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I was raised amongst a travelling band of Gypsies whose domain was primarily the Americas. We roamed the land in 5 brightly painted, early 80's For F150's (cheap and easy to fix). We all played instruments and some of us danced. We entertained the locals for whatever donations they threw our way. That's how we got by. I played the electric pan-flute (Jimi Hendrix and Georghe Zamfir were my idols).
Life was simple and good even though I never knew which of our tribe members were my real parents. The young ones were simply raised by all of the old ones. It worked for us.
I was a late bloomer, though. I didn't speak my first words until I was 8 and I never had a formal education. Some might describe me as the skinny, quiet boy who was always jamming on his flute. Oh; and I was exceptionally tall for my age - a real beanpole. By the age of 12 I was 6'2", and I did not stop growing until I was 19. More on that later...
So we roamed the great highways and the roads of the Americas for years as this furry, unconventionally dressed musical "family". Things were always fine and happiness was all we really knew until one autumn day just outside of Bozeman, Montana, everything unexpectedly changed.
I had just ridden my skateboard back to the trucks at the KOA. I was gone all afternoon earning extra money playing pick-up hoops against the locals who all thought I was easy prey (despite my height) because I wore no shoes and had tangled, waist-long hair. Were they ever wrong! (I could dunk by the time I turned twelve. One of the old ones had made a ball for us out of old socks wrapped with duct tape. I taught myself the game.) I must have made 14 or 15 bucks that day! I was so proud that I got myself back to the camp as soon as I could (besides, some of the locals became ticked). To be continued...
