Author: William A. KellyPublisher: Xlibris Corporation
ISBN: 1401014852
Category : Biography & Autobiography
Languages : en
Pages : 416
Book Description
This story is my story of growing up in those hard times of the great depression and WW2. I was taught right from wrong early and for the most part was left alone. There was no involvment with parents like Little League baseball or tackle football or neighborhood clubs. We were expected to pass in school, and be home for dinner and on time.I guess it could be called a period of benign neglect. If you were a poor player in any sport you didn´t play until you got better. Mom and Dad never even knew that you were no good. If you were really upset about not playing your father might play with you and give you some tips to make you better. In no case would he talk to any of your playmates to allow you to play. If you got lousey marks and your parents were called to school, it was your fault, not the teachers nor the politicians or anybody else.Your fault and you better improve or else. This system seemed to work. Certainly better than the current one. Books are now being written about how great my generation was. I never thought about it. All I know is we handled all the crap that was thrown at us and for the most part we were on our own. Nobody used drugs.We were afraid of them and rightly so. When I started writing, my experiences were remembered strongly in large bursts, so much so that it has taken over four hundred pages just to get me through college.The most surprising element of remembering was how strongly the girls in my life came back. I really liked the women I got to know and they made life more than tolerable for me. I was in heavy air combat in WW2 and yet to this day when the war is mentioned my first thought is about my English girl friend, a beautiful female British soldier that I didn´t spend three days in London with, because I was shipped home early. Life at Princeton was difficult because the learning was hard, basketball took big hunks of time and girls were very scarce. I used the language of my day so the sexual encounters may sound dirty. I never thought of them that way.I was discriminating in my choices and I like to think my girls were just as choosey when they selected me. I was an only child to very young parents. My father was a local bootlegger in Atlantic City. He had worked for the political boss of the area and was protected from being arrested for his illigal activity. I was always scared that he would be arrested anyway. Neither my mother nor my father were well educated. My mother made it through first year of high school. My father made it through 8th grade. I always thought both were very smart. Their friends seemed to think they were smart also. My father always seemed to have several millionairs as friends. He dressed neat even in the heart of the depression. My mother dressed very smartly and her picture made the newspapers on several occasions during celebration of the Easter parade. Both my parents had good personalities and after I got over my shy period I became known as the personality kid in local sports circles. I guess there was some rub off. Both my father and my mother learned about the stock market by reading the newspaper and as soon as money accumlated from the business each invested. They both did very well. My father worked by evaluating several stocks while my mother folllowed tips from friends. I guess my father shared some of the business income because mother always had plenty of cash to spend. One thing I remember is that on major expenditures like a new car or a house my parents always had serious discussions to help make the decision. The thing about my father that always surprised me was on special occassions he might buy mother a mink coat or a diamond ring or necklace. This was always a big surprise to everyone. Then they would go to dinner at some fancy restaurant to celebrate. This was after they had made some money of course. When I had acknowledged to myself that I was smart I sometimes used to try to figure