© 1998 by Diane L. Schirf
I was born one auspicious June day, the 24th day to be more precise, in 1961 at our Lady of Victory Hospital in Lackawanna, located in Western New York. My mother used to tell me my brother cried all the time, but that I was a great baby and rarely peeped. In retrospect, I think that was more out of shock and dismay than anything else. Frankly, I was stunned. The effects are still wearing off. I give them another 35 years to dissipate completely.
My father was a checker with the Ford Motor Company; he retired in 1978 at age 65, while I was still in high school. In September 1979, right before I left for the University of Chicago, he was diagnosed with Type II (non-insulin-dependent) diabetes. About nine years later, after suffering a series of major and minor strokes, he moved back to central Pennsylvania, where he'd been born, to be closer to his remaining family. He gave up his apartment there when he began having bouts with congestive heart failure. Following a pacemaker implant, he moved into Bellmeade Manor, a custodial care center, where he lived for about 12 years. He passed away on 28 July 2001 after an abrupt decline in health. I hope to write more about him soon.
My mother was a traditional 1950s/60s homemaker, although she had neither Mama Beaver's pearls or Laura Petrie's Capri pants, for which I am extremely grateful. She died on 8 May 1983, a month before my graduation from college, from complications of Type I (insulin-dependent diabetes). She was only 64.
I had been preceded into this world by my brother, Virgil, on 28 August 1953. He was eight years older than I, but this didn't mean we couldn't get along. When I was very small, I called him "Gergil" because I couldn't say the "V." I learned how to pronounce his name correctly long before I actually began to do so publicly, so as to maximize his humiliation in front of his friends.
Despite the age and size difference, Virgil and I practiced wrestling on each other, with him always beating me into submission rather quickly. These matches were usually started by myself; I would kick, punch, or otherwise try to distract him from whatever activity he was engaged in. They would end with me screaming, "Mom! MOM! He's hurting me! MOM!" Mom's reaction to my pain and pleas for help generally consisted of, "Leave your brother alone. I mean it. NOW!"
Another favourite activity of mine was to wait until he was asleep, then try to peel his eyes open. This effort was not always appreciated.
Virgil is a bright, resourceful, scientific type, and I was the subject of some of his experiments. Once, he managed to manufacture toxic chlorine gas while our parents were out. After what was probably much debate with himself, he decided to throw me out the back door so he wouldn't have to explain my sudden demise when the folks returned. He also practiced his pitching skills by aiming the baseball squarely at my mouth—rather successfully at least once . . .
We used to visit Niagara Falls fairly regularly. When my mother's back was turned, he would pick me up and hold me over the guardrail towards the roiling rapids of the Niagara River just before it drops down the Falls. My mother spotted him at this and suggested somewhat firmly he might want to reconsider.
We lived in a trailer park near Hamburg, NY. It happens. I'm still human, you know. Actually, I was very lucky. Our 55-footer was at the end of a row and had a field on one side and woods on another. Thus began my lifelong fascination with all creatures great and small. Not to mention finding the perfect spot for a picnic.
I was an extremely cute little girl, but petrified of men in hats. Consequently, my father and his friends all wore hats. Almost all the time. Another little trauma to be dealt with.
When I was five, my dad salvaged a bike for me and biking has become a lifelong hobby, not to mention a great way to get rock-hard calves. To be honest, I'd rather have had a horse and rock-hard thighs, but that's another life.
I attended Frontier Central Schools my entire career and was one of Cloverbank Elementary School's resident hellion kindergartners. When I felt like it, I got more attention than the teacher. My report cards bear tear-stained handwritten notes about my many alleged insecurities. Well, I figure if a trained professional teacher can't outgun a five-year-old in the entertainment department, she should seriously consider another career. Sadly, my days as a performer ended when my mother had my hair cut short (supposedly, because it was too hard to brush and I wouldn't take care of it). I suppose I felt emasculated. Not to mention really, really geeky.
My kindergarten days foretokened my future school life. Teachers either loved me or hated me. Coincidentally, the ones who hated me and humiliated me are virtually all dead. Don't read too much into that.
