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David Wren
About the Author
About three or four years ago, I got the idea I had a story to tell. I didn’t want to put out some big masterpiece; I just wanted to entertain people. I thought about what I wante...ver másAbout the Author
About three or four years ago, I got the idea I had a story to tell. I didn’t want to put out some big masterpiece; I just wanted to entertain people. I thought about what I wanted to tell, kinda formulated the story in my head, and finally sat down at the computer and, with my two index fingers, eyes bobbing from keyboard to screen and back, pounded out this tale.
They say good writers write about what they know. Some folks might tell you I don’t know much, but you don’t live and experience as many facets of life as I have without picking up a few things. I have held several jobs, everything from door-to-door salesman to salesclerk, to security guard, to certified master mason, and to schoolteacher. Everything in this book has one of three things in common: it either happened to me, it happened to someone close to me, or it’s just a lie I made up. The town of Stigler, Oklahoma, the main locale of this tale, is where I grew up. The time period I wrote about contained many memories for me. I enjoyed life then and thought it would be a good time to write about. I started working construction with my bricklayer dad when I was fourteen. By the time I turned twenty-one, I had already lived more than most men ever do in a lifetime. I was exposed to many, many things above and beyond “normal” lifetime experiences for a healthy, red-blooded teenage male. My dad liked to drink and party, and my mother was a Southern Baptist deacon’s daughter who didn’t go for that kind of thing, so any partying my old man did was while he was supposed to be working. Being a snot-nosed kid he couldn’t stash away someplace, I got dragged along. As a nondrinker (at the time), I got to see and learn a lot about life in the bars from a sober observer’s noncritical point of view. I never drank (till I married the first time and had a good reason to), so I saw things and studied the ways of people differently than most barroom patrons. My dad was a generous man who liked to party, and if he drank, the whole crew drank. I got to see sides of the men I worked with that their drinking buddies never saw. Our work often took us on an hour or so one-way trip, and we hauled the crew. Coming home with them after a hard day's work and some R & R at a bar, I learned things. I was curious, too green to know there were things you didn’t ask a drunk, and I had a good memory. I’ve converted a lot of that into this piece.
Later on I became a brick mason myself and eventually a partner in my dad’s business. The money was good—when we worked. There were a lot of times we couldn’t work, weather related mostly. I could see I needed to think about securing my future somehow. One of my best friends had become a welding instructor at a vocational school and deemed they needed a masonry instructor.
Upon his urging, I applied, was accepted at a different school, and for twenty-two years taught tenth-, eleventh-, and twelfth-grade boys (and a half-dozen girls) the “artistic manipulation of the burned-day product” (a quote from my dad). Spending three hours with one group of students and three hours with another group ten months out of the year, I picked up a lot of unique and personal memories from my pupils. I often said I spent more time with those kids than their parents did. I became friends with many of them, and I’m still friends with them today. Having become an instructor at the age of twenty-four, I was closer to the age of my students than I was my fellow teachers. Because I was so young, I could understand my students better than some of the older educators. I often found myself on their side and also found myself being assigned the “problem” students, whose only problem, as I saw it, was the lack of one-on-one interaction with the teachers. My program was basically a dumping ground. I decided to run things my way, like I did on the job. My principal called me a rogue, and I actually cherished that title. I wasn’t your “average” teacher. Being a rebel really drew me closer to my students and some friends in the faculty and administration, but it was a limited group. I think I scared some of the others. I was five feet eight and 280 pounds of mostly muscle with a generous portion of padding. I had facial hair and a ponytail, and in addition to my other nonconformist traits, I became interested in the biker lifestyle. I was more than your weekend warrior or fair-weather biker, but I wasn’t hard-core, one-percent material either, although I was invited to prospect with a hard-core club. I turned down that invitation for many reasons. I got into the ways of the bikers, accepted these experiences, and learned a little more (you only stop learning when you stop breathing).
Another “educational” opportunity came as I had to attend college classes to become a certified teacher. Again, much of this “education” didn’t come from books. I was a pretty good student, excelling in English composition and literature classes and even made the dean’s honor roll at Oklahoma State University with a 4.0 average. I attended summer classes and, when I had time, worked masonry jobs on the side. I utilized some of my students as laborers and got even closer to them. They and the work situations were another source of fodder for my writing.
During all this, I fathered two beautiful girls and helped raise them and provide for them. After nineteen years, I’d had enough of their mother and divorced her. I agreed to whatever terms she set down and paid what she and I agreed on for child support. She later tried to get more money, but my lawyer said I was already paying more than any man in Oklahoma, and it was thrown out. I continued to pay the exorbitant amount till they both graduated. Hey, a father takes care of his children. If it weren’t for my girls, I’d say that marriage was the worst mistake I ever made.
Meanwhile, I met someone else, eventually married her, got more ammo for my writing, and eventually divorced her. I met my third wife on the Internet. A week after I met her face-to-face, I moved her into my place, and we were later married. She’s still putting up with me, and we love each other, so maybe the third time really is the charmed one. Either that or I finally met my soul mate. I retired and moved to New Mexico and decided to write a book.ver menos