Wait for Daddy

“WAIT’LL YOUR DADDY GETS HOME!”

What child has not, at one time or another, heard those immortal words? To be left quaking in their shoes for some infraction; awaiting a punishment worse than death that would surely come upon the arrival of “the executioner,” (daddy). In many cases, the waiting caused more pain than the actual castigation.

These words were more prevalent in days past than in our modern generation. Parents of the olden days were expected, nay; required, to administer enough discipline to thwart any attempts by the child to ‘run wild.’

Of course, there were rare instances when this reproof was carried too far and resulted in the opposite teachings; but these situations were few and far between.

What usually occurred was a short visit to the woodshed, accompanied by a paddle or a hickory; administered on the tender flesh of the perpetrator. Enough deviation in the exact method to be used was such to cause the waiting and wondering to be a sufficient deterrent for the transgression.

It was years later, when I learned that the suspense related to, Wait’ll your daddy gets home, was an important part of the punishment. If nothing more than a stern rebuff transpired during the trip to the woodshed, the anticipation of what could have happened was enough to discourage further offenses.

The service’s of a child psychologist as a means of rehabilitating a damaged ego which was caused by the promise of punishment when daddy gets home, was rare indeed. Children accepted the fact that when they broke the rules, they paid the penalty.

I certainly do not advocate abuse of children; however, it is my belief that they want and expect to be taught right from wrong. If this teaching involves an occasional trip to the woodshed, so be it. The pain from an infrequent paddling will not last as long as a jail sentence.

Our two children undoubtedly experienced their share of these promises as well as the sting of firm hand-contact with their rear ends with no permanent damage.

The compensation for our attempts to lead them in the right direction has come in the form of their statements to us on more than one occasion when they observed an unruly child, i.e. “You and Mom taught us better than that.”

Perhaps “Wait’ll your daddy gets home” did a lot to prepare them to become the successful, well-adjusted, adults that Mom & Dad are so damned proud of.

Demijon

Way to Go.

Interstate travel is the fast and sure method of going from one place to another; however, it is not necessarily the most scenic route. To view all of the wonders in this great land, one must avoid at all costs, these boring stretches of concrete ribbon. There are no “Bubba’s Reptile Farm” situated beside the interstate highways.

I am convinced that the interstate system was responsible for the idem, “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all.” It is mile after mile of nothing more exciting than huge signs with neon letters that read, “SEE ROCK CITY” or “STUCKEYS”, exit 10. In addition, travel on these expressways, do much to increase animosity among family members. With conversation limited to: “Are you sure that you turned the coffee pot off?” and “If you youngun’s don’t sit still and shut up, we’ll go back home,” is there any wonder that family break-ups are on the rise?

Enjoyable vacations are the ones that traverse the country by way of the back roads. You know, the ones where you circle the courthouse five times before you can exit, and chances are you still get on the wrong road and end up in the parking lot of the fertilizer plant. This in itself is not bad, simply because you can educate the children in the proper methods of fertilization while attempting to find your way to “Joe’s Flea Market: Things, Stuff and Junque.”

The sleepy towns with a few cars angle-parked on main street and an array of straight chairs leaning against the store fronts on a wooden sidewalk are as much a part of Americana as “The World’s Largest Mall.” The towns that have yet to sport even a McDonalds or Wendys are nevertheless more exhilarating than the high-speed lanes of the interstate highways. It is here that you find the historical markers that announce the birthplace of the colonial governor of Arkansas or where General Jason P. Snodgrass was slain during the Civil War.

Attractions of educational appeal are in abundance when “backroading.” Where else can you find plots of land where “Funk’s Hybrid” corn seed is tested? Abandoned buildings with huge weed infested parking lots that once housed a thriving cotton mill. “The Pig & Whistle Drive Inn” with the now silent speaker posts anchored in rows that was the gathering place for countless teenagers consuming the famous “Burgers and Fries with large Coke – .69 cents.” Don’t miss individual one-room cottages with a broken neon sign that reads “Stella’s Tourist Cabins, No Vacancy.” “Arthur’s Used Auto Parts, if we don’t have it, you don’t need it.”

“B and G’s Filling Station” is another must on your trip through America’s heartland. It is here where your gasoline is pumped for you, your oil is checked, your windshield cleaned, your car is vacuumed of all the candy wrappers and spilled popcorn and the proper amount of air is put into your tires, all while you enjoy a soft drink from the ice box and a package of cheese crackers from the wire rack just above. A trip to the outside “privy” in back and you are on your way to another adventure.

