It sounds kind of macabre now that I look back on it, but we used to spend a lot of time hanging around the cemetery when we were kids. There was a bush right beside the cemetery and that was great for playin’ in, and right beside the bush was a river and that was great for swimmin’ in. So we’d while away the long days of summer at a swimmin’ hole that had been created at the river by generations of town kids looking for a place to escape the shimmering heat. It was fun in the sun for us kids in those days. But those were simpler times. Before we grew up and got all serious and filled with awesome responsibility. And I can well remember the summer when it all changed. That was really the summer when I learned a little something about life.
It started innocently enough that spring with my buddy, Josh, and I out scouring the ditches by the cemetery hill, looking for bottles, discarded from passing cars over winter. This was a lucrative profession back when I was a boy, and spring was the best time of all, when it was often possible to gather enough bottles to buy french fries with gravy for the two of us after only a couple hours work.
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