I was about seven years old. I traveled with my dad, Vern, as he made sales calls to farmers in Indiana. Several nights, we watched minor league baseball games with a nice lady, Martha. I got to eat popcorn and Coney dogs and sleep on Martha’s couch with her dog, Fester.
On my birthday, I received a huge box of Russell Stover chocolates in the mail from Martha. Pretty cool, right? Not so much. My mom, Irene, grabbed my chocolates, threw the whole box in the garbage and screamed at Vern. It was all confusing to me.
So I asked my big brother, Eddie, why my box of chocolates got tossed in the garbage. Eddie said our mom thought some hanky-panky went on at the baseball games. I knew what a double play was and a home run, but I had never heard of a hanky-panky.
I figured it all out later that year.
Martha should have known better than to send me a box of Russell Stover chocolates, even if no hanky-panky had ever taken place.
I loved them both deeply.
Sexual affairs are so damaging to all parties.
Green frogs