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I was a boy of twelve the summer I looked out my bedroom window and saw my father standing in the front yard and my friend, who lived across the street, come toward him in a staggering walk that made me think he was going to fall with each step. My friend was a sixty-something bachelor, and many an afternoon I’d sat in his kitchen drinking lemonade and listening to him tell stories from his boyhood that always made me laugh. Finally, swaying on unsure feet, my friend stood before my father. “George,” he said in a drunken slur, “I want you to know I love that boy of yours. He’s the sweetest, nicest…” I didn’t hear the rest because I’d ducked down and covered my ears and said aloud, “Those are the wrong things to say to my dad!” I knew my friend was making a terrible mistake by the way my father had tucked his chin to his chest, the signal he was not pleased. In a short while the door to my bedroom opened, and I didn’t look, pretending to be searching for something in my desk. My father said, “No more going over to his house.” I remember all too well the squeezing in my chest, and, when I didn’t respond, I remember the way my father raised his voice to say, “Did you hear me?” It was then that I uttered one of the most painful words I’ve ever uttered. “Yes,” I said. [Read more…] about The Boy with the Yellow Socks