The Cheese Stands Alone
A snip:
In the latter half of 1966 and for two-thirds of the following year, I’d had a fine existence. I was doted on by new parents eager to give their young son a good life—or so I must have thought. In retrospect, it is clear those seemingly loving parents were plotting against me from the beginning. Undoubtedly I needed something from them that November night when I was barely 3 months old. My cries, however—for food, comfort, or a clean diaper—went cruelly unheeded as they traipsed off to begin production of my nemesis. This was the beginning of a long list of resentments I would harbor against them but lying there in my crib—hungry, shivering, and packing a full diaper—I was hardly in a position to stop them. He was born just nine days after my first birthday. My idyllic childhood had come to an end.
My nephew is majoring in writing at Southern Oregon University. He also has this blog.
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