FAMILY – PREFACE / PROLOGUE
FAMILY
By
Rich Mason
PREFACE
This volume is at once a character study and an autobiography. I do not claim to include a complete record of my life, nor does it endeavor to recount the presence of every individual who has, in some measure, shaped me. Instead, I seek to portray those figures whose influence has been most profound. Some names and stories have been omitted, whether for reasons of space, for the natural limits of memory, or in certain instances, out of kindness and discretion.
The design of this work is unconventional. It unfolds not as a seamless narrative, but as a series of essays gathered into Sections that, taken together, form a woven whole. Each Section is devoted to one person, or group of people, yet no individual exists apart from others. Human lives are interlaced, and so within these pages one will encounter interactions, incidents, and conversations in which several characters appear, even when the focus rests upon a single figure. In this way, the work attempts to honor the truth that personality and destiny are never formed in isolation.
This is, in essence, the story of my life told through those people who have inhabited my world. Their voices, their choices, and their presence, whether tender or turbulent, are the threads from which my own story has been woven. To tell of them is also, inevitably, to tell of myself.
It is important to note that memory is both guide and interpreter in this work. The events and relationships described here are presented as I recall them and as I experienced them. Others might remember the same moments differently, for recollection is never without its own perspective. What follows is not a definitive history, but a personal one, shaped by what has remained with me, what has been lost, and by the meaning those memories have carried through time.
The opening Section turns to my father, the most influential person in my life. Influence being not synonymous with virtue, nor does it necessarily imply affection or admiration. It does, however, mark the undeniable imprint of presence, and sometimes absence, an imprint that continues to shape the man I have become. From this starting point, the narrative proceeds outward, through other figures whose presence, whether through love, conflict, guidance, or absence, left their own indelible traces.
Though the form is centered on others, this book is a portrait of me. I have not reserved a Section dedicated explicitly to me, for I believe that the truest revelations of one’s character are found in relation, in how we are seen by others, and in how we respond to them. Still, my own growth, faltering though it has sometimes been, is visible in these pages, as I changed, endured, and at times transcended the circumstances in which I found myself.
It may be that, in closing, an epilogue will attempt to gather the threads into a single reflection and to offer some account of where my journey has led. Until then, I invite the reader to approach these Sections as one would a gallery of portraits. Each figure stands alone within a frame, yet together they form a mosaic of a life, my life, as it has been lived and as it is here remembered.
Rich Mason – 2025
PROLOGUE
Pensacola, Florida
Sunday, July 31, 1955
9:00 AM Central Standard Time
DAY ONE – BORN
The walls crush me again. Harder. Tighter. I am shoved downward, my head is jammed into a passage much too small, my skull squeezed until it feels like it will crack. My shoulders scrape, my chest compresses. I twist and thrash but there is no room. I am being crushed!
Her cries shake through me, torn and ragged. Other voices join in, loud, clipped, commanding: “Push… again… hold it.” Metal clashes agains metal. Rubber soles squeak on polished tiles. The air burns with ether, iodine, soap. Even here, it reaches me, I sense it sharp and bitter.
The pressure builds, unbearable, until suddenly, release.
I am expelled into a world of blinding fluorescent light. It sears my eyes and they shut against the harsh and painful brilliance. Cold air slashes my wet skin. I gasp, choke, and scream, my lungs burning with the shock of my first breath.
Hands grab me, gloved and firm, impersonal. I am dangled upside down, smacked hard across the back. Pain jolts through me and a wail bursts free. A clamp bites into the cord that sustained me, tethered me. Metal snips. The tie is severed. I am cut loose.
The smells are overwhelming: blood, sweat, antiseptic, ether. Voices echo. “It’s a boy. Three weeks overdue. Good cry.” Orders are barked. Instruments clink.
I am carried to a table under a glaring lamp. Rough towels scrape me raw, dragging over fragile skin. A bulb syringe stabs at my nose and mouth, sucking fluid out in sharp, stinging pulls. I gag, thrash, cry harder. Liquid is squeezed into my eyes, silver nitrate, burning, flooding them with fire. My eyelids clamp shut but the sting continues unabated for what seems an eternity.
I am placed on a cold metal scale, my back arching against the chill. I am stretched out, measured, my limbs pulled straight. Numbers called: pounds, ounces, inches. I am data before I am comfort.
Then swaddled tight in stiff cotton, scratchy against my tender skin. My arms are pinned, my legs bound. Heat builds, suffocating, but I cannot move.
For a moment I am placed against her. Her chest is damp, trembling, but warm. Her heartbeat hammers, the sound I have always known. I nose and root, pressing my cheek to her skin. But then, too soon, I am lifted away.
The nursery.
Rows of bassinets. White walls. Buzzing fluorescent lights that never dim. The air reeks of disinfectant and formula. I am lowered into a clear plastic and steel crib, flat and hard beneath me. A heat lamp glares down, pouring dry heat onto my skin. I cry, throat hoarse, but only the echoes of other babies answer. We are together, yet each of us is alone.
A bottle comes, rubber, rubbery and strange. The liquid inside is thin, metallic, not her. It fills my stomach but leaves me empty. When it is gone, I am swaddled tighter and left again.
Time passes in fragments. Crying. Silence. Waking. Fear. My eyes sting. My body aches from restraint. The glare and hum never stop. For the first time, though not the last I know what it is to be alone.
And then, hands again. I am lifted, carried away from the rows, from the endless light. Doors open. Voices change.
I am placed against her once more. Her chest heaves beneath me, warm and alive. Her heart thunders, unsteady but close. Her smell cuts through the chemicals; salt, milk, blood, and something only hers. I press my cheek into her, searching. My mouth finds her breast. Warmth floods me, thick, rich, alive. It fills not just my stomach but something deeper.
Her voice murmurs low, shaky but sure. Her hands cradle me, not gloved, not rough, not rushed, but desperate to keep me near. She knows. I am not her first and she knows what I need.
The light still buzzes. The air still reeks. Voices still surround us. But none of it matters now.
I am no longer alone.
I have been found.
I am hers.
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