A vacation of this type can and does offer enough “Show and Tell” material for an entire school year. Here you experience, firsthand, the fabric that made this country great. The metal that forged uniqueness found only far from the endless stretches of highway called the Interstate.

And be sure to have your picture taken alongside “Chief Redjaw” of the Mango Indian tribe and the stuffed bear at “Reds Burger Barn.” It will be an unforgettable experience, to say the least.

Demijon

WAD-JEW-SAY?

It is not easy to distinguish between an ‘Intellectual’ and a “Know it all.” This problem has plagued scholars since man forsook ‘grunting,’ and began to put his thoughts into words.

Mr. Noah Webster, sought to alleviate this dilemma by defining each word with a plausible explanation of its meaning. This would have been sufficient if Mr. Webster could have gone from cave to cave, and tutored each individual in the proper usage.

Since this was not the case; Man has resorted to using words that seem to fit the situation in which he is describing.  In some areas, the inhabitants feel that the less you say the better off you are.

For instance.  The title is an example.  Instead of, “I’m sorry: but I did not understand exactly what you are referring to.”  They simply use three words; Wad Jew Say?”  Unique?  Sure; but doesn’t this imply the same message?

An affirmative reply is sometimes changed to “yeah,” that still means that they agree with you.  On the other hand; a negative, “Naaah;” is telling you that they disagree, and it would be in your best interests to drop the subject.

An ‘Intellectual’ is one who is well versed in the correct usage and has the good sense to keep it to himself, rather than embarrass others.

The ‘Know-it-all’ is the one who cannot refrain from interrupting you in mid-sentence with the precise words that he ‘thinks’ you are seeking.  It does not matter to him, that ‘his’ words would cast an entirely different meaning on what you are relating to.

When faced with a situation such as the above; it would behoove us all to make our position crystal clear.

Example: YOU: – “I ain’t, (am not), gonna, (going to), tell you no, (any), more to leave me be, (alone).” “You keep on, (continue), and I’m, (I am), fixin’ ta, (getting ready to); BUST YOU IN THE MOUTH!”

The Know It All: – “WAD JEW SAY?”

Demijon

 

The Veteran

I suppose the biggest thing that had happened anywhere in this sleepy hamlet was the day the crop duster came in too low while attempting to spray Everett Dunn’s cotton field.  The tail wheel of his bi-plane hooked the clothesline and he crash landed in the pasture.

No one knew where Everett found the money to hire the crop duster since he never discussed his financial affairs with anyone.  It was so unlike him to spend money that was not absolutely necessary.  Some even said that he had gobs of money hidden somewhere on the farm; however, this was never proven to be true.

“Scared hell out of the cow and mule;” Everett liked to tell anyone who would listen.  “Made him pay fer the clothesline too,”  he always added.

Everett was definitely not a pillar of the community.  He was a small man who, according to most of his neighbors, would; ‘never amount to a hill of beans.’  His major accomplishment was the eight months that he had served in the army.

“Never liked all that left-right marching.  Feet always got tangled up;” was his only explanation for his short military career.

An accident involving an unexploded artillery shell left him with a slight limp and a small pension.  After his medical discharge, he returned to the run-down twenty acres in the lower edge of the county, and appeared content with the meager existence that the overworked fields produced.

His needs were few.  A bachelor for all of his forty two years; he lived alone in the three-room, unpainted house that was almost hidden among the dense undergrowth bordering the unpaved road.

The sparse furnishings heralded the fact that comfort took precedence over decor.  An unmade bed, a cluttered table, a couple of well-worn chairs and a wood burning stove denoted that material possessions were also, among the least of his worries.

During the summer growing season, he could be found attempting to coax stunted cotton plants to produce enough for the small amount of cash he would need to supplement his pension and tide him over through the non-producing months of winter.

A weed infested garden spot provided him with enough fresh vegetables in summer and the piles of empty Sardine, Potted Meat, and “Pork & Bean”  cans, behind the house, attested to the fact that he somehow got by.

“It was definitely a heart attack;” the Doctor said.  Jule Fleming had stopped by his house Tuesday, on his way to cut a load of wood.  Jule said, he opened the door, when Everett did not answer his knock.   “He was sitting in that easy chair he liked, with his Bible opened, in his lap.”   

Ben Alsbrook said, “Best way to go, when your times up.”   Albert Knowles recalled, “He was a strange one all right.”   “Sure had funny ways,” noted “Red” Dawkins.

