In am happy to announce that both my books, "Wrights Lane...Come On In" and "Dresden Life Remembered" are currently being converted to Ebook digital form by the publisher. More about the release date in a couple of weeks. Meantime, I thought that I would reproduce a couple of the stories from Dresden Life Remembered that are yet to be posted on my "Dresden: Father & Son Turn Back the Clock" web site.
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(Extract from Dresden Life Remembered)
The Wright family, as far as I know, were always respectable, law-abiding citizens. As a young lad about to step out into the world to seek fame and fortune, I certainly had no intention of blemishing that fine record. An incident when I was about 16 years of age, however, still has me feeling like a borderline criminal -- thanks to my mother of all people.
On one fateful evening I had attended a movie, stopped for a customary milkshake at Swainstson's Grill and engaged in some small town banter with a few friends on the main street corner when I realized that it was getting rather late. I don't remember ever having an official curfew, I just always knew that it behoved me to be home somewhere between 10 and 10:30 on movie nights or suffer the wrath of my mother who could be quite excitable and reactionary at times, to put it mildly.
Having lost all track of time, and before I knew it, the town post office Big Ben was striking 11 o'clock. "I'd better get going." I said to my friends as I broke away from the group.
I was only a couple of minutes into my walk home (opposite the Green residence and across the street from Doc Ruttle's, as I recall) when the town police cruiser slowly glided up and stopped beside me. "Are you on your way home, Dick?" came a voice from the darkened vehicle at the curb. Recognizing the form of Police Constable Harold Hedden, I responded in the affirmative.
"That's good," answered Harold, "because your mother just called and wanted us to pick you up."
Almost as an afterthought when pulling away, he applied the brakes and shouted back: "Better get a move on and good luck when you get home." I knew what he meant.
As I cautiously approached our property on Sydenham Street, I could see the shadow of a figure hovering just inside the front door. Having been there and experienced that on several occasions in the past, I pushed the door open and took a quick step backward. A corn broom came crashing down in front of me, breaking into three pieces as it hit the floor with great force. I made a hasty entry unscathed, leaving my mother with half a broom stick still in her hand and screaming: "Now, see what you made me do!"
Just some of the things that a boy has to endure when his mother is trying to raise her only child as best she can, and on her own, under less-than-desirable conditions in the 1950s.
I always thought kindly of good old Harold for his discretion that night and for giving me advance warning of the potential bodily harm awaiting me when I got home.
The police motto: "To serve and to protect," has special meaning for me to this day.
POSTSCRIPT: After the infamous staying-out-late, broom-breaking incident, neither my mother nor I ever discussed the matter again. Although I bought her a brand-spanking-new Fuller broom for her birthday to replace the old "taped-up" one. Needless to say that went over like a lead balloon, much like the time my dad gave her an electric orange juice squeezer for Christmas, which she promptly returned to the store from which it came. I honestly do not know what ever happened to the broom that I gave her, but it no doubt suffered the same fate as the electric orange juice squeezer.
On one fateful evening I had attended a movie, stopped for a customary milkshake at Swainstson's Grill and engaged in some small town banter with a few friends on the main street corner when I realized that it was getting rather late. I don't remember ever having an official curfew, I just always knew that it behoved me to be home somewhere between 10 and 10:30 on movie nights or suffer the wrath of my mother who could be quite excitable and reactionary at times, to put it mildly.
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| CONST. HAROLD HEDDEN |
Having lost all track of time, and before I knew it, the town post office Big Ben was striking 11 o'clock. "I'd better get going." I said to my friends as I broke away from the group.
I was only a couple of minutes into my walk home (opposite the Green residence and across the street from Doc Ruttle's, as I recall) when the town police cruiser slowly glided up and stopped beside me. "Are you on your way home, Dick?" came a voice from the darkened vehicle at the curb. Recognizing the form of Police Constable Harold Hedden, I responded in the affirmative.
"That's good," answered Harold, "because your mother just called and wanted us to pick you up."
Almost as an afterthought when pulling away, he applied the brakes and shouted back: "Better get a move on and good luck when you get home." I knew what he meant.
As I cautiously approached our property on Sydenham Street, I could see the shadow of a figure hovering just inside the front door. Having been there and experienced that on several occasions in the past, I pushed the door open and took a quick step backward. A corn broom came crashing down in front of me, breaking into three pieces as it hit the floor with great force. I made a hasty entry unscathed, leaving my mother with half a broom stick still in her hand and screaming: "Now, see what you made me do!"
Just some of the things that a boy has to endure when his mother is trying to raise her only child as best she can, and on her own, under less-than-desirable conditions in the 1950s.
I always thought kindly of good old Harold for his discretion that night and for giving me advance warning of the potential bodily harm awaiting me when I got home.
The police motto: "To serve and to protect," has special meaning for me to this day.
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POSTSCRIPT: After the infamous staying-out-late, broom-breaking incident, neither my mother nor I ever discussed the matter again. Although I bought her a brand-spanking-new Fuller broom for her birthday to replace the old "taped-up" one. Needless to say that went over like a lead balloon, much like the time my dad gave her an electric orange juice squeezer for Christmas, which she promptly returned to the store from which it came. I honestly do not know what ever happened to the broom that I gave her, but it no doubt suffered the same fate as the electric orange juice squeezer.
1 comment:
I am married to Harold Hedden's son, also named Harold. Thanks for sharing your story. I'm looking forward to finding a copy of your "Dresden" book.
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