Yesterday morning my mother called and said that she had a second piece of good news for the day for me (I had called her earlier with some good news). My father, Albert Booth, died. Saying that he was an SOB is being nice and none of us have talked to him in years.
My childhood memories were filled with fear. We hid in closets when he went on his rampages. He put his fist thru doors, broke mirrors and anything that he could break. It wasn’t just people he took his anger out on – he kicked dogs across the room, threw them down stairs and over his shoulder. He was not a nice person.
My parents divorced the summer when I was in between the fourth and fifth grades. He was not a very nice person and her attorney advised her to leave town while the papers were being served on him. My aunt and uncle put us on a bus down to Washington DC and we stayed with one of my older cousins and her husband for awhile. Then we went to Harrisburg and stayed with my aunt and uncle there. When school started, we came back to town but stayed with my grandfather for awhile before coming home. It was safer that way.