The contemplation of turning points has given me pause; there have been many, some subtle and others obvious. It's a challenge not to over think them and waste time wondering "if only..." But wasting time and wondering is part of the fun and can provide insight for future decisions.
Uncle Ken's notion of a "future self" coming into the past to give a warning or heads-up is intriguing. Would I have followed any advice or even listened? Probably not, having suffered the common youthful maladies of pride, arrogance, and general stupidity....
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The earliest memory of a turning point came in the form of Miss Rockwell, my second grade teacher. Oh, she was a beauty, maybe only a couple of years out of college. She lived in an apartment on the corner of my block, and I used to gaze in awe as she walked home from the school. This was before I had her as a teacher and spent a lot of time on the stoops watching the world go by...
One of the classes had workbooks, and part of the assignment was to color them in, using the finest products of Binney & Smith. I think I had the pack of eight, maybe sixteen, crayons. Anyhow, there was one picture to be colored, a sandy beach and I tried something different. As I recall, the coloring method of crayons was to really lay the color down; there was no subtlety with second graders. And stay within the lines, dammit!
With my limited palette I used very light passes with different colors and made, what I thought, was a excellent looking sandy beach. After the workbooks were turned in Miss Rockwell gave a critique, without mentioning names. She would say, "Isn't this a good picture, class?" while vigorously nodding her head. The class responded positively, "Oh, yes. Very good." I usually didn't pay attention while she did this, so when she said, "Isn't this a bad picture?" my ears perked up. Oh boy, some dummy really screwed up the assignment! Who could it be? I looked up, and there was the lovely Miss Rockwell shaking her head while she held up my workbook. The class responded in a like manner. "Boo! It stinks!" Or words to that effect. I was speechless, maybe in the second grade version of shock and betrayal.
That turning point gave me an intense distrust of authority, and it still runs deep. I also learned not to give a rat's ass about the opinion of others, not a healthy attitude in early child development. The effects linger still.
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Maybe she did me a favor. I studied art in college, mostly painting & sculpture. That wasn't the original plan. I was a "pre-engineering" major, which meant that I would do three years at the school, and then two years at Purdue, whereupon I would have two degrees, a BA and a BS. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but freshman year killed me, grade-point wise; it was a brutal class load. So, sophomore year I had an "undecided" major, taking the required classes but had a drawing class as an elective. Sounded easy...how hard can a drawing class be? Boy, was I in for a surprise...three hour classes, three times a week, and the instructor was relentless. First semester I barely earned a 'B' and there was only one 'A' in the class.
Second semester was better. I was learning something and actually was able to draw stuff that looked what it was supposed to look like. Late in that semester the instructor asked me about my major. I told him I was undecided, and he asked "Why don't you become an art major?" I didn't have an answer to that, so I became an art major, which was another turning point.
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Junior year was loaded with four studio classes; I had a lot of catching up to do for the art major. I did well, but that one year burned me out and completely depleted any creative juices I may have had. I couldn't see returning for the senior year; the well was dry.
So I decided to drop out of college. Only one problem...the year was 1968, and I think they were drafting 50,000 lads a month and I just lost my student deferment. While in school, I seriously considered being a conscientious objector and even talked to the campus chaplain a few times and got some literature. But in my heart I knew I wasn't a CO and I didn't want to go to Canada, possibly never to return to the US, to get out of the draft.
In my mind, the only viable option was to enlist, and take my chances with getting a good class to keep me out of combat. So I did, and that's another turning point, maybe thanks to Miss Rockwell.
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Ft. Polk was a lovely place in the late summer, although I was hoping to go to the concerts in Lincoln Park during the Democratic convention. I don't think I missed much, although I would have like to have seen the Jefferson Airplane again.
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