The Seat Under the Telephone

The wine Daddy started to drink, that was so cheap, was drank while he sat in that same spot. I say he sat, he basically slumped in a chair. The chair was a chrome legged kitchen chair, with yellow and green plastic cushions. The table was to his right. This is where he sat unshaven, wearing a white undershirt and his socks. I remember his socks the most, because he caught them on fire trying to light that monster of a heater we had. He caught the sock on fire and I was to doctor the foot for what seemed like forever.
The ordeal of getting to a place that we could borrow cream to put on it was yet another worry that my five year old mind was plaqued with. Worry is something I never have not known. Just like the being cold and wet thing. I still feel the cold and wet of the nights and days of my first seven years of life. Just like I still see my daddy's socks, because he had caught them on fire. The telephone, the heater, and the socks.
The telephone did not ring often. The times that I remember Daddy on the phone were the times terrible news was on the other end. The terrible news about the fire in Alabama was for sure the worst phone memory. Daddy was drunk, but still he was heartbroken. The one brother that had made him proud was gone. His wife and son were still alive, but in grave condition. The next times that the phone rang it was the news of their deaths. Then were the calls from Grandmother making it possible for Daddy to come to Alabama for the funerals. Daddy had no money and Grandmother had to over the phone arrange for him to get money and get there. All this in the seat under the telephone.