Perdition Road- Forward, Contents
Perdition Road
Woody
Boswell
Chapter 2- I was Better but I got Over it
Chapter 3- Shiver Me Timbers to a Watery Grave
Chapter
4- No Tell Motel
Chapter 5-
Chapter 6- It’s as cold as a Mother-In-Law’s Kiss in Here
Chapter
7- There’s more than One Way to Skin a Cat besides Cutting of his Tail
Chapter
8- Is that Daylight, or the Train?
Chapter
9- If Brains were Dynamite that Boy Couldn't Blow his Nose
Chapter
10- He’s got more Problems than Carter’s got Liver Pills.
Forward
I remember as a child, sitting on
the front porch of my mother’s home with my sister on Sunday afternoons waiting
for our father to pick us up for our weekly visitation with him. I was 8 and
she was 6 when my parents divorced. We wore our school clothes usually, which
were a bit nicer pants than jeans and a pullover shirt for me. Melody was
always beautiful in a dress. Dad was supposed to be there at 1 o’clock.
Sometimes he was late, sometimes he didn't come. After a couple of “those
times”, as the 1 o’clock hour came and went mom would pile us in her car and
take us some place to get a treat, but more so to distract our minds from the
event. But more often than not
Dad would come and we would have a few hours to spend with him before he
brought us home by about 6 o’clock that evening. The time was of his choosing. Often
those precious visitation hours were spent sitting in the maintenance office at
the Holiday Inn, where he worked, or in the closed and dimly lit restaurant, alone,
where we sat perfectly still and dared not speak as he went from one
maintenance call to the next. The Holiday Inn staff would come by periodically
and check on us, making sure we were taken care of. I think more than anything
Dad just didn't know what to do with us for 5 hours all alone.
A short while later, Dad bought a horse named Waco and taught us to ride. Waco was boarded at stables near the room he rented from an elderly woman in Hampton. I loved riding and Waco was big and fast. Dad always said he was born 100 years too late. He certainly seemed to be fascinated by the western culture; from his dress, to the quick draw holster and single action pistol he bought and occasionally wore around the farm later. Then there are the 100 or so Louis L’Amour books that lined his bookshelf when he was living.
Dad was born on a tobacco farm outside of Kenly, North Carolina. He didn’t like the city, but moved and worked here before he and mom were married. Funny what love will make someone do. Dad longed for the country and hated being confined to an 8 to 5 job, especially one where the gate shut and locked behind you, like the Shipyard. So when the opportunity came, he moved back to the dirt road known as Route 1, Kenly, North Carolina, bought a single wide trailer and began to farm on a piece of land given him by my grandparents who lived just 200 yards away. The main farm house was built in 1848 and has been lived in by three generations of my family. The kitchen wasn't attached to the house until around 1920 or so. It has been divided now between my grandfather and his sister, then again between 4 brothers. My sister and I now own 10 acres of the original 80 or more that comprised that farm.
Melody and I spent part of our summers there growing up. Occasionally, we would stay with my grandparents before we were big enough to work the fields or otherwise be of much help. Granddaddy would be working tobacco or a public job during the day so we were left alone with grandma. But we still had chores around that old farmhouse. At about 10 I was cutting the grass … an acre or so of land with an over-driven dirt and sand driveway that went completely around the house and by a wooden workshop out back, while Melody was given chores by Grandma. In the middle of the day we had to be outside…usually from 10 to 3 or 4. Believe me, there was nothing at all to do on that farm for a kid. They were dirt poor. Any toys I had, I made. There was an old bicycle in the pack house that I tried to ride on occasion. But the road and the driveway were so sandy that I couldn't get the pedals to turn. It was difficult even pushing it. I spent hours trying to ride it on that dirt road, only to get bogged down in sand or have the tires slip out from under me when I tried to turn. It was a futile effort I never want to repeat. The blessing was that it helped pass the hours until we could be let back inside the house where at least it was cooler. The days were so long, so hot, and so boring. We didn't matter, we were just children. We couldn't contribute to the welfare of the farm. We were baggage, and we were a liability until we were old enough to contribute; in other words, work.
As the years passed we worked
long hard hours in those fields and around that farm. The work was hard, but I
wanted so badly to impress my dad. I thought if I worked hard enough that I
could earn his respect and maybe his love. I know now that my dad loved me. But
his upbringing was hard and he had his own demons to fight. When he died in
2008, Melody and I were there taking care of him, commuting back and forth from Virginia and working with the free hospice helping us to care for him.
My mother, by contrast, began her career at NASA, Langley, in the Secretarial Pool; worked her way up to Senior Administrative Assistant, and later, a position was created for her as Executive Assistant to the Director there. She had more common sense than most people. She was modest and direct, but inoffensive, and unyielding when she thought she was right, and she was usually right. She was the one that came to my Saturday morning football games when it was in the 30’s outside. She was the one that helped me study for my tough tests by grilling me on the material for hours. She was the one that spent hours at my baseball games as I sat the benches, and later watched me hit my home runs and cheered for me. I still miss her in new ways I discover every week.
I served a tour in the United States Army and later became a police officer with the Newport News Police Department in Virginia where I currently work. I have served as a patrolman, a detective, and supervised both as a Sergeant and Lieutenant commanding men and units. I served several years as a Tactical Officer, Team Leader, Deputy Commander, and Commander of the Tactical Operations Unit (SWAT for you television fans).
I don't intend for this to be a religious book. I do intend to thread my writings with the beliefs that were forged by these life experiences. Many of these stories are funny, some sad, and some will scare you just as they scared me at the time. This book is a collection of stories and life-lessons learned on that farm and experiences as a 30 year veteran police officer that I hope to pass on to my children, Angela, Amanda, and Samantha. I love you all very much.
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