Tom Kimball, who graduated from Havre de Grace High School as a member of the Class of 1975, has published a book "That's How I Remember It," that's on sale. Here are the Acknowledgments he wrote, followed by the Foreword written by his grown son, Benjamin. More information about the book is available at tomkimball.com.
It takes a flotilla of dedicated and slightly "touched" people to make something like this little book a reality. Some call them Collaborators and others, Creative Partners. My mother might call them Conspirators. I call them family.
Art, like life, does not create itself in a vacuum. (In a vacuum cleaner perhaps, but not a vacuum. Which begs the question, 'How did the vacuum get dirty in the first place? And why am I the one cleaning it?' But I digress.)
What art does do is generate a creative vacuum which draws in other artists like lint to black cashmere. The bigger the vision, the bigger the suckage.
When I started writing these stories, I envisioned a series of humorous tales about growing up that would amuse and entertain; inspire and motivate; and provoke others to engage in their own storytelling.
Finally, it seemed like a fine idea to make a book. I'd made newspapers, I'd written articles and stories, I'd produced theatre, videos and television… how hard could producing a book be? About as hard as a kidney stone and not nearly as smooth.
But like any good producer/director, I know how to wrangle talent and get the best out of them in the process. So I assembled my team. Funny thing about that… they ended up strangling me. They got the best out of me. And I am forever grateful.
Thanks to my best friend and wife, Tracey, who tirelessly challenged my grammar, encouraging me to aim higher and look more closely at every word on the page. Thanks, Honeyheart, for investing so much time in my vision.
To Ben, the brains and operations behind it all. Thanks for your persistence and discipline, son. Without your help my book would be like your refrigerator; a swarm of red and blue magnetic letters floating on a sea of white.
To Heidi, the delightful daughter I "inherited" from my son. Many thanks, Dear One, for the late-night, coffee-fueled writing sessions. What a story editor! You helped me hear my voice within the grammar. Couldn't have done it without you.
To Dad, who taught me how to work hard and work well. "Watch one. Do one. Teach one," he used to say. Thanks for taking all those snaps of the family. To Mom, whom I love and honor, thanks for getting me started off on the right foot. To Fil, who looks at his middle-aged brother and still sees the boy. Thanks for your fervent prayers over the years. To Alice, who taught me about friendship and loyalty… thanks for your love, sis. To my big sister, Susan, who went Home too young. I miss you still.
To Alisa Hatcher, our "daughter." Thanks for designing such an amazing platform for my little tome. You honor my work with your talent. To Scott D. Smith, photographer extraordinaire. The photo speaks for itself. Thanks.
To everyone else – Rich Carvill, Lisa Coleman, Wayne Heus, John Kapinos, Kelly Maze, Justin Matott, Pamela McCreary, Dan McGowan, Steve Neff, David Priest, Rick Rampage, Carissa Reiniger, Brenda Rundback, Alex Strauch, Scott Ward, Kim Wheeler and the dozens of other family, friends, classmates, and colleagues who read, edited, laughed, prayed, reminisced, and cajoled me to stay on course… many thanks!
Foreword
For as long as I've been alive my dad has been telling stories. Funny stories, mostly. To me at bedtime, to crowds in restaurants, clients in boardrooms, even the sick on their deathbeds. And until recently I didn't appreciate just how important that gift of storytelling could be. As it turns out, being a storyteller might just be one of the most important jobs on the planet. That said, I'm proud to say that MY dad - certainly in my mind the best storyteller in the world – is the author of this particular book of stories.
The first story of his childhood I can remember being told was his epic bike ride down Lyon Street.
I remember marveling that my brave dad – at just five years of age – had head-butted a fully-grown Gumball tree and lived to tell the tale. And while that might be the one I've heard him tell the most, my favorite story is the one about his first kidney stone.
(Both stories are in the book. You won't be disappointed.) Honestly, I can't remember the first time he told me about the kidney stone, and when you read the account in this book I can neither confirm nor deny the accuracy of the quotes attributed to me. Frankly, I don't care. I prefer the story as it's written here. And as with any good story, a certain amount of embellishment has been added – where appropriate – for dramatic effect.
What I can say is that for as many times as I've heard him tell the story, I never get sick of hearing it. It's funny to me how the story changes each time it's told. About the third or fourth time I heard it, I stopped watching my dad as he told the story, and started to watch the audience.
In a group of old military buddies, there were a few more acronyms thrown in, and greater emphasis on the wild-eyed Air Force doctor. When he told it on a business trip to Vegas, the stone became a ball on a roulette wheel as dad won the 'jackpot.' Even thought the details changed, every time he told it, it started and ended in the same place.
The reaction from the audience was likewise the same; the men would grunt, groan and moan in sympathetic agony. Everyone would breathe a sigh of relief as the pain subsided; with impending doom at the prospect of the crazy doctor 'going in after it,' they'd be on the edge of their seats.
Without fail the audience would practically cheer with him when he passed the stone, secretly rejoicing to themselves, "I've passed the stone!" Somewhere in the middle of the story he had connected with them. Connected so deeply that they had put themselves into the story.
Isn't that what makes the best stories 'the best?' We read Treasure Island and believe we are Jim Hawkins stranded on an island battling pirates. We read Lord of the Rings and believe we are Frodo and we must destroy the ring!
While the stories in this book may not be quite as fantastical as those I've mentioned above, it is my hope that they do for you what they've always done for me: take you back to a simpler time – childhood – when the world was uncomplicated, and the biggest real-life problem you had was the dog that chased you on your paper route.
Lastly, I'll advise you of the following. The stories in this book are meant to be shared. Aloud. With other people. If you've never read a story aloud before, this book is a great place to start. There is something about reading words aloud that breathes life into a story.
Sharing stories with others is part of what makes our lives worth living. Some of the stories in this book may seem too fantastic to be true. They probably are.
So if my Dad's memory of his life – mixed with a healthy does of imagination – can bring a smile to your face, does it really matter what's fact and what's fiction?
That's how I want to remember it. I'll bet that you do, too.
Benjamin R. Kimball