A Man Named Dave

commendation, so as a matter of honor and respect, I would praise the individuals who struggled to make a difference with children.
    Before I could give the matter much thought, I was overcoming one of my greatest anxieties. I was learning to talk to anyone, at any time, at any level. I became so consumed with my efforts that I conquered an enormous burden that had plagued me since I was a preschooler. But it didn’t happen overnight. Before a presentation, alone in the car, I’d talk out loud, at various levels, paces, and tones to the point at times my voice almost gave out. At home, after tucking Stephen into bed, I’d sneak into the bathroom, close the door so not to disturb Patsy’s sleep, and stand in front of the mirror for hours at a time, watching how my lips parted when I’d try to pronounce certain words. At work, I’d crack open my flight manual to learn long-syllable words; I also developed a technique to instantly replace a word if I became nervous and could not pronounce it correctly. Sometimes moments before a program, I’d become extremely nervous to the point of excusing myself and rushing to the bathroom to throw up. I quickly learned not to eat anything prior to speaking. Between my flight schedule and my present quest, I’d sometimes go without food for days. At times I’d still stutter, but somehow I’d find a calmness, tap into the audience, and let things happen. When the subject matter became too serious, I’d fire off comical impersonations, one after another, while maintaining my focus of driving my message home.
    The more these individuals thanked me for my efforts, the more I’d open up and reach out with everything I had. I began to see my place in the world and the difference I could make to ease a bit of suffering, rather than turning my back as I had with little Katie. For years, in the back of my mind, I had always hoped something or someone else would fix the problem of not only children being brutalized, but the scores of individuals who blamed their current predicament on their past. As my father had years ago, I, too, had fantasized that if I swept the situation under the rug it would magically disappear. Now, as a parent, my conscience could no longer let me turn away.
    My travels escalated to the point where after a night flight, I’d hop in my car at one in the morning, drive six hours without a break, to arrive just in time to spend the day at a teen conference. Other times I’d take leave to journey to the southern part of the state to speak to college students studying the psychological effects of abuse. I always relied on my own means. Whenever I was offered money for lodging or even gas, I’d refuse, asking instead that the sums be funneled back into the organization. As much as I felt the pinch, I believed it was wrong to accept payment. For me, changing a person’s attitude for the better was payment enough.
    As my activities increased, the problems of my childhood being exposed to the air force was becoming a reality. If discovered, I felt, I would lose my clearance. Whenever the squadron received a letter from one of the agencies I’d worked for, I’d casually reply that I was simply helping out. Even when I received an award from the governor’s wife, Patsy accepted on my behalf and I never told my squadron. The extensive traveling and flurry of kudos from across the state were beginning to take their toll. I felt caught between two worlds. If I was to continue, I had to come up with a different tactic that would keep me local as well as provide a lower profile.
    After assisting as a volunteer youth service worker, I was hired part-time in juvenile hall. I jumped at the opportunity to work directly with teens, who, like me at their age, were skating past the edge. Patsy liked my job because it kept me from constantly going all over the state, and working at juvenile hall added to our income. Patsy had been cross when I recently donated my award money to a local organization. “Do you know how much money that is?” she asked.
    “It doesn’t matter,” I had pleaded at the time. “It’s the right thing to do. Besides, we’re doing fine.”
    “Oh, really? You may live in a high-horse morality world, but I live in a real one!” Patsy vented. As taken aback as I was, Patsy was right. Even though I had checked with her every step of the way, I had in fact spent family funds for my cause. Over the course of a year, besides all the traveling expenses, I had sponsored a child