by Jerry Robinson

My mom was a treasure and very tolerant of my dad's fight with the bottle during the depression. He'd come home many nights in his usual stupor, we kids would help undress him and put him to bed while mother lectured him. I am certain he did not hear a word of it as he would arise early the next morning for breakfast, never remembering much of the events the night before.

He looked around for his bottle, never finding it. We poured it into the open flame of the fire for the thrill of the swoosh and tossed the glass into the garbage.