“Guess we’ll have to sell his Mule and Cow to cover th’ cost of his burying,”  voiced Oscar LaMarr;  the Funeral Director.

But the ‘real epitaph,’  was affirmed by Jimmy Berryhill, the Barber.  Being a man of a few words, he recounted; what possibly, were the unspoken  sentiments of practically everyone in the community.

“He wouldn’t let anybody but me, cut his hair.  I found out a lot about him while he was in my chair.”  He continued with [...].

“Regardless of what anybody said about Everett:”   “He was a GOOD old ‘son-uv-a-bitch.”  

Demijon

Everyone of those ‘Good Old Boys,’ were volunteers to Sit up with the Dead;” when LaMarr  scheduled the Sittin’ – Up.’      Dj.

Early Radio.

Our first one was an oblong box of perhaps ten inches in height by fourteen inches in length.  The top was somewhat rounded at the outside corners.  The front was adorned with two knobs and a small fan-shaped dial. inside of which were a series of numbers and a red needle-like pointer..

Except for the intricate tubes and wires, the back was hollow.  There was a legitimate reason for this vacancy.  A dry-cell battery’ that supplied the power for the unit, must be plugged in and slid into this cavity.

A length of wire called an aerial, connected to the base of the power transformer and strung through a window to a long pole outside the house completed the installation.  Our family now owned our first Radio.

Everyone in the family was cautioned about turning on this wondrous gadget.  The battery must be saved for important purposes like the war news. with Edward R. Murrow, fading in and out from London, England. However, these warnings were sometimes ignored by myself and my siblings if we were lucky enough to be alone in the house at the time for Let’s Pretend, Jack Armstrong – All American Boy, or Gangbusters, to be aired.

Although inclement weather often affected reception, there were times during favorable conditions, and if the aerial was high enough, that stations as far away as W.C.K.Y. in Cincinnati, Ohio could be received.  At other times, we would sit entranced as we listened to the harmony of Lulu Belle and Scotty from station K.N.O.X. in Knoxville, Tennessee.

As a general rule, we were allowed one or two programs after supper and the evening news.  Usually these programs were Amos & Andy,  Lum & Abner,or perhaps, Fred Allen.

It was also not unusual for some of our neighbors, who as yet, did not own a radio, to gather in our living room to listen and laugh at the antics of these popular personalities.

The one program which was hardly ever missed was the Saturday Night, Grand Ole Opry, coming to you from clear channel, W.S.M.in Nashville, Tennessee.

The veracity of radio celebrities that performed on The Opry stage were never doubted when they praised their sponsors.  Names like Minnie Pearl, String Bean, George D. Hayes; (the solemn old Judge), Eddie Arnold, Ernest Tubbs, etc. became like family members.  If THEY said that Martha White Flour, was good; no one would take exception to that fact.

In the early to mid-1940′s, electricity came to the rural areas through the inauguration of the R.E.A. (Rural Electrification Administration).  Poles and wires were strung throughout the countryside and to almost every house.  Radios became smaller because of no need to house batteries.  A simple wire plugged into the overhead socket supplied the power, and the radio became a constant companion for most households.

I suppose that the worse let-down for me was when I learned that Lum & Abner did not, in fact, work in the Jot-Um-Down Store.  That Kingfish and the lodge of The Mystic Knights of the Sea, did not exist.  That the hoof-beats of the great horse, Silver, were created by a sound engineer; and the castles, the Kings and Dragons of Let’s Pretend, were only words; read from a script by actors, standing on either side of a microphone.

Today, we are aware of all of the technology required to produce radio, as well as television programs; but to a young innocent boy in the 1940′s, it was the real thing.

Even now, in my mind, I can visualize Amos, sitting in his Taxicab, with  Kingfish leaning against the door and discussing the antics of Sapphire, (his wife); or hear the thundering hoof beats of the great horse, Silver, and the hearty “Hi-Yo-Silver – Away!”  as The Lone Ranger & Tonto  rode  ‘Silver’ &Scout;’  into the Sunset: Searching for, yet another wrong to be righted.

Demijon

For a young boy, around 10 years old: “Things couldn’t get any better.”     Dj.

Discretion.

“THE BEST PART OF VALOR.”

The act of being discreet is certainly not the strong suit of some people.  The ones of whom I am referring, are the insolent, demanding, individuals who think nothing of the feelings of others so long as their every whim is satisfied.

They are the ones who consider that the only plausible reason for doing anything should be, with their comfort and convenience in mind.  They are easily upset, if and when, decisions are made without their prior approval.  To put it bluntly, ‘they are right and don’t you forget it.’

