I was born of rebels in the early ‘50’s. A bad boy and a loose lady. Why they were together, it was a mystery as they must have been together because they shouldn’t have been together.
My dad rode a Harley Davidson and my mom was a pregnant teenager from the “upper crust society”. What a perfect team of discord they made.
I was the youngest of three. My sister was the first born of my mom but did not belong to my dad. My brother was an accident and then there was three, me. Was I planned or was I simply the lack of no birth control? I tend to think it was the latter.
My mom knew what was good, what was right and what was social. And as hard as she tried, the house was properly tended but her soul was still the rebel. Angst and hot blood boiled to the surface and ultimately led to her demise.
The bad boy of my dad became the story of his life. But the life became him and he became the story. He hated people and hated his kids and he lied and he lied and he lied. We never knew he lied but his truth never made sense to the innocence of his children.