Chapter 1: The Unconventional Housemate

During my fourth-grade days, there was an eccentric genius who occupied my closet and exuded a potent aroma of garlic. Residing on the third floor of our home, he had peculiar sleeping patterns and stored his mail in the cereal cabinet. It speaks volumes about my family's peculiarities that I found this entirely normal.

This genius and I shared a converted attic space. His bed was adjacent to a spacious walk-in closet where he housed most of his belongings, including a television, while my bed was situated across from his. Most nights, as I lay trying to drift off, he would be engrossed in his shows. The glow from the closet resembled a scene from Close Encounters, illuminating his still figure, while the muted sounds of PBS programs provided a constant yet unengaging backdrop.

I can't recall the specifics of how he came to stay with us, but I know my father had a long-standing friendship with him. Tom Paine, named after the revolutionary pamphleteer, was without a home at the time and was welcomed into our household, likely because he had nowhere else to turn.

Tom was a true genius, a founding member of MENSA, and even had personal ties with notable American figures. Despite his remarkable intellect, he faced various health and emotional challenges. His social skills were limited, and though exceptionally bright, he often missed social cues. Unfortunately, common sense seemed to have eluded him along with the name he shared.

Due to his conditions, Tom relied on a permanent disability allowance. He was passionate about holistic healing and regularly consumed raw garlic to "detoxify" himself. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t exactly stealthy; his presence was always accompanied by a strong scent.

Throughout the years he spent with us, even after he moved out but continued to collect his mail, he would enter unannounced, his wild hair reminiscent of Einstein's, greet us with a wave, and retrieve his mail from the cereal cabinet above the stove.

Despite his quirks, Tom always exuded a cheerful demeanor, was kind-hearted, and despite being eccentric to a ten-year-old, he was a true gentleman. He had become such a familiar presence that we hardly acknowledged him anymore.

I could be chatting with a friend in the kitchen when Tom would come through the back door, greet us, quietly gather his mail, and leave. My friend would glance at me and ask, "Who was that?" To which I would nonchalantly reply, "Just a family friend," before returning to the cartoons.

Children are typically unfazed by oddities, and I never felt compelled to explain Tom's presence. To my young mind, he was simply a genius, a friend of my father's, a closet dweller, and someone with a strong garlic scent. What more was there to say?

The previous year, we had transitioned from central Oklahoma to a rural suburb of Philadelphia, where my father began working at a small Christian seminary. This move felt like just another in a series of relocations that had taken us across multiple states, including Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Illinois, California, Tennessee, and back to Oklahoma before we mysteriously returned to Pennsylvania again. By the time I started the third grade, I had attended four schools and lived in seven different houses.

Nothing seemed to bother me much.

Having left our extended family behind, we became somewhat of an isolated unit, participating in church and school activities while keeping to ourselves otherwise. My parents didn’t maintain friendships outside of their religious life. My father worked as a creative professional for the seminary, while my mother taught ballet and gymnastics to young girls in our home.

At that time, our family consisted of four children: my older sister Stacy, myself, and my younger brothers Bradley and Jason. We enrolled in a Mennonite school, the only Christian institution in the area that was not Catholic. My parents were conservative Oklahomans who had grown up with vague Catholic roots before converting to fundamentalist evangelical Christianity.

My parents were determined to keep us out of secular public schools, let alone Catholic ones, despite the pacifistic beliefs of the Mennonites. Our classmates primarily came from farming and trades backgrounds, tracing their lineage back to German Anabaptists who settled in Eastern Pennsylvania, including the Amish.

At home and in church, we embraced the righteousness of American exceptionalism, which justified wars against communism. In contrast, at school, we practiced the clumsy art of pacifism as viewed through the lens of young children. Based on personal experiences and playground altercations, I can attest that children do not naturally embrace pacifism; it is a learned behavior.

The seminary where my father was employed was modest and dusty, housing students in a dorm-like arrangement. The basement featured a gym with a full-sized basketball court that rarely saw use beyond our family. The lights flickered and buzzed, taking ages to brighten, while the basketballs were mostly deflated, relics of past use.

On the top floor of the seminary, there was an impressive library where I, instead of finding spiritual enlightenment, stumbled upon a curious mix of sex and advertising within the pages of old National Geographic magazines. Those magazines showcased images of naked African tribes alongside vintage advertisements for Oldsmobiles, Pepsodent, and Hoovers from the 40s and 50s.

The student body consisted solely of young men who had traveled from far and wide to study Ancient Greek, Hebrew, and Biblical theology, aiming to unravel the mysteries of the Gospel. Women were not permitted to enroll. Through my father, these students became my unofficial mentors as I was perpetually curious about the world beyond our insular community and lacked the means for traditional hobbies.

