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Chapter 1
We Come Into This World Naked and Crying,
and It Goes Downhill From There

It all started with an accident. I've had many of them in my life, most of them leaving physical and emotional scars. My birth was no different; I'm a rhythm method baby. My name is Craig Joseph Braquet; I'm the third generation born in the United States originally from southern France. The Braquet family line has historically been farmers, and when the number of children grew too large to divide the farmland between, my great-great-grandfather told the children to "Move to America."

I have a brother named Jay who was planned, and was born twenty months earlier; I was born in Topeka Kansas on 20 December, 1957. Soon after this happy, unexpected event we moved to Rome, New York. My dad was a gunner in the Air Force. That means we moved around a lot.

We lived in a trailer park there for six years. My world was so new and small that I only remember a couple of features of the neighborhood. I remember the huge "Dempsey Dumpster" that was at the far end of our street. I was fascinated by it. I knew the feel of our trailer shaking and the low rumble as the dump truck drove down our street. I knew the whining noise the truck made as the driver positioned the two metal arms to pick up the bin, then the ear splitting – CLANG CLANG – as he bounced the bin to force out every last bit of our discarded trash. I knew the light brown panel truck that home delivered "Charles Chips." I knew about the large round tin container the chips came in, the same color as the delivery truck, and that they made a great toy drum when empty. I knew that on the infrequent occasions that Jay and I walked the couple of blocks to school, that we passed through a wooded area and over a small bridge. I remember finding a bird's nest on the ground that had fallen out of a tree, and taking it to my kindergarten class to show my teacher.

Though we lived for several years in New York State my father was not the type to go site seeing with the family. We never went to see Niagara Falls, or New York City, or the Statue of Liberty. When my Uncle Lloyd drove up from Texas for a visit we did round up the family to drive through New York City -- I got to see the Liberty Statue from a distance as we drove by. I guess being in the Air Force took up a lot of dad's time. I think it also must have been thirsty work, because when he was home he drank a lot of beer.

We were very close to Utica New York, which was locally famous for brewing a popular beer called Utica Club Beer. I remember my dad drinking that brand. Alcohol is also a recurring theme in my life story. They had an advertising jingle that played on the radio:

Don't brew me no beer with artificial bubbles,
Like popular beers of today.
At Utica Club we take time, to brew beer the natural way.

My mom told me a story about another accident I was involved in. Being an infant, I was too young to remember for myself. She was off visiting somewhere, and dad had a few of his drinking buddies over to our trailer to play poker. I guess I must have soiled my diaper, because dad changed it for me. When mom came home I was screaming and crying, she checked on me, and found that dad had secured the diaper a little too well. He'd put the safety pin not only through the cloth, but also my skin. He didn't understand why I was crying, he told mom I was quiet until he changed me. He even gave me some bourbon in my bottle to help calm me down. I think my dad had a drinking problem.

As often happens in military families, dad was transferred again, this time to Blytheville Air Force Base in Arkansas. So we packed up our belongings and had our trailer moved from New York to the "boot heel" of Arkansas. It was just 2 miles or so from the Missouri border. We'd drive just over the border to Gilbert Missouri, where there was a store that sold pit barbecue. I was only six, and I didn't know much yet, but I swear I could smell the hickory smoke as soon as we crossed the state line. I never knew the name of the old man that ran the store, but he wore striped overalls stained brown around the pockets from wiping his barbecue sauced hands on them. There in the back of the store, was a magic door set up into the wall. When he opened that door I could feel the heat and see things glowing red. I'd never seen anything like that before and I was sure that door opened to hell, -- and we got barbecue from it. He'd stab a huge chunk of meat with a knife and put it in a bag for us to take home. That wonderful hickory smell followed us all the way back to our trailer across from the air force base.

Unlike our cool Dempsey Dumpster back in New York, here we had four empty oil barrels at the end of the street to hold our trash. Without the trailer shaking rumble of a dump truck to alert me, I never saw who came to empty them. When they were empty I could see the oily sludge at the bottom. I'm not sure why I remember trash cans; probably because it was one of my chores to empty take out the trash.

Jay and I were enrolled in a private catholic school in Blytheville. We were taught by both lay teachers and nuns. You could tell them apart because the ones that dressed like penguins were nuns. Lay teachers were just normal teachers without the religious vows. The only teacher I ever remember from there was named "Mrs. Carney". Everyone was afraid of her. I think she was the meanest teacher in the school. Some kids even made a song up about how strict she was, we sang it to the tune of "the caissons go rolling along."

Over land. Over sea,
Over Mrs. Carney's knee,
There's a paddle a-waiting for me.

The Catholic School gave awards to students who did well; for perfect attendance, or straight A's. I don't recall many students actually receiving any of these prizes, but I wanted them. I found schoolwork easy, made straight A's most of the time, and I had to remind the Nuns that I was supposed to receive a "prize". After annoying them a few times, they came up with a small religious statue or a couple of "holy-cards". A holy-card is a small card with a picture of a saint on it, which has a prayer on the back. If you say the prayer a prescribed number of times, you received an "indulgence", like if you said the prayer 50 times, when you died, a year would be taken off your anticipated time in "purgatory", where you stayed till you were "good" enough to get into heaven. Something like modern day Pokemon cards, only the Catholic variety. We should have made them into a trading card game back then -- My St Francis of Assisi is unharmed by your arrows and sends his rabbit to eviscerate you and birds to poke your eyes out.

In moving from the first to the second grade I tested well enough that the school suggested to my parents that I skip a grade. My folks thought this might traumatize me, so they opted to let me advance normally. Little did they know that "advancing normally" was NOT in my future.

We owned a Chevrolet pickup truck, a push-button automatic Mercury station wagon, and a Boston Whaler fishing boat. The boat, of course, was parked on the front lawn. King and Queen, our Beagles, were chained to the shed attached to our trailer. When we went anywhere, Jay and I rode in the back cargo area of the truck. There were no seatbelt laws back then; in fact I don't even think there were seatbelts in cars. We'd bounce and slide around in the back of the pickup, usually having a great time. On occasion Dad would drive drunk. We didn't have a good time then. I remembered being afraid when he drove us home. He swerved into the other lane a lot; I'm surprised we never had an accident. Dad attributed this to the little plastic Jesus stuck on the dashboard. He said God looks after fools and drunks, so I assume we were doubly protected.

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