in song (albeit, my own), the one who lives on after the flesh has returned to dust. And all because my Mama loved me.

I hope your Mama loved you, too!

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But my Mama was not the only one who made me feel special. On Post Island our neighbors Rita and Charlie Johnson cared for Rita’s elderly mother. One day, prompted I’m sure by my mother, they invited me on to their porch and invited me to sing “The Happy Wanderer.”

I was about six years old, too young to have learned to be self-conscious. I launched right in and belted out an acapella version. Everyone on the porch showered me with praise and they gave me a shiny dime— the exact amount of legal tender that could be exchanged for a small soft-serve ice cream cone at the local Dairy Queen.

Henceforth, nearly every time I walked by the Johnson’s porch, I was summoned to perform my signature version of “The Happy Wanderer” and pocketed many a shiny dime for my efforts. Truth be told, I began to make a point of making sure my route took me by the Johnson’s porch whenever I could see Rita’s mother out there. 

As a result, it became fixed in my head that I was an exceptionally good singer and a born entertainer. Time passed. Old mother Johnson passed away. No one gave me dimes for singing “The Happy Wanderer” any more, but the notion that I was an extraordinary singer was firmly etched into my brain.  It was years later that I learned that my crooning abilities were slightly below average, but by this time my self-image was set. The discrepancy between my singing ability and the harsh reality could now be explained by one, tiny punctuation mark. I was not an ordinary singer … I was extra-ordinary.