Chestnuts roasting on an open fire was never, ever a part of any Christmas I experienced growing up. Dysfunctional doesn't begin to describe what I dare to call my childhood. But hey, it could have been worse.
Now this does not say I didn't have some colorful and memorable holiday experiences. There was this one time back in 1967 when I spent Christmas break riding on the truck with my Dad. We left Bridgeport headed west for California in a Freightliner. I was 5, but I was aware of the counterculture and the hippies. I wanted to see a real live hippie and this was my chance. I would be sooooo cool!
If you've ever watched King of the Hill you've seen my Dad. Cotton Hill is a dead ringer except for the fact Dad still had his shins.
We left Bridgeport and made it as far as a roadside park outside of Jacksboro where Dad pulled in. A car flashed it's lights and then a woman climbed in the cab. Dad told me to get out and wait in the car... It was freezing and she had the car keys.
A couple of hours later the woman came back to the car and told me to get in the truck. When I climbed in Dad told me to get in the bunk and go to bed.
Unfortunately, I mentioned this when we got back home 2 weeks later and got in big time trouble from Dad.
I never did get to see a hippie.
2 comments:
I sure miss your ole daddy... he was a hoot!
I must have made the shit list again this year... It's 4:30 and the fat bastard hasn't shown. I was gonna rob him and jack his ride!
The hippies were doing the same thing in VW vans.
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