In a flash I suddenly got carried into the early 60's... my neighbors were some great fellas and gals who owned a variety of footwear, 3 guitars, hired suits from Moore Market and got piss drunk on weekends. The eldest guy, a serious variety, once had his head bashed up by his girl friends brother. Austin was not part of the family he was a distant cousin who sported the biggest paunch. Kenny was the kiddo, my friend, he locked himself in a room and did strange stuff, he made cars from pieces of chalk.
I really don't know if Kenny went to school.... my memories are a bit faint. The father of the house worked with carpenter tools and the mother was a nurse, a kind lady. Kenny was a gentle guy too, after all using pins and pieces of blade to work on a small piece of chalk demanded patience. I think I was 5 or so when I was playing with Kenny... and suddenly this gentle guy carried me and made me hang on the loft and just walked away. I looked down and saw the ground way below.... and I screamed!!!! I really don't remember what happened after that, but I was in one piece.
Years went by... we shifted to and they shifted and we lost touch and the 'fear of the loft' still haunts me. My opening line in my autobiography will probably be this little incident... it may probably start like this. "Hanging from the loft I looked down at death and Iam still hanging on to life........"
No comments:
Post a Comment