Memoirs of a Flower Child by George S Geisinger (best novels ever txt) 📖

Peaches. All those stories about Hitler were nothing. That's all negative stuff. There was Peaches and me. That's what was real. I'm still wondering how much German I learned from Peaches, and how much German I have in my genetics.
I eventually had to do some research.

There were ancient tribes who herded “geis,” or small mountain goats, in the Black Forest region of Germany. The ancient way of herding was to sing. That was the reference in The Bible, “His sheep know His voice.” I finally got the connection between my singing voice, my last name, and my ease for understanding German. It all seemed natural all of a sudden.

I should've married Peaches. I've often thought so. But she would not stay; I could not keep her. I'll tell you what happened, and maybe I can forgive myself for the telling of it. I've lived the better part of my lifetime without anyone. I can't help but blame myself for that.
My oldest brother took us to a party back in the day. It was cold out. Peaches and I were in the back seat. I think my sister was up front with my brother. We were on the way to do things like bob for apples, dance the dances of the young, and play silly parlor games. I put my arm around her in the car. I was so thrilled to be with her. I loved her so much. I was staring at her. Honest, I thought what I wanted would be OK with Peaches. She had on her winter coat. Nothing I wanted would hurt her. I would never hurt her. I didn't know I was doing That. I wasn't attacking her. I was just curious about girls, for God's sake.
Why couldn't you understand? Sure, girls are girls, but guys are guys too, right?

A long time after that I saw her at our high school reunion.
I had never understood.
I could hardly breathe as I walked up to her. I asked her why she'd broken up with me, so long ago. After she told me, I left the reunion, drove around in my car all night on those long-familiar country roads where I grew up. I cried my eyes out, long into the darkness, because I could not bear to face anyone. Tears still run hot down my face, Peaches, as I tell here what I did to you.
You said it yourself finally, in just this simple way, and now I understand.
“Curiosity squished the peach, George,” you said with unmasked indignation, and then you just walked away.

I've been collecting impressions of girls all my life, like some guys collect baseball cards or watch football games. I've mostly been under the impression that knowing a woman a little while is a lot better than all the uncertainty, responsibility, commitment, and all that that goes along with a marriage.
I really hate that organ music in a church wedding, the white dress, the idea that every other woman on the face of the planet is supposed to be nobody after the “I do,” and all that.
People are always going to be people, far as I can figure.
And I'm not taking any chances I'd marry somebody like my dad. I figure, heck no, I'm not interested.
But the older I get, the more isolated I feel. There's nobody to burn the turkey at my place on Thanksgiving. There's nobody coming to see me Christmas day. There's just plain nobody.
Well, I guess I asked for it.

Lucky Girl
Chapter 3

By this time it was definitely the 60's. I was 14. That idiot had blown the back of Jack Kennedy's head off. Kids like me were playing guitars, wearing flowers in our hair, tie-dying t-shirts at home.
Mom sent me off to summer camp with the Methodist kids. I took my guitar. I never had to obey anyone ever again. Summer camp would last forever. I'd never grow up. We were young. We were free. Al was my roomy from home. There was plenty of riot lat at night in the dorm. Sonny was the only other guy who broth a guitar. We sat around and played a lot of guitar, talked shop. The weather was mild, beautiful, comfortable.
Soon there was a girl. Bushy blonde hair, full figured, not really fat, cute, smiled with twinkling blue eyes. All the time there, the only name she had was Lucky. She said it was her name. Lucky. We were, too.
I was the only guy at the whole summer camp for Lucky. Always, she was with me like no one had ever been. All day, everyday. Meals, walking around, hanging out, going for whatever was going on, Lucky was always there with me. It was OK. We held hands a lot. Laughed a lot. Great kid.
One night there was a Sit In. We played guitars nonstop, three hours. Lucky's eyes smiled, close by. There must have been candles. There was very little light. The Methodists talked over whatever and whatnot. My fingertips got sore playing guitar.
Lucky was amazing. Holding her hand, looking into her eyes, always felt right to me. Last day, our worlds stood face to face one last time. We dutifully exchanged addresses, promised to write, promised to get together.
I was happy there. I wonder how I lost track of her.