Beginning at age 2, according to my parents, who claimed I read on the potty, I became an avid reader. Later, I would read books that were much too adult for me. Blame Charles Dickens for my warped perspectives on life. I also became interested in mysteries and science fiction. Ditto Agatha Christie and Arthur C. Clarke. This is all led, too, to my winning the sixth-grade spelling bee.
I began writing as well. When I was 12ish, I wrote sports columns recounting Buffalo Sabres hockey games I'd heard on the radio. I also attempted a Doctor Who screenplay about the Cybermen. It featured the fourth Doctor and the Lalla Ward Romana, as well as a high level of humour. It also featured a disturbing lack of plot and thus died mercifully at only three or four pages.
My writing career was aborted when my 10th-grade English teacher fell in love with a short story I'd written about an abused Native American boy and read it aloud to the class. The humiliation and scarring were complete. Some things just weren't meant to be shared. I didn't write for years after that.
I performed in a few school plays, which were the highlight of my school days. I did come to suspect, however, that I was chosen less for my talent and more for my ability to project my voice without a microphone. And the directors tended to snicker a lot during my auditions, although I doubt it was at my comedic timing.
Another highlight was a trip to Erie, PA for the Model United Nations. I represented Oman and gave an impassioned impromptu speech about something or other, eliciting a standing ovation. I also gave a speech on the Equal Rights Amendment to Kenmore High School and won an award for my fiery rabble-rousing. When I came back to my own high school, there was a banner with my name run across the side of the building congratulating me. It was a thing of beauty. I need all the ego feeding I can get sometimes . . .
As for athletics, my one and only true talent was for target shooting—archery and .22s. Fortunately, I never had the time to devote to perfecting either skill, plus I never wanted to learn how to clean the rifles afterwards. I can tell you that recently I have become handy with the single-action Schofield in Colt .45 and a double-barreled 20-gauge coach shotgun, although the shotgun's kick is ever-so-slightly greater than that of a .22.
I duly graduated from Frontier Central Senior High School and headed for the University of Chicago, which I'd found by sticking a pin in "top schools" in one of those books—this after the Georgetown University School of Foreign Service declined me, based primarily on the fact the snooty alumna who interviewed me sensed my trailer park origins. Well, that's my suspicion, anyway.
The less said about my college days, the better. I graduated in four years (you ask anyone how easy that is to do at the U of C) with a proportional GPA (meaning that those core courses on math and science killed me). With a degree in English language and literature in hand, it suddenly dawned on me—I didn't have anywhere to go the next Monday morning. I have never been particularly practical, and no one prepared me for this working in the real world thing. After a summer of telemarketing for the old Chicago City Ballet, I began a nearly 15-year career with Coopers & Lybrand L.L.P., now PricewaterhouseCoopers (PWC), first as a proofreader/editor, then as a communications consultant. In January 1999, I began working as a marketing/public relations copy writer for Classic Residence by Hyatt.
In 1990, I began several years of volunteering at Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. One of my responsibilities, by choice, is writing for, editing, and laying out The Ark, LPZ's volunteer newsletter. Even former director Lester E. Fisher, D.V.M., has confessed to liking the darn thing.
I never learned to drive, which is probably why I'm still in Chicago. Chicago is flat, dirty, crowded, and loud—everything I've always wanted in a home. I've been harassed, stalked, followed, burglarised, and groped by strangers in Chicago. I love it here.
In fairness, Chicago has a million things (yes, I counted) to do, including: The Adler Planetarium and Astronomy Museum, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Chicago Academy of Sciences, the Chicago Children's Museum, the Chicago Historical Society, the John G. Shedd Aquarium, the Museum of Broadcast Communications, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Museum of Science and Industry, Navy Pier, the Oriental Institute, the Smart Museum of Art, the Sears Skydeck, and the Signature Lounge at the 96th. Don't miss them, or Lincoln Park Zoo. And then there were the Cows on Parade . . .
Having had a poem published in the 80s, I wrote another one in 1996 (You) that was published by Women in the Arts in Spring Fantasy 1997. I think I may finally be getting over writer's block. Now if I could just get my stories published . . . or even finished.
My father's genealogy can be found here, for anyone interested: Schirf. He descends from Jacob through Peter and then Nicholas.
to be continued . . .
Updated 9 March 2005.
© 2005 by Diane L. Schirf.
me with questions/corrections ;) or go to http://www.slywy.com.