Watching Jerry Springer Show reruns is like watching a train wreck: You know you shouldn’t be eyeballing the carnage and destruction but somehow you just can’t look away. There I was sitting in front of the damn TV every afternoon rather than working on the Commodore’s narrative observing the overweight, toothless, unkempt and ignorant emerge from the shallow end of the gene pool to collect their dubious fifteen minutes of fame by titillating the nationwide audience with tales of incest, infidelity, battery and God knows what other trouble-in-the-double-wide trailer trash adventures that they eagerly shared with those of us who were willing to hang around and watch. I suppose it is a “there but for the grace of God go I” rationalization for watching this buffoon and his loyal followers but after a few episodes I could take no more. It was time to get back to outlining the Commodore’s adventures on my computer.
It had been three or four nights since the last visit and I was again wondering if Granddad had thought better of entrusting me to retell his history. I had the feeling that his rather abrupt finish to our last encounter was in part due to his anger when he recalled his forced return to Washington. Angry or not I was keen to hear his view of events.
Would the visits continue? I certainly hoped so. I forced myself to hold off on the pain palliatives until much later one evening, working at my computer to get the outline of Granddad’s Texas adventure on the hard drive. I finished up the last of it around nine p.m., poured a stiff Bombay to wash down the two Percocets and gingerly let myself down into the recliner.
Six hours! To have slept that long was a new record. Since the accident I hadn’t been able to nap for more than four hours at a clip before this. My right side was quite sore, probably from being in one position for so long. I decided to get up and get a bottled water from the refrigerator.
Then it hit me. He was here. Not only was he here but I had the sensation that he’d been here for quite awhile without his usual ‘call to arms’ style of waking me that apparently was great sport for him
After a long awaited weekend visitation caused by false allegations of sexual abuse, Glen got to see his children for the first time in over two months. He promised them that they would never be apart again and then they disappeared.
We Will Stone Him is a raw, unfiltered trauma memoir about surviving childhood abuse, emotional manipulation, and the lifelong wounds that follow. This true story marks the beginning of the Rising From The Ashes Trilogy, John Gambacorta and his survi
