I was fifteen when I used fake ID to get into the Dew Drop Inn, a honky tonk down the road from our house outside of Wellsburg, West Virginia. Besides the 3.2 beer, I was there to enjoy a night of hillbilly tunes from a local band called Cowboy Copus and the Didly Squats. When my father, a man whose lips never touched a drop of liquor, learned of my indiscretion, he informed me that I was destined for hell. Later that year, he hanged himself in a neighbor's barn. So, when my time comes, I'll get my chance to find out why in hell he murdered himself.
Thornton P. Knowles
Thornton P. Knowles
No comments:
Post a Comment