This is the second in a series of posts entitled Autobiography of a Little Boy. Here, I give you a glimpse into my pursuit to become the truest and best version of who I am. Each installment features a guest author who writes his story in crayon, with my left hand.1 He’s my inner child. I refer to him as Tommy. The body of each post in this series is written by Tommy (using my left hand, engaging the right side of my brain, writing in the voice of my inner child). He also created the artwork. All footnotes, etc. are written by me, the grown-up, Tom Gentry. Click here to read part one.
April 26, 2025
Our house was on Broadway Street. In the front yard there were two tall trees, one to the right of the sidewalk and one to the left. You couldn’t climb those trees or the biggest and best one, in the side yard, because there were no low branches. I’m pretty sure my dad had them trimmed that way, way before I was born. He could make it really hard to have fun.2 He was grumpy a lot. That’s why some of my cousins called him uncle sore-ass.
One time, on a Saturday,3 I was playing outside with my nephew Jeremiah (we fought a lot). My dad was in the garage. I don’t remember why, but Jeremiah bit me. So, I ran to the garage to tell my dad. I bet you think you can guess where this is going. Nope. I doubt it.
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