I had a tiny English grandmother from Yorkshire, a very feisty little lady, who had the sixth sense and saw dead people. She lived with us six months of the year and drove my mother, an equally strong and opinionated New England woman, insane. My poor easygoing father, who only wanted to drink his scotch and read, must have thought he had died and gone to hell. Add to the mix two teenagers, including a daughter who thought she was the next Sarah Bernhardt and saw her life as one continuous dramatic climax, and a house with only one bathroom, and it's a wonder we weren't a statistic.
Father goes on rampage- bashes in heads of wife, mother and children with a twenty pound edition of The Complete Works of Mark Twain
Instead he read every book in the little town library
And probably drank most of the scotch in town, too. |
