A story by Albert Beeson
Of his experiences as a young boy, he wrote
"What I had endured left a marked impression on me affecting my judgements and decisions, not always wise. In retrospect my father was wrong in what he did. But among his vices he taught me the importance of loyalty and compassion, a forerunner to my Socialist Dedication."
During the past ten years I have put pen to paper many times and written thousands of words as a preliminary to this short story. Each time I have destroyed my notes believing it was not worth while.Many hours I have sat in solitude with piercing reflections until the heart seemed to trickle.
Two years ago the urge to write reappeared on my horizon. Although I live alone I am never lonely. I command the respect of many people, plus a handful of loyal friends. More often than not your regrets surpass your achievements. One thing is certain (if anything can be certain). You have to pass the way of Poverty, Ill Health, Unemployment, and Bereavement, to appreciate the full significance of Life.
My words may be meaningless to some but understandable to others. I have not exaggerated, nor added colours. Able writers may use my skeleton pulling flesh to bone producing some sort of perfection.
Over seventy years is a long time to remember; inaccuracies are bound to occur. Nevertheless, if my father could read it I believe he would say what is lacking in fact is absorbed in the substance.
My closest friends and relations may doubt the wisdom of my disclosures. I respect their views and if I reject them, it is only after many years of deep thinking.
My father was kind to me and gave me strength to battle on. I was never frightened of what my father would do to me, but I was unnecessarily frightened of what he would do to others.
My words convey my innermost thoughts but my English leaves much to be desired. Broad-minded people reading my story will sort the wheat from the chaff, and with the breath of kindness, blow away the unreal.