Recently; an example of this thinking was related to me.  Our friend, let’s call her Sarah; happened to be in charge of arranging, serving, and the clean-up, at a social event.  In order to limit confusion, changes were made in the methods of, placing dishes of food, the removal of said dishes, and the clean-up which followed.  For everyone concerned, these new methods worked quite well, with the exception of one individual, – Martha: (not her real name).

Martha objected to the new system; only because this was not the way ‘she’ wanted to do things.  She insisted on returning to the old way regardless of the disturbance to others that the old methods had proven to cause.

Thank goodness Sarah did not relent and allow Martha to have her way, and the transition from eating to entertainment continued smoothly.  However, it was not without discord as could be attested to by several witnesses.  So intent was Martha to have her way, that she voiced her discontent by stating that ‘she;’  just might refrain from ‘attending any future functions,’

Adding insult to injury, Sarah noted that this decision was Martha’s to make, and regardless of her decision; ‘the show would still go on.’  This did much to calm Martha.  She finally began to realize that there were more important things afloat, than the ‘boosting of her ego,’  by allowing her to do as she pleased.

Much can be learned by this dispute.  That is simply; to utilize discretion when confronted with a situation that is not completely to your liking.  Consider ALL the avenues of appropriate action, BEFORE  jumping off the deep end.  This will minimize confrontations, such as the above, and quite possibly eliminate any undue stress, brought on by insisting on having everything ‘one person’s’ way.

If the changes were wrong, they will be corrected; but even wrong ideas deserve a trial.  Without new ideas, we cannot have progress.  Without progress, we are more or less dead-in-the-water.

If you have a new idea, do not hesitate to suggest it.  However, do not DEMAND” it.  Remember:  The horse that is led to water, cannot be forced to drink.’

Think about it:  Be discreet,’ and your valor will overshadow your sense of being ‘self-centered.’

Now, that wasn’t so hard to do, was it?

DemijonDemijon

“It’s not easy to ‘take charge,’of the person; who has been elected to be, ‘in charge.”    Dj.

The Mower you Mow

For most of my young life, I was forced to spend most of my waking hours applying the teachings from early childhood; that grass was evil and all means were to be exercised to eradicate this scourge from the face of the earth.

Our livelihoods depended on the ridding of the fields of this prolific deterrent to the health of the young, tender plants on which we depended for food as well as income.

The abhorrence that we held for grasses in the crops was carried over into the yards of most farms.  Hours were spent in hoeing, raking and smoothing the entire yards with       brush-brooms’.

These ‘home-made tools’ were nothing more than dogwood branches, which had been allowed to dry until all the leaves had fallen from them.  They were then tied into small bundles.  The so-called ‘brooms’ left the yards with a clean, swept look that everyone considered appropriate for a well cared-for yard.

As time passed, the thinking of many farmers changed in favor of customs that were practiced by their “Town” neighbors, and they began to cultivate within the confines of the yards, the same grasses that they worked so hard to remove from their fields.

It became evident that a way to control the growth of this grass would have to be found, hence, the innovation of the “Sling Blade.”  It was merely a strip of flat metal that was sharpened on both sides and mounted to a handle by means of two metal bars shaped in a semi-circle.

This tool, when used properly, would allow the operator to clip the tops from the grasses with a back and forth swinging motion.

Necessity for an easier and faster way to keep the grass in control prompted the invention of a series of blades, powered by cogs attached to wheels.  These blades were positioned in a way that forced them to contact a sharpened bar, creating a cutting motion when pushed through the grass by the operator, holding onto a “T” shaped handle.

Called a ‘reel-type’ mower; this machine was used extensively until the invention of a small gasoline engine which could be attached to the top of the contraption and served as the power to not only turn the blades; but could also propel the mower by belts and pulleys.

Eventually, this mower gave way to the modern ‘rotary’ power mower that is still in use today in many forms.  Although the engines power a sharpened, spinning blade that does the cutting; much effort is required by the operator to push the mower through the grass.

As more powerful engines were developed and easier ways to perform this laborious chore were sought, the invention of the modern-day “Riding Mower,” changed our lives as much as any invention in history.  Instead of struggling with ‘sling blades,’ ‘Reel Type,’ push and ‘Self-Propelled’ mowers, we now can sit in a somewhat comfortable seat and simply guide the mower to the designated area and relax as it performs the work for us.  Along with these power tools came a different designation of the areas around our homes.

