I really don’t know why I wrote this book, but I never ...

I really don't know why I wrote this book, but I never really needed a reason why to do anything, that is just my nature. But it has helped me in many ways to rediscover myself and understand some things along the way. This book is not going to be grammatically correct, Punctuation will be wrong, sentences will run together, and it will be ALL OVER THE PLACE... No rhyme or reason...but "Hey"...That's just me. Kevin Lee, 2013

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Chapter 1

My Mother's Womb

She Had no idea, Nor did I of what was ahead of us, mom worked at a donut shop on Indianola Ave in Columbus Ohio, my dad was in and out of her life, I don't seem to have any memories that involved any relationship at all until I was about 14 years old but he is just in being included in my tale.

We lived on a street in the middle of the city, an allwhite neighborhood at the time, mostly middle working class mixed genre of Irish, and hillbillies that migrated from Tennessee and West by God Virginia, Which Is where my claim to genealogy origins come from.

The men in me and moms world back then came from the land of I don't give a fuck, backstreet brawlers, boozers, and greasers fixing up there

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Chevy to arouse the ladies down at Jerry's drive in on weekends. Most of them were mechanics in two bay garages or worked at the bearing plant downtown. My dad's best friend owned a pizza shop, In which they all hung out there until it was time to close up and go to the bar, Even though they had all been drinking since the time the laymen got off work.

This was the routine for the men, while the women stayed home with the kids, they worked the day jobs so they could be home with the children when they walked home from school. Fathers would never be home for dinner, in fact about the only time we saw them is when we were woke up in the middle of the night to the yelling and screaming coming from my mother who was pissed that he was drunk, pissed that he spent the money, pissed that he smelled like a woman, pissed that he was not being a father. All he would do is laugh and stumble to bed, usually with blood on his shirt because he and his buddy Pete had kicked the shit out of some poor bastard that looked at them wrong.

I would lay in bed under the sheets with my flashlight, hoping that tonight wouldn't be the night

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where he backhanded mom because she never seemed to know when to just shut up, If she let it go, then the crying would stop, the yelling would stop and Dad would sleep. If she didn't then came the loud crack, and rumble of the furniture being knocked over and the whole deal would shift into Dad starting to yell at her, no more Mr. nice guy, then Another hour of crying.

The next morning mom would be gone to work, and dad would be up slicking his hair back with a small black pocket comb, looking in the mirror standing over the bathroom sink. He would say with a smile, Hey son! And give me that rub on the head, I would smile, grab my metal speed racer lunch box and run off to school. I can still remember the smell of that lunch box when I opened it up, it always had a bologna sandwich, a cookie, or a bag of chips. I don't know if your lunch box smelled that way, but mine always smelled like metal, and bread, and a mixture of treats...I loved it.

I did well in school, and I looked forward to recess where we would play. I remember the teachers, and the chairs, and the pencil boxes, tissues, and what not.

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I had a couple friends, that we ran the streets with after school, playing down at the ravine, rode bikes, Frisbee, we even made up this game where we would find old pop cans and fill them with sand and gravel, duct tape the ends up and crash them against each other like crash derby, We would stand in the parking lot about thirty feet apart and roll them on the ground while they smashed into each other in a pop can head on collision, whomevers pop can busted first was the loser of the day, there was some serious design strategy with these things.

We had a corner store that we would stop by after school, of course we had no money, our mothers were poor, dads drank all the funds, and food stamps were tightly stashed away by mom, so no candy for us.

Every once in a while grandma would give us a couple quarters, and it was victory! We would buy as much penny candy as we could, all these days of stopping by that store paid off, because we already knew what candy they had, what was new, and how many pieces we could buy, then we would be off again under the ravine bridge, filling our jaws with all that sugar goodness.

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