You’re about to come on a journey with me. Like all journeys, there were high points, and there were lows.

You’ll experience them all as you join me on this adventure, traveling around, seeking the best things in life. The kind of things that can only be achieved by hard work, endurance, and a desire for love. Oh, and a desire for money, too.

Like any good adventure, this one has side quests. There are three questions you should seek to answer while on this journey.

One: Who did I marry on October 17, 2004? I’ve called her by her middle name, Emma. But you’ll also meet her in the book by her first name. She’s someone from my past – can you figure out who she is before you get to the end of the book?

Two: I decided at an early age that I wanted something special, and thus I began my search for “The Treasure.” Can you figure out what the treasure is? What am I looking for?

Three: What do celebrities want from me? Why do they keep in touch?

Clues to the treasure and who Emma really is are found throughout this book. Some clues are obvious, and others are decoys. Don’t get fooled by clues that lead to nothing and to nowhere. I can’t give away my secrets that easily. You understand, I’m sure.

As you’ll see when you turn the page, my story begins at a wedding. A happy occasion, right? I mean, don’t get me wrong – I’m happy to be married. I like the idea of a family, a good relationship with a partner, and a life spent building something to share with that special someone.

The problem is, I’m attracted to the wild, flashy sexpots. Not exactly marriage material.

A good partner is loyal, trustworthy, generous, giving, patient, and witty. Someone who has your back and supports you no matter what – and don’t forget smart. That’s my ideal type.

Every person I date must display most, if not all, of these traits.

“What about looks?” you ask. Yes, you have to be physically attracted to your partner, but believe me, you will come to cherish these other traits.

Unfortunately, I’ve somehow ended up dating a whole string of adjectives that don’t come close to that ideal. Selfishness, insecurity, jealousy, nymphomania; a need to be flashy and the center of attention; definitely less than smart – you name it, I’ve dated it. The type my granny would shake her head, and her finger, at and proclaim, “Wild!”

And sure, the “wild” ones are the most fun, but you can’t count on them. You can’t trust them.
Why? Well, I guess you’ll have to keep reading to find out.

The Treasure Hunt Chapter 3

Going Back

How did I find myself here? Let’s go back. First, you

need to see the moment I knew I wanted to find The Treasure.

Actually, no – you need to start at the beginning. Only then will you understand the different paths I’ve taken looking for the treasure, and the reason I started to search.

I was born in Tampa in 1960, Frederick Marion Shearpola.

Frederick – Strong and refined, peaceful ruler, leader! Nicknames: Fred, Freddie.

Marion – Hardworking, practical, creative, responsible! Shearapola – I made that up!

I don’t remember Florida at all, because my family moved to Murrells Inlet, just south of Myrtle Beach in South Carolina, in 1961.

I don’t remember much before age three or four, I mean, who does. Around this time, Miami was in the news a lot. I’m not sure why – Cuba, perhaps? – but I know this because my father would watch the news every night. My brother and I had to sit and be quiet while he did this. Actually, we had to sit and be quiet all the time.

“Children are to be seen and not heard” was his entire parenting philosophy.

My father never spent much time with me. He would go to work and when he returned home, we had to be out of the way. You know, like the two kids in Mary Poppins.

If Bobby and I wanted to talk or had questions, we had to wait until my father wasn’t around. He never shared much with us, and definitely didn’t want us to share with him. Bobby is my older brother.

My father had been abandoned by his own father when he was young, so I guess he couldn’t be expected to understand how to have a good relationship with us.

Once dinner was over, he would sit in his favorite chair, my mother would sit on our small love seat, and Bobby and I sat – quietly – on the floor. We were never allowed on the furniture when he was around.

My father was a neat freak, everything had to be just right, nothing out of place. Maybe that was because he was a military man. He’d been a sergeant in the Air Force, eventually gaining the rank of Chief Master Sergeant, E9.

He had wanted to become an officer, and he was smart enough – my mother once told me his IQ was over 140. He was even accepted at West Point and then planned to finish his education at the US Air Force Academy in Colorado.

He never made it, though – he failed the color vision test. By military standards, he was colorblind.

Because of that he couldn’t fly, so he joined as an enlisted man. Due to his IQ, he moved up the ranks fast; but the fact that he was unable to enter the military as an officer left him defeated.

He would always put on a show around people, but my mother told me he was depressed. As we’d find out many years later, he was very depressed. One day when he was 51 years old, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he ended his own life.

And like I said, he was a neat freak – so to keep from making a mess, he went out onto the back porch and rolled himself up in a plastic bag before shooting himself.

Considerate of him, huh? And if that wasn’t sad enough, he put in his will that Bobby and I were taken care of by other means, and therefore he left us nothing.

Not even a goodbye in his final note. By then, he had remarried, and he addressed his current wife and his children, my half siblings, but nothing to me or Bobby.

Even at the end of his life, he still had nothing to say to

me.

I was hurt over this more than Bobby. That’s only fair, I guess. You see, Bobby was also a half-brother. That was another thing we didn’t talk about. I didn’t find out until I was maybe eleven or twelve, a couple years after my mother divorced my father.

