You are still reading I see. That can only mean one thing. You, foolish
human, are totally out of your mind, and you want to know a little more about me (okay that's two things, but only one in
principle). I presume I must slake your thirst for knowledge, now. So--as I have been in the habit of warning my friends--grab
yourself a machete and come along on a frightful adventure into the great unknown I call "My Mind".
I was born in Grand Forks North Dakota (you might remember it being flooded some
years back). Oddly enough, it took me quite some time to learn to use a fork. After multiple fork injuries as a child (I think
I stabbed my brain once or twice), I
learned about this wonderful invention called a spoon. Now,
History will tell you that the blessed spoon was invented first
and had been in use for a long time before the fork, but that
didn't matter to my infant mind so much as the dull edge not
drawing blood. In college, Howard Payne
University, the spoon took on new meaning. It no longer was a way to deliver food safely to my head,
but funtioned as a space age cutting tool.
According to campus legend, (and every campus of note will have one or two
at least) a young man once injured himself with a butter
knife in a duel over a beautiful young lady. Not only was the
young man rejected and never loved again, but the powers-that-be, thereafter, declared that never again would knives threaten the
populace. And so each knife edge was ground down to the
point that even a karate instructor would fail to cut through a
luke-warm stick of butter. This was proved in my day, but
Now, between these two momentous incidents I lived quite a bit of life
(thanks to the blessed spoon). The son of a military man and
traveling often, I learned a very important phrase that served me
faithfully throughout my life. It goes something like this,
"Hola me llama..." wait let me try that again, "Hi, my name is
Frank Wacholtz, would you be so kind as to not hurt me and
direct me to the nearest spoon of convenience." I made many new
friends this way and saw many strange faces I'll never forget
(no vicious fork to gouge them out of my memory). I uttered this
phrase of welcome in such places as England, Idaho, Colorado,
Texas, Alabama, California, South Korea and even North Korea (the
border gaurd just looked at me funnny).
I remember when I was only nine years old. My father thought it
wise to provide my two brothers and I with a new basball
bat. This was not a fork and was thus assumed safe for my use.
How wrong he was. The plastic had not even been off the
bat for an hour before I mercilessly clobbered my middle brother
with a well placed strike between the eyes. I rushed my
brother to the screen door leading into the house and was about to
help him in when my brother screamed, "No! I can't bleed on
the carpet! Mom will kill me." Please keep in mind this is why I
had been forbidden the use of forks in the first place.
My Mom laid down some newpaper and rushed my bleeding brother
through the house and into the car for a trip to the hospital.
Tears welled up in my eyes because I thought I had killed him.
(good thing I'm a lousy baseball player). My Father took my
youngest brother and I to a restraunt and bought us icecream while
my middle brother was stitched up. Once again a spoon
was involved and I was spared further injury. I still tease my
brother that he got a scar and I got icecream.
I'll fastforward now to my days of waiting tables in Irving, Texas,
in a small, family-owned Itallian Restraunt. I was handling
forks now (age had steeled me for the ordeal) mostly by rolling
them neatly inside a napkin beside a spoon. This provided
a measure of protection that was both acceptable and profitable.
However, all good things eventually come to an end. I came
to a fork in the road. I tried to take it like an old baseball
player suggested, but injured my brain so badly that I decided
to write a book. I know, you do crazy things when forks are
around. And so began the writing of "The Fall of Mahkinoc".
It took some time to come up with that name. I wish I could tell
you all the other forks that were presented, but they gouged
pieces out of my brain, and I can no longer remember them.
After a brainstorming session with my middle brother, (you can
find his site at www.crestfallen.us) I
cleaned the wound in my brain and got to writing. Did I mention that my brain was so thoroughly injured that I
substitute teaching for 6 months during the writing of the rough
draft? Well, I did. I got to serve every detention I failed
to be awarded through all my years of school. Did I mention that
in-school suspension is worse for the teacher than the student?
I did, did I. Okay then. It is. Espescially when the room is
kind of cold and your mind starts drifting because the students
are temporarily obeying your instructions... So I took up
bringing a book with me. I learned the history of seafaring that
winter and spring. The best thing about seafaring is that there
were no forks, just lots of rope and the occasional paddle
in the early days. (Okay and a few pointy sticks, but they don't
I hope you've enjoyed this rambling session. Did I mention I get
along great with the ADD crowd? I'm quite convinced this is
my mother's doing. She's a great mom. Protected me from forks,
she did. You all should have the privilage of knowing someone
like her. I still remember one night when I was fifteen years
old. I looked up to her and said, "Mom, I was a real pain
as a little kid. Wasn't I?" I won't give you her response, but
with a loving smile she said, "Yes, Frank. Yes, you were."
I told her I would try to make it up to her. Of course, now that
I have two little ones of my own who are so much like me...
I keep them well away from forks and spoon-feed (not fork-feed, mind you) them
information they'll remember forever but never use.
I bid you good morning, and May Peace favor you and blessing dog
your every step,
Frank S. Wacholtz