Cold Weather or Abuse?

People have often asked me why I have such an adversity to cold weather.  That's easy, it's much easier to take clothes off when it's warm than to try to find enough clothes to put on when you're cold.   That seems simple enough.  As an aside, the all-important “shrinkage” factor also has to be taken into account in matters such as this.

Recently, as I've been going through storage and attempting to consolidate, among other things, all the photo albums from the years, I've found shocking new evidence that perhaps my cold weather adversity is rooted in something far more sinister.

I won't accuse my now departed parents of child abuse exactly.  But the evidence seems clear that they, at minimum, had a cool and hard streak in them that must have traumatized me far beyond even my own recognition at the time, and didn't manifest itself until much later in life.  Although I enjoy a snow storm, even snow covered peaks for their beauty, I hate cold weather.

To set the stage, I was born in Mount Vernon, Ohio.  Yes, by birth, I am a Yankee.  Get over it.  At the time, my Mother, the daughter of a Polish shoe maker born herself in Ohio, and my Father, born to a PA miner.  So, obviously, two Yankees begat a son.  Fortunately, my grandparents, themselves from the North, had already decided by the time of my birth, that Florida had a much more attractive climate to offer and moved themselves to the West Coast of Florida to operate a cab company, and later, run the bowling alley at MacDill AFB (another story onto itself).  This becomes important later in this sad tale.

As it turns out, I apparently (why don't I recall these details more clearly - perhaps it's the trauma of my youth?) spent the first 24 months of my life living in and around the Mount Vernon and Toledo, Ohio area with my (abusive-but-I-forgive-them) parents before being taken on a visit to my Grandparents at around age 2 and half.

As the photographic evidence clearly shows, the visit was long overdue!  I wonder, now, if perhaps I threw such a temper tantrum at the time that they moved to Florida from Ohio to mollify me?  Whatever.

Exhibit A clearly documents the raw abuse I was made to suffer as a native Ohioan.  Obviously, from the look on my face, I knew early in life this was a lifestyle to be avoided.  The photo's show what can only be described as a cruel act to play on such an innocent (and attractive) child.  It's difficult to see even after all these years.

Exhibit B however, shows a much happier young man first discovering the joy (and casual life style through clothing) of beach living in Florida.  Thank God for Grandparents eh?  My parents moved, and thankfully took me along, to Florida in early 1953. . .the jaunty angle of my cap suggest to me that I find the lifestyle a little more attractive!  I vividly recall, on more than one occasion, my Mother saying something along the lines of "yes, you have to wear clothes" while playing on the beach in my youth.  Even then I was difficult.  But happy.

I've learned to forgive my parents, but I really should find some way to post this as a Public Service Announcement to my friends living in the North so that they will not abuse their own children, and make them suffer, as they grow into adults.

Be forewarned, your kids may grow up just like me once you've exposed them to the beach.