Bobby mentioned to me that he was going to change his name back to his birth name once he turned 18, so I asked questions, and they had to come clean. It turned out my mother was married before my father, to Bobby’s father. She was very young at the time – she had Bobby when she was just 15 years old. July 1958

Then she found out that Bobby’s father was cheating on

her.

So, she took her gun, drove down US 41 near Gibsonton

to the bar where he was drinking, and shot him.

She was aiming for his privates, but luckily for him, she missed – the bullet hit him on the leg with about an inch to

spare. Amazingly, she didn’t get into trouble.

When the police realized how young she was, and heard what Bobby’s dad had done, they just laughed and took her gun away. Shooting him wasn’t good enough, so she divorced him, too.

Bobby was about a year and a half old when she married my father in March of 1960. I was born in August 1960; something doesn’t add up, but I’m sure not going to ask my mother about that math. All I can tell you, do not mess with a Sicilian woman.

When my parents got married, my father adopted Bobby so that he and I would grow up with the same last name. But if you do some more math, you can put two and two together, and come up with this fact: I’m an only child.

I have two or three half-brothers, and a few stepbrothers. But I’m my parents’ only child. In that sense, there is only one of me. When I realized this, I felt alone.

When I tug on that string, though, I start to unravel that sense of loneliness, and it takes me all the way back to 1964 and my spot on the floor in the living room.

***

There I sat, watching TV from the floor next to the combination lamp-table that was next to my father’s favorite chair. This particular night, he was enjoying a can of Planter’s Peanuts. You know, the ones that still have the red skin on them. The aroma was too much for me to take, and I asked my mother:

“Can I have some of Dad’s peanuts?”

She said, “No, those are your father’s peanuts. I’ll give you something later.”

My father didn’t offer me any. Soon after I was sent to bed. I laid there wondering why even this small request had to be denied. What was the point of having kids, if you were just going to treat them like a nuisance?

I remember this as sure as I’m writing it now – I asked my mother on several occasions:

“Where is Miami?”

She would always reply, “In southern Florida.”

I would ask her if we could visit Miami one day, and she would always say yes and then tell me to stop asking. I would also ask:

“Why does the man on TV always talk about Miami?”

She’d just shake her head and say, “There’s always something going on down there.”

One day when I’d had enough, I asked my mother another question.

“Mom, why does this man on TV always talk about his ‘Ami’ and never about my ‘Ami’?”

She just looked down at me with a weary expression and said, “Sit down and shut up.”

One day, I’m not sure when, I realized that I didn’t have an ‘Ami’ of my own.

You might be wondering why my mother didn’t correct me. Why’d I have to figure out on my own that it was “Miami” and not “My-Ami”!

Well, none of the adults in my life – grandparents, mother, father, stepfather, uncles, aunts and so on – ever used an opportunity like that to teach their children anything.

Sometimes my childish enthusiasm was even more severely crushed. I recall one particular incident during Sunday dinner. I was sitting down at the dinner table before anyone else because I was so excited. It was a Sunday and that was “special home cooked meals day.”

My mother was a great cook, but usually we didn’t get the benefit of that. You see, we had to eat soup, rice, beans, and bread during the week while my father enjoyed steak and potatoes every evening. My mother was given orders to make him what he wanted, but he gave her only enough money to feed him properly, and we had to eat on the cheap. We would all sit at the table and eat our bowls of soup while my father ate like a king – all the while never once having anything to say to us.

So, Sundays, when we actually got to eat the delicious food my mother cooked, were special. This particular Sunday, there was fried chicken on the table.

The smell of it wafting through the house as my mother made it, already had my mouth watering. I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into a delicious, crispy chicken leg. So, I was ready and waiting at the table, even saying my prayers ahead of time.

When everyone else sat down, I alerted them all to this

fact.

My mother said that I didn’t have to bow my head, but

to be quiet and wait until everyone else said their prayers.

I did my best to do as she said, I really did. But the chicken smelled so good, and I was starving. In the middle of the prayers, the question just burst out of me,

“Mom, can I have a chicken leg, please?”

The shadow of my father’s hand just before it struck me on the side of my face is all I can remember of what happened next. As I was picking myself (and the chair) up from the floor, my face was red and tears running down my cheeks, I was informed that there would be no chicken for me that night.

***

Now that I’m a father myself, I try to put myself in my parents’ shoes. After all, my kids did similar things as they were growing up. They would talk out of turn, ask questions, make mistakes, and spill their drinks on the table.

But I always used those moments to teach them, or to explain to them why their behavior was wrong.

“Wait your turn,” I would say. “Put your glass behind your plate instead of next to it, and you won’t knock it over when reaching for your napkin.”

Was it so hard for my parents to do the same?

Now, I was blessed with good kids; they seemed to understand things as I explained them. But it also seemed like the natural thing to do. What better moment to talk to your kid about manners than when he interrupts a prayer to ask for a drumstick?

I would have understood my father’s reaction if this were a repeat offense, but I was just excited, eager for good food. Why was that such a heinous offense, that I deserved to be slapped to the floor?

And why didn’t my mother just explain to me that Miami is the name of a city?

No, I had to figure it all out for myself. That, I would discover, was the most consistent theme of my childhood.