Testa Dura, my father used to call me. It became my second name. His complaint — I had a hard head.
Even as a kid I was what he called hardheaded. I call it tenacious. I keep at it till I achieve my goal or I realize on my own that I need to readjust. On my own. That part matters.
I’ve come a long way from a 650 square foot tract home in a little town outside of St. Louis. I remember walking home from school one day, my usual route, past the Mayor’s house, past the Kroger’s, then across the tracks to my subdivision. And it hit me — I just crossed the tracks. The Mayor’s house is on the other side. That must mean I come from the wrong side of the tracks.
Seemed fitting.
I’m 69 now and if you’ve read any of my stories you know I should have been dead a long time ago. A beat-up kid with no prospects who barely survived getting out of my father’s house. I served my country honorably in the US Navy for eight years and would have made it a career if disability hadn’t ended it.
But God or the Uni…
