I was born on a small cabbage farm just outside of Racine, Wisconsin on April 14, 1900. The lone son of two God-fearing German immigrants, I was raised on hard work, religious reverence, and teetotalism.My parents first moved to the United States in August of 1898 with the hopes of […]
Spending time at the family lodge at the lake was meant to be an escape. A place to reset, a place to rekindle my love for the violin. A love that I had lost to my vices, the drink. Will Bowen, a 28-year-old alcoholic, a sad and pathetic situation. I
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My parents took care of everything: my plane ride, luggage, tuition enrollment, and accommodations with Uncle Garry. I couldn’t wait. Since I was five, I’ve wanted to become a farmer; what better way to learn than on a farm? Connecting with nature and giving back to the world has always
I This wall once held a chalkboard. The one behind me displayed a map of the United States with big red stars indicating state capitals. In the corner to my right, there was an old-fashioned, spinning globe – it was the type that my grandfather had in his furnished basement.
In a town kept alive by retirees and tourists looking for a cheap scare, we knew a place hidden from their money was bad news. Plebes are paraded around in horse drawn carriages through the dead of night. If there’s a storm, all the better. In the dim glow of
Don’t ask me how I got there, because I can’t remember. I’d been drinking heavily that night, out on a bender to end all benders. I was angry, and the booze didn’t help. It never did if truth be told, but I couldn’t stop myself. I vaguely recall downing shots
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Billy slowly facilitated his way in, careful to avoid cutting himself on the broken window. He had gained entry to places similarly and tried his best to clear the shards from the frame using his thick jacket. It was difficult to wipe it all away clean. That was the thing
