MemberHere's another one of my autobiographical short stories.
One of many places that we lived prior to my naval enlistment set our family in a two story wooden home. I was probably 15 years of age then. The back yard, after several yards, sloped down a short hill. At the bottom of that incline was a two-car garage.
The previous owner of the property dug a six foot hole on the left side of the garage just short of the size of the underside of a car, where, I'm certain, he used to repair his vehicle(s). Funny that I never saw my father making use of that pit, because he performed most of the work needed on his cars.
Behind the house were three or four sets of railroad tracks. Everyday a few long, noisy trains rolled on them at a fair speed. Odd, that after a short time, the noise of a train becomes simply a part of the day. It's no big deal.
At the other side of those tracks was another half-minute-long descent to the banks of the Beaver River, over which was built the Fallston Bridge.
The spot where my few friends and I liked to hang out was under that span, along the bank. It was there that we often swam and fished for the only two types of fish in that dirty water: catfish and carp, all of which were ugly, and none of which were edible.
My first episode of drinking took place along the edge of that water. It occurred in the late afternoon. One of the boys managed to acquire a bottle of Whiteport wine. He shared the contents, and it didn't take long for the side effects to hit me.
Not much of the return home do I remember, except for the worry that consumed me over the possibility of getting caught by my father and/or step mother.
Although they both drank, and a good bit to say the least, I figured I'd get the belt for this one for sure. So, as quickly as I could, I found my way to my upstairs bedroom and passed out. I, and the room, reeked of alcohol.
In the morning, I awoke with a memorable headache, then headed downstairs to eat a bowl of cereal. My father, in one of his rarest moods, walked into the kitchen, looked at me, and said, "Now you know what it's like. Do you want to go on with it or do you want to quit this the hard way?"
Not the first sign of an approaching punishment did I sense. Instead, I received a simple warning.
To this day, I still believe that was one of the most profoundly educational moments of my life.
One of many places that we lived prior to my naval enlistment set our family in a two story wooden home. I was probably 15 years of age then. The back yard, after several yards, sloped down a short hill. At the bottom of that incline was a two-car garage.
The previous owner of the property dug a six foot hole on the left side of the garage just short of the size of the underside of a car, where, I'm certain, he used to repair his vehicle(s). Funny that I never saw my father making use of that pit, because he performed most of the work needed on his cars.
Behind the house were three or four sets of railroad tracks. Everyday a few long, noisy trains rolled on them at a fair speed. Odd, that after a short time, the noise of a train becomes simply a part of the day. It's no big deal.
At the other side of those tracks was another half-minute-long descent to the banks of the Beaver River, over which was built the Fallston Bridge.
The spot where my few friends and I liked to hang out was under that span, along the bank. It was there that we often swam and fished for the only two types of fish in that dirty water: catfish and carp, all of which were ugly, and none of which were edible.
My first episode of drinking took place along the edge of that water. It occurred in the late afternoon. One of the boys managed to acquire a bottle of Whiteport wine. He shared the contents, and it didn't take long for the side effects to hit me.
Not much of the return home do I remember, except for the worry that consumed me over the possibility of getting caught by my father and/or step mother.
Although they both drank, and a good bit to say the least, I figured I'd get the belt for this one for sure. So, as quickly as I could, I found my way to my upstairs bedroom and passed out. I, and the room, reeked of alcohol.
In the morning, I awoke with a memorable headache, then headed downstairs to eat a bowl of cereal. My father, in one of his rarest moods, walked into the kitchen, looked at me, and said, "Now you know what it's like. Do you want to go on with it or do you want to quit this the hard way?"
Not the first sign of an approaching punishment did I sense. Instead, I received a simple warning.
To this day, I still believe that was one of the most profoundly educational moments of my life.