Upon meeting a deaf boy in the neighborhood, I learned sign language from one of the seminary students. When I developed a crush on a Korean girl at school, another student instructed me in Korean and even took me to a Korean church for a while. I briefly trained in Tae Kwon Do until my parents grew concerned that I might use my newfound skills to easily defeat my younger brothers.

Education, religion, and service were all intertwined in a Midwestern blend of faith, evangelism, and sacrifice. Consequently, shortly after graduating eighth grade, I found myself at a missionary training camp in Missouri, gearing up to serve in South America. Our mission was to construct a school in the mountains of Colombia, near the Venezuelan border.

That summer proved to be a challenging experience. In addition to working 8–10 hours daily on manual labor, we were tasked with meal preparation and ministering to local villagers. We were also required to memorize Bible verses each day, as a prerequisite for enjoying the luxury of a shockingly cold shower, courtesy of gravity-fed water from melting snow caps above. I doubt I showered much that summer, as I can't recall a single verse.

To occupy my time outside of work, laundry, or studying for my showers, I clung to a book I had discovered abandoned in an airport terminal. I would recline in my hammock (which also served as my bed) and read until an older missionary, in her twenties, decided that my beloved paperback about a covert special forces unit in Vietnam was not spiritually uplifting, so she burned it. Burned it.

Upon returning home that fall, I met my new adopted siblings: Michael (5) and Cicely (3) from Ohio, whom my parents had adopted while I was away in Missouri. Although I had been part of the process early on and received updates through airmail, it was still a peculiar adjustment.

As I entered junior high, I enrolled in public school for the first time. Despite my previous travels, I had mostly been sheltered in a small religious community where I was a prominent figure. Suddenly, I was immersed in a public institution with a student body larger than my entire Mennonite community, let alone my former school. I transitioned from being one of a handful to one of thousands, and it was intimidating.

After high school, I relocated to Philadelphia to attend Temple University. As I backed out of the driveway, my siblings were dragging their furniture into my former room. That moment marked the last time I would ever consider that house my home.

In my second year, I began dating a nurse who would accompany me throughout my college years. She yearned to start a family, while I was chasing fame and fortune. After graduation, she sought out family, while I pursued glamour in the music industry, mingling with celebrities, enjoying expense accounts, and indulging in alcohol and drugs. I encountered everyone from Elvis Costello and Sting to the Bare Naked Ladies, the Ramones, John Lee Hooker, Lyle Lovett, and many others. It was electrifying.

Throughout most of my twenties, I dated sporadically, engaging in casual relationships but walking away as soon as things got serious. I had no interest in having children and was not inclined to marry, having seen enough of the realities of family life; some experiences I wished I could forget.

But the party life eventually grew tiresome, leading me to leave the entertainment industry for the more subdued realm of advertising, where I once again found success as a creative talent. I established a small agency with a former client, and we thrived, garnering numerous accolades and establishing ourselves as a respected creative force.

Little did I know that love would find me unexpectedly while vacationing in Cape May, New Jersey. I fell for a beautiful young woman who lived there year-round. She was separated from her husband, had a boyfriend, and three young children, making the situation even more complicated.

It felt like I was being drawn into a heist movie, where I would join her in robbing a bank while fleeing from the law and the mob.

Despite the irrationality of my feelings, I inexplicably fell in love. I had no illusions about it being a wise choice, and nothing about it was easy. Yet, I continuously chose to stay.

Now, over 26 years later, we have raised three functioning adults and are blessed with seven wonderful grandchildren. The journey hasn’t always been perfect. If raising your own children is a challenge, raising someone else's can be even more daunting. Thankfully, I've always believed in the normalcy of my family, despite the overwhelming evidence that suggests otherwise.

Tom, the genius, once shared with me that true intelligence is the capacity to think on multiple levels simultaneously, to juggle various thoughts in your mind while seeking a solution. It isn't about broader thinking but delving deeper.

He believed everyone has a purpose on this earth, even if we don't yet comprehend it. Life, in his view, was a puzzle to be solved—an endless equation, much like pi. He posited that the journey toward discovering answers was more significant than the answers themselves, leading to knowledge and ultimately, truth.

Despite my lifelong conviction in the normalcy of my life, I have come to realize that my experiences have been anything but ordinary, and that has made all the difference. Tom would argue that this realization is a truth worth seeking and a valid reason for existence.

As for me, I see it simply as another fragment of pi.

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Chapter 2: Discovering Genius in Unlikely Places

In this chapter, we explore the unexpected encounters that shape our lives and the value of diverse experiences.

The first video titled "Global Genius - Squirrels In My Attic" dives into the quirky and humorous world of unique personalities and their endearing traits, paralleling my own experiences with Tom.