in, keenly interested in the outcomes. It was summer before the climactic end occurred and President Richard Nixon resigned. After having watched Walter Cronkite talk about Watergate and Patty Hearst every day on the six o’clock evening news for what felt like years, I recognized the role the media played in the world. And by then, I knew I wanted to be an observer who wrote about that world.
Our move to the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia when I was ten became bittersweet because Dad’s drinking soon began to grow worse, causing more and more friction at home. That’s because Dad started spending every weekend and even some weeknights out drinking with Bruce, his best friend and coworker. When we finally met Bruce one night at a pizza parlor, I realized it wasn’t his fault, for Bruce drank far less than Dad did.
We soon grew to love Bruce during occasional evenings spent together. He also became a cheerleader of sorts, for when I turned into a gawky teenager, Bruce would offer praise and encouragement whenever he saw me practicing the piano, reading my lines for a school play, or working on a writing assignment.
One day while Bruce was visiting us, I walked around the trailer with a book balanced on my head, trying to perfect my posture and dreaming of the day when I would model for some famous magazine.
“Why, how elegant you look. You’re going to end up modeling for sure, as tall and slender as you are. They won’t be able to resist you, with your great posture and poise!” he said, making me blush and yet feel graceful at the same time.
Because West Virginia is a rural state, by his or her twelfth birthday every child knows how to drive and shoot—not at the same time, though. People either need to put food on the table or they’re avid hunters, or perhaps both, so many children learn to use a shotgun or rifle. That’s why, when I was nine, Dad and my Great-Uncle Paul took me out for target practice—and much to their amusement and pride, I kept hitting the bull’s-eyes. The next thing I knew, Dad had gone to Heck’s Department Store to buy me my own 30-30 rifle, which I proudly carried while I tromped along with Dad through the woods behind our house during deer season. Knowing how jealous the boys in my class would be if they saw me, I was never more proud.
Driving a vehicle was equally common for preteens. A heavily agricultural state, much of the land is used for farming, and everyone in the family pitches in. Many of my friends also began driving as young as I did, but most of them learned in a cornfield on a tractor, not in a Pinto station wagon on a four-lane highway because their father was drunk.
At the airport, teaching flight students, Dad was sober as could be. But any other time he had an open can of beer in his hand. One Saturday, he talked me into going with him to a Navy surplus sale at the Baltimore harbor. We were there all day and not long after we left, he steered the car into the parking lot of a beer joint.
My heart sank as I recalled the words he and Mom had exchanged that morning. “All right Dale, she can go, but only if you promise not to drink and drive.”
He had given my mother a patronizing smile. “Eileen, I won’t drink while Daleen’s with me. I promise.”
So in the parking lot, with my father turning to me, I wondered what I should do to keep him from drinking. “Would you like to go inside and get something to eat?” Dad asked.
I shook my head. “Can’t we eat when we get home?”
“Aren’t you thirsty? I’m thirsty. Come on, let’s get a drink before we head home.” He was already opening his door.
“But Mom said—”
“I know what your mother said,” he said sternly, “and I’m saying we’re stopping here to eat. Now come on. You can’t stay in the car by yourself.”
I had never defied my father, but as I followed him inside, it was with crossed arms and a sullen expression. A few minutes later, as I sat on the tall bar
Our move to the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia when I was ten became bittersweet because Dad’s drinking soon began to grow worse, causing more and more friction at home. That’s because Dad started spending every weekend and even some weeknights out drinking with Bruce, his best friend and coworker. When we finally met Bruce one night at a pizza parlor, I realized it wasn’t his fault, for Bruce drank far less than Dad did.
We soon grew to love Bruce during occasional evenings spent together. He also became a cheerleader of sorts, for when I turned into a gawky teenager, Bruce would offer praise and encouragement whenever he saw me practicing the piano, reading my lines for a school play, or working on a writing assignment.
One day while Bruce was visiting us, I walked around the trailer with a book balanced on my head, trying to perfect my posture and dreaming of the day when I would model for some famous magazine.
“Why, how elegant you look. You’re going to end up modeling for sure, as tall and slender as you are. They won’t be able to resist you, with your great posture and poise!” he said, making me blush and yet feel graceful at the same time.
Because West Virginia is a rural state, by his or her twelfth birthday every child knows how to drive and shoot—not at the same time, though. People either need to put food on the table or they’re avid hunters, or perhaps both, so many children learn to use a shotgun or rifle. That’s why, when I was nine, Dad and my Great-Uncle Paul took me out for target practice—and much to their amusement and pride, I kept hitting the bull’s-eyes. The next thing I knew, Dad had gone to Heck’s Department Store to buy me my own 30-30 rifle, which I proudly carried while I tromped along with Dad through the woods behind our house during deer season. Knowing how jealous the boys in my class would be if they saw me, I was never more proud.
Driving a vehicle was equally common for preteens. A heavily agricultural state, much of the land is used for farming, and everyone in the family pitches in. Many of my friends also began driving as young as I did, but most of them learned in a cornfield on a tractor, not in a Pinto station wagon on a four-lane highway because their father was drunk.
At the airport, teaching flight students, Dad was sober as could be. But any other time he had an open can of beer in his hand. One Saturday, he talked me into going with him to a Navy surplus sale at the Baltimore harbor. We were there all day and not long after we left, he steered the car into the parking lot of a beer joint.
My heart sank as I recalled the words he and Mom had exchanged that morning. “All right Dale, she can go, but only if you promise not to drink and drive.”
He had given my mother a patronizing smile. “Eileen, I won’t drink while Daleen’s with me. I promise.”
So in the parking lot, with my father turning to me, I wondered what I should do to keep him from drinking. “Would you like to go inside and get something to eat?” Dad asked.
I shook my head. “Can’t we eat when we get home?”
“Aren’t you thirsty? I’m thirsty. Come on, let’s get a drink before we head home.” He was already opening his door.
“But Mom said—”
“I know what your mother said,” he said sternly, “and I’m saying we’re stopping here to eat. Now come on. You can’t stay in the car by yourself.”
I had never defied my father, but as I followed him inside, it was with crossed arms and a sullen expression. A few minutes later, as I sat on the tall bar
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