Dear Mr. Milroy,
I am a student at high school in the 10th grade. I have an assignment given by my English teacher to find an article that interest me and when found I have to write a letter to the editor or writer of the article. When I was looking for stories to reflect on I really didn???t find anything but when I read yours I was very interested in your life story. Although I don???t have a story related to yours in any way but I???ve always wondered how it would be if I could just do what ever I pleased for once. I could just imagine the crazy things I would do if I knew I wouldn???t have any consequences, my parents yelling at me or nagging me, or even worse to go to a juvenile facility. But in reality all those things would happen, however knowing all of this I still always wanted a taste of it. Now that I read your story I realized that, although I don???t have an adventures life but I should be happy for the things I do have. I have a great family that loves me and great friends that are always their for me. I just can???t imagine how I would feel not having these things, which are the most important thing in life. So I would like to thank you for making me realize what I had is the best thing any person could have. I wish you the best and God bless.
Sincerely
Chris K.
A Son Finds His Way
My parents were not there when I needed them, but only I was to blame for my reckless behavior.
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I am the adult child of alcoholic parents. I never doubted their love for my older sister and me—certainly we were never abused—but they were not there for us most of the time, and when they were it was usually in a blur. I think it's fair to say we raised ourselves, and for the most part we did a good job, considering the lack of attention we received growing up.
But I craved discipline, or at least some encouragement and guidance. I was a bored and troubled long-haired Los Angeles punk in the early 1950s. My life revolved around hanging out with my friends and cruising Hollywood Boulevard after sneaking out in my dad's car. We spent a lot of time getting drunk, getting in fistfights with other teens, stealing cars and hopping freight trains to points unknown. I quit school in the ninth grade and generally engaged in activities that would today put you in a juvenile facility. If nothing else, I had many stories to tell, and tell them I did.
I recall the year when I hopped a train at the Los Angeles freight yard with my pal Tommy, and a few days later ended up alone somewhere in Texas. Tommy had, in an unusual demonstration of good sense, jumped off somewhere before our final destination, and I continued alone. I was 15. After spending a day in the freight yard in Dallas, I met an ex-convict recently released from a penitentiary in Oklahoma, and decided to share a train car with him for the trip back to L.A. I jumped from the train at a remote outpost somewhere in the southern California desert, close to Barstow, because he had on more than one occasion made me uncomfortable.
A week after I had left L.A., I arrived in Barstow. There I borrowed a nickel from a cop to call home to let my parents know I was on my way. I was convinced my parents missed me, but as I remember, they hadn't been particularly concerned. After all, I had disappeared for days at a time before.
By my midteens I was getting into more trouble than I could handle: car thefts, drunken driving and vandalizing property. Finally, I ended up spending a few days in jail. When my father arrived at the courthouse for the release hearing, the judge wouldn't let my father drive me home because Dad had shown up drunk.
In those days, the only options for many troubled young men were jail or military service. I wisely decided to join the Navy. Thank God for the Navy, which taught me about discipline and teamwork. I thought I was finally on the road to personal recovery.
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