Trumpet
Chapter 4

I was not quite seven years old when I decided I was interested in learning to play the trumpet. I asked for one for my birthday that year, and noticed my gift hidden in the main floor bathroom of the old house we lived in at the time, several days before my birthday.
I was delighted.
There was the grade school band to join, contrary to the idea that they normally accepted students no less than eight years old, and I was only seven. Nonetheless, I was accepted in the band that year, and began my experimentation with the trumpet. I was not as proficient reading music with the instrument, as I was reading music while singing. Throughout my life, this has been the rule, with no exceptions.
By the time I was in seventh grade, the township where we lived in Pennsylvania had no great number of students to justify building a separate junior high school, so I went to high school as a seventh grader. One of the benefits of the affiliation with the high school at such a tender age, was that I was eligible for the marching band.
I remember dropping my instrument during marching practice one day. I brought it to the attention of the band director. The old horn had a crinkling a little ways back from the bell, but all the band director did was laugh at me. He thought it was a great joke. The kid dropped his trumpet on the ground during rehearsal. Oh well, I never did that again.
I can remember the flashy royal blue and white uniform, and the brightly lit football stadium. We lined up lengthwise from goal to goal at half time. There were the blasts of the whistle, and we stepped off with music and drums, taking the field with a ruffle and flourish. My emotions were overwhelmed.
The entire experience thrilled me.
The following summer, my dad deserted us, and we moved to a small town in Maryland. The number of students there was also less than sufficient to warrant building a separate junior high school building, exactly like the same issue in the township in Pennsylvania we'd just left, so once again I was in high school, but this time I was in the eighth grade.
I was reluctant to continue with my music education when I enrolled in the eighth grade. I had been extremely self-conscious in the seventh grade chorus the year before, and I just wanted to forget about music and go to school like any ordinary kid. I enrolled in a general music class. Maybe the class was for musical morons, or something, I don't know, but I had too much of a bell-tone, boy soprano voice which was so unavoidably noticeable, the chorus teacher had me enrolled in chorus and band before I could say, “Jack Robinson,” the very first day of school. Resistance was pointless.
I recall having girlfriends in the bands in high school and in university, sitting in the bleachers in the cold with them, getting into mischief with ringing the Victory Bell behind the high school in the third quarter of the football game, before the victory was a fact, and getting yelled at by some teacher or some other old fogie, who could not hurt us with any amount of loud talking, no matter how loud or threatening they tried to sound, then laughing the whole thing off, trotting away scott free, like the children we really were at the time. Making out on the band bus with the flute player who wanted to be with the drum major, and all that. It was a lot of fun.
Mother bought me a used cornet to use in high school band, to replace my beat up old trumpet, and the chorus director was so impressed with my singing voice and my musical talent, he had me standing outside in the early morning weather, down by the road in front of the house, waiting for him to pick me up, personally, to get me to the early rehearsals of the men's chorus before the official beginning of the school day, five days a week.
I was very taken aback by the idea that a male teacher of the high school would take so much interest in me that he would volunteer to give me rides to school in the morning, but he was never improper in any way, with the one exception of giving me, and my high school buddy, cans of beer when we dropped in at his house eventually, while we were still in high school. Later in life, that same man had a lot of conscience about that.
I was the drum major of the marching band my senior year in high school, and I was always hamming it up on the field, goofing off in front of the crowd at the games, making people laugh, intimidating the JV cheerleaders in the third quarter of the game. I would ignore everything and everyone around me when I was on break during the third quarter, and walk down to where the youngest cheerleaders were, and stand there staring at them, until their captain would have them doing all their cheers, one after the other, for my benefit, standing there as the great senior drum major in my fancy white uniform. I did that trick all season long, just to get on those girls' nerves. It was better sport for me than any old football game in the world.
In university, my girlfriends would brave the cold weather in the mountains with me, where the campus was, and we'd shiver in the snow and cold, while trying to at least appear as if we cared about the football games a little bit, just because.
I've done a lot of parades, half-time shows and pre-game shows over the