We now refer to the grassy carpets that surround our houses and require so much of our time as Lawns instead of yards.  No more do we “cut the grass;” we Mow.”      

This innovation has prompted a lucrative career for many, in the form of establishing a paid for hire, “Lawn Service.”   Just yesterday, I saw a large truck loaded down with Power-Mowers, Rakes, Power Leaf Blowers, Gasoline Cans, etc.  Stenciled on the side of the truck was the name of the business.  It was obvious that the owner had experienced the ‘Rough & Rowdy’  side of life by the brightly-colored letters, that read; “WARNING!”   “YOUR GRASS IS MINE!”   CALL- MOW – 539.1275.   

As a result of these innovative machines, our lives have been made easier and our waistlines have become larger; but I for one; would not relish the thoughts of returning to the days of sling – blades and Push – Type Tools.   

DemijonDemijon

“I’m lazy and I’m glad.”  “Even writing about it makes me tired.”     Dj.

The Paycheck

When I finally left the work force after more years than I care to recall; I was determined to concentrate on things that I enjoyed; rather than the tasks that heretofore had been delegated by someone else.

I would sleep late and lounge in pajamas until the spirit moved me to do something constructive.  If a job was not to my liking, I could “just say NO.”  Independence was finally mine and I intended to take full advantage of this opportunity to do as I damned well pleased.  Well; let me be the first to tell you that it hasn’t worked out exactly as I had planned.

First:  The habit of awakening early was so deeply ingrained within my mind that it was impossible for me to remain in bed past the usual 4:30 a.m.  There are lengthy lists of ‘honey-do’ requests that await me on the breakfast table, instead of the morning paper.  I learned very quickly just how much coffee to put in the pot in order to “don’t make it too strong.”

Sorting through notes, the first of which states; “Wake me before 9:00 because I have Bridge today.”  I discovered that bread had been forgotten on the last trip to the grocery and, –“will you pick up a loaf?”  On another note was written; “I need gas in my car, and while you are out; buy more bird seed.”  “Vacuum and dust.” said another, and so on, until it was time for me to go to my part-time job.

Working part-time, for ‘beer and cigarette money,’  had almost turned into a full-time job with the exception of the compensation.  Snickers from the bank tellers when I present my tiny pay-check, attest to the fact that I would never become wealthy in this line of work.  The check was hardly enough to, “pick up a book of stamps.”

Upon returning home I discover that the neighbors have been complaining about the sad plight of our yard, therefore another note read, “please mow, and weed the lawn.”  Before I finish mowing, I am told that we are having dinner with the Smiths and, “You can’t go looking like that.”

Arriving at the Smiths, I find that they have just returned from a Caribbean cruise and have been playing golf all day.  They inform me that they both envy me for not having anything to do, and they wish that they could be as ‘laid-back’ as I am.

Little do they know that all the years that I spent in the workplace were nothing like as hectic as my retirement life.  While employed; I was only required to do two things.  Number # 1, was to – ‘show up’, when I was scheduled; and Number # 2, was to – ‘be on time.’  Now:  There is only a ‘beginning schedule,’ and the “pay ain’t nothing like as good.”

DemijonDemijon

“Woe is me!!!”       Dj.

Short Stories

I have been asked many times: “Why are the majority of your writings, essays, or short stories?”  Believe me folks; there is a legitimate reason for this.

Every one of us have tried to read a book, on a subject that the title and synopsis interests us.   Many times we reject it; because it contains 284 pages of descriptive dialog, most of which has little to do with the story line.  “You know? like, [...].”

Page 3 thru 16; describes; – “The man who walked into my office; was wearing a pink shirt, with the collar unbuttoned and a, loosely-tied, green-striped, necktie, over which, was a sleeveless sweater that was between a blue hue, and yellow with red stripes.  There were several spots on the sweater and necktie that was obviously a portion of his breakfast.  Dried egg is rather hard to scrape off, and will usually leave traces under the fingernails, when attempting to disguise,   [...].” (Detective Manual,  – page 6, – 2nd paragraph).

“His trousers were a bulky gray with a pleated front, and was about two inches too short for his six foot frame.  His shoes were scuffed and began their life as ‘wing-tips;’ but at this late date, held little resemblance to this type of foot-wear.  Perhaps, the worse dereliction of fashion-consciousness was that he wore miss-matched socks.  I kept my hand in the right hand drawer of my desk, where my “38 – S & W” lay, until the man stated his business.”    “Ya-da – Ya-da – Ya-da;  etc.”

