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Except for one particular night, that is – a night that stands all alone in my memory. After all, it was the night that Mom was shot. She certainly ...as not hurt, but if she reads this story and figures out which of her son’s shot her, that son might not be getting much in the way of Christmas presents this year. Confused? You should be. Let me start at the beginning. The year was 1972. We were living in a small town in western Pennsylvania. There were three of us: Roger was 15 and Rory was 10.. No holes barred last night I concluded, I exhaled deeply. Everything was fuzzy; my head was pounding like a bass drummer in a marching band. I rolled over onto my back from the fetal position. Staring at the ceiling, I tried to remember what happened the night before. But it was a total blank. I never drink too much but evidently I did last night. So this is what they call “blackout drunk,” whoever “they” are. The sheets were so luxurious, obviously we had checked into a nice hotel. But where?. More

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