Chapter One

David Spacey was eight years old. He was tall for his age and very skinny. He lived with his father, mother, four sisters, and one brother on Hart street. Although he had many siblings, he often felt like an only child. His brother and three of his sisters were much older than he, and his little sister was five years younger. None of them shared his interests or his imagination.

David was very self-conscious of his height and build. He was teased by the other kids all the time about being so skinny. His parents bought him new clothes at the beginning of each school year, but by the end of the year he had grown in height so much that his pants were 2–3 inches too short for him. He often heard, “Where’s the flood?” while walking around at school.

David was a very bright kid, but didn’t like being the center of attention so he only applied himself in areas that really interested him. He loved to read and he loved to play chess. He was in the chess club at school, which was another source of teasing. Most of the other kids in the chess club were outcasts and nerds.

His love for reading had lead Sherry, one of his cousins, to use him for a college class project. She took him to the library every Thursday night for four weeks and let him pick out a book of his choice that he had to read over the next week. He then had to answer a bunch of questions about what he liked and what he didn’t like about the book. He enjoyed the experience so much that he asked Sherry if she would continue taking him after the project was over. She agreed and for several years after that they had a regular date on Thursday nights. David loved it. He loved the reading, the opportunity to go to the library, and he loved the one-on-one attention he received from Sherry.

A bicycle was one of the defining possessions of an eight-year-old boy in the ‘60’s. David’s bicycle was an old junky bike that he had put together from several old, dilapidated bikes, but it was his, it worked, and he loved it. Most of his friends had nice bikes that their parents had bought new for them. David’s bike was an old Schwinn Sting-ray with a banana seat and a short sissy-bar. The front rim was pretty badly bent, so he took the rear wheel from an old bike and used it as a front wheel. The handle bars were from an old motorcycle dirt-bike his brother had crashed. It took some jury-rigging to get them to work, but he had managed. So between the handle bars and front wheel, it had a real motorcycle dirt-bike look and feel to it.

David rode his bike everywhere he was allowed to go. He especially liked to ride it in the field across the footbridge from his house. The footbridge went across a flood-control cement ditch everyone referred to as the “wash”. The field was about a one-acre open field with the wash running along one side, a row of houses running along the other side, a dirt ditch that emptied into the wash on the far end, and a street on the end closest to the footbridge. Many of David’s adventures, alone and with friends took place in that field. During the spring the field was waist-high with thick, lush, green grass. It would die during the summer, and the city would come and cut the dead grass and roto-till the field every fall.

The Saturday after school let out for summer vacation in 1967, David had just started to mow the lawn in his front yard when he saw a big moving van driving down the street toward his house. It turned onto Hart street and proceeded up the block to the house that had been for sale for some time. He noticed a few days ago that a “Sold” sign had been place on the “For Sale” sign in the front yard. As the van drove by, David saw a kid about his age sitting in the front seat. “I wonder if he’s moving in”, thought David. “I’ll have to go down and see after I’m finished mowing the lawn.”

As he hurried through mowing the lawn, David remembered how much he envied his older brother when it was his responsibility to mow the lawn. He remembered the anticipation of being old enough to push the mower around the yard, leaving trails of freshly cut grass in his wake. He also remembered how quickly the novelty wore off once it became his responsibility and it took up part of his Saturday morning every week. His thoughts had carried him through the drudgery of mowing the lawn. Once he was finished, he climbed on his bike and pedaled down Hart street to see the new neighbors.

About the Author

I was born in December 1960. Since 1984, I have been the husband of an excellent wife whose worth is far above jewels. The Lord has filled my quiver with four wonderful children who rise up and bless me daily. I serve my Lord as an under-shepherd, an elder under His authority at a small non-denominational (Reformed/Baptist/Charismatic) church. The Lord has gifted me in the areas of writing and teaching and I aspire to serve Him using these gifts. I believe He has called me to, someday, serve Him on a full-time basis.

My children love to hear my childhood stories, so I have compiled them for my children's and possibly other children's amusement. David Spacey is me—sometimes he is my alter-ego. These stories are loosely based on my own actual childhood stories. I have altered timelines and taken plenty of creative license, mostly based on my imagination at the time. In other words, these are my actual childhood stories, what I wanted them to be, or what I imagined them to be. Either way, it is all me.

—David S. Spaggiari