For my initial post, I may as well start at the beginning.
Tom was like any good ol’ boy from rural Minnesota. The year was 1976, when he went to the local gin mill to whet his whistle. He’s 22 and already a regular face around there. Toms folk are simple, God fearing country folk. They don’t want any big city people coming ‘round and messing with their quiet, “dignified” way of life.
Tom takes his normal seat, in front of the tap, and asks the bartender the same thing he always asked when he’d sit down, “What’s cheap, Wallace?” But before he could see the bottom of his third round, he heard a ruckus a few tables away.
He looks to see some city girl playing cards and breaking hearts. “That’s the kind of girl you can bring home to ma” he thought, with dollar signs in his eyes. Little did he know that, 12 years later, he’d knock her up and be forced to marry this gambling habit disguised as a lady.
The ‘knock her up’ part is where I come in.
People have long asked me, “Did your mother drink during pregnancy?”, my response is always the same. “No, that was my father.” Now I’m 22, the same age as when my father told me his life ended, and I want to share the notable stories of his past and present.
So I dedicate this blog to Tom, my drunk dad.