About the Author
Always the observer, FW has spent a lifetime with the notion he is on the outside looking in. Everything gets noticed and noted, very little escapes. Needing a creative release, theatre, and all the boundless expression the stage allows, found him in his mid-twenties, catching him quite by surprise. An actor, director, producer, stand-up comic, poet, street performer, lover of the short story, he realized writing was the one thread binding them, holding him, together. Writing is the one area he feels totally at ease with.
Out on his own early in life, at times he has had to survive on sheer wit, wily ways, and wishful wisdom. Where to some life is a test, FW likens it more to a pop-quiz. Only those quick enough, creative enough, witty enough to react, are allowed to move on to the next experience, the next round.
Over the years, luck, fate, and roads traveled, have put, placed, dropped, a wealth of colorful characters in his path. He read somewhere, "Writers write best writing of what they know." So with, "Never Play Leapfrog with a Unicorn", he has decided to start at the beginning, chronicling the oft times funny, oft times emotional, oft times dramatic, yet always colorful characters chance assembled to orbit his formative youth.
So sit back, put your feet up, pull the box of Junior Mints ® a bit closer. The show is about to begin.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
The "Great Gray Monster" had stood empty and spooky-looking for a very long time, sitting three house lots behind us. We lived in the other pauper's palace. The "Great White Elephant" towered in monumental tribute to the vast legion of do-it-yourselfers over many decades past.
Whenever either house was sold it went for pennies on the dollar. Both needed major work. Major extensive structural work. Major expensive structural work. This, along with repairing, replacing, gutting, and finishing years of half-baked projects and half-assed outcomes by many past well-intentioned summer owners, would have cost a pretty penny to correct.
"Makes no sense throwing good money after bad. Don't much matter, we don't have either one," my dad would say. Then he'd grin, chuckle, cough, huck a louie, fart, and walk away. All at the same time.
I tried it once when I was seven and sprained my ankle.
_____________________________________________
Downstairs was the kitchen sink, and upstairs a bathroom hand sink and an old "iron-claw" tub. Sunday night was bath night. This was the only night the tub was used, and even then never ever filled, because when filled to normal the water's weight made the old warped floorboards "pop" and "tic." My mother was convinced one day the tub would come crashing down into the living room and we would all drown. Not to mention the luckless soul sitting on the sofa, located directly beneath the tub, would be crushed. Getting ready for school on cool New England spring mornings, chilly falls, and bitterly cold winters, I would fill up the hand sink with hot water, fold my arms, immerse them, then plunge my face in. Not having a proper heating system in my year-round summer house, this was not so much to wash-up as it was to get warm.
"Freeze the brass off a bald monkey!" my dad would say on chilly mornings.
"Freeze the balls off a brass monkey!" he'd say in the winters deep-freeze.
I thought of this as blue-collar meteorology.
____________________________________________