Page 17 thru 37; describes the weather on that particular day.  Dark clouds hovered over the City, blocking the sunlight from the trash-filled streets and added  gloom to the hoards of young ladies who enjoy their lunch on the patio of the Insurance building across the street.” 

“Waiting for a client, to enter my office and demand my ‘detecting services’ is more relaxing; when I can observe the ‘lunch-crowd,’ through the window, with my feet propped atop my desk.”    

Page 38 thru 52; compares the difference between the 1947 Plymouth, Business – Coupe, that was parked beside a fire hydrant; with today’s hi-tech, computerized, vehicles. “The Car evidently had been abused, since the entire body was a mass of scratches and dents.  The vehicle had, at one time, been painted a light blue; but had faded to the point that only the dull, rust-colored, primer paint was visible.”

Page 53 thru 77;  “The man refused my offer; when I nodded toward the chair that sat in front of my desk, and he elected to stand until he was certain that I would hear him out, before summoning the Police.  This type of client was typical in my business of, “Elite Bounty Hunter’s, Inc.” that I opened in 1968; after retiring from the ‘Sanitation Department.’  While there, I was shot, when attempting to empty the trash can in the bedroom of the Mayor’s lovely daughter, at  01:30 a.m.”

On and on it goes, for the rest of the entire book; until you fall asleep.  Then, when you awaken, you discover that you ‘HAVE TO BEGIN’ reading again; at page 3,” simply because; you have forgotten what the book was all about.  This is when you tune the small Television, atop the filing cabinet, to a re-run of “Gilligan’s Island.”

Now: I ask you; “Had you rather muddle through a book of 284 pages like the one above; or would you really, enjoy an essay, such as the following?”  -  A short story containing, Race: Religion: Sex: Mystery: Royalty: and Desire?”  

Of course, you would always opt for the more interesting reading material.  So:  Read on.”

ENTANGLEMENT,  -  AN ESSAY!

“Good Heavens!” (religion), said the beautiful, Blonde, Princess: (race),  “I’m pregnant!” (sex), “I wonder who did it?”  (mystery), “I wish the Prince would try it.”  (desire), ‘for future reference.’

The End:

“Cry your eyes out, ‘New York Readers Club Best-Seller List;’  We believe in getting the story told without the waste of paper.”

DemijonDemijon

Hurry”  Send for your copy today.  They’re going fast.”      Dj.

My Friend

He was long, lean, and seemed to be two years, older than his daddy;’ when I first met him.  He was a rugged individual with a shock of brown hair and an air of independence about him that could, at times, be interpreted as surly.  In addition, he asked no quarter from anyone, nor did he expect any from his peers.  He made his way through our cruel world as best he could, as someone with a “built-in handicap.”.

This projected image was somewhat disconcerting since his mannerism did nothing to attest to this first impression.  In truth he was one of the kindest, most gentle men that I have had the privilege of knowing.  Honest to a fault, he thought nothing of denying himself some of the necessities that he needed when he discovered others that were less fortunate than himself.

His only weakness was his ‘love for strong drink.’  When, on occasion, he gave in to this temptation and imbibed into the ‘demon rum,’  he suffered a transformation.  He became an individual, bent on destroying a reputation; that heretofore, could have carried him to the summit in any vocation that he would have chosen; had it not been for this ‘self-inflicted’, infirmity’

To say that he was addicted would not be quite fitting, since he would go for months without so much as a sip; and then for reasons, known only to him; he would go off the deep end and succumb to the temptation that ‘the bottle,’ held over his emotions for most of his adult life.

You might say that he was his own worst enemy.  Everyone that knew him, found it hard to believe that, ‘when infected,’ this lovable character could become the person who now stood before them.  Obnoxious, loud, and displaying a truly mean streak, in which all who knew him thought that he was incapable of.  When, in this condition, he would insist on showing a side of himself that no one knew existed.

When his binge was over; he would revert to the gentle creature that was his inherent tendency, and would continue in this fashion until the urge was again so great that he was unable to resist.

He continued this life of ‘ups and downs,’ until his death.  Afterward, he was remembered, not for the affable person that he was for most of his life; but rather for the person who let ‘the bottle’ destroy him.

I suppose that his only claim to fame was the fact that most everyone knew him simply, as… The Town Drunk.”

Demijon

“It is truly a shame that most of us can ‘forget the good’  so quickly, and yet, can remember the bad’  for such a lengthy time, isn’t it?”     Dj.