Billy

By Tom Causley

These stories about my family and me getting through this time in our lives that were good and bad. These stories are not about the Florida Keys. They are about my childhood growing up and living in the Florida Keys. I always had friends that were pretty much alone and would get money from their parents that lived in Miami or around that area. I was a bit  jealous. I. realize now that I was just as much free as those guys. My parents were there But I had the freedom of roaming the whole island day and night. I guess they just trusted me and my brother.and I thank them for that.

All the names were changed to protect the innocent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Causley
• Release date: Feb 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223216612

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Our new home-1955

This story starts in 1955 (I was five years old), and my family had moved into a brand-new home in a brand-new subdivision at the south end of Bay City, Michigan. The neighborhood was abuzz with construction, and brand-new houses were sprouting up like mushrooms after a rainstorm. We bought one of five that was completed.  

In the 1950s, Bay City exuded a purer, most essential charm and vibrancy that captured the essence of postwar America.   

Nestled along the picturesque shores of Lake Huron, this Midwestern city bustled with industrial activity centered on the booming automotive industry.   

The economy thrived, and the streets buzzed with the hum of classic cars and the laughter of locals. Close-knit neighborhoods adorned with charming homes and white picket fences.  

Radiated a sense of community and togetherness. On warm summer evenings, families gathered at the local ice cream parlors, and children played outside until the streetlights flickered on.   

The Great Lakes supplied many opportunities for leisure, from fishing excursions to leisurely boat rides. Bay City’s wholesome and nostalgic atmosphere made it a cherished slice of Americana, where tradition met progress and dreams blossomed against the backdrop of a transforming world. 

BILLY’S FATHER, A MAN of remarkable craftsmanship, had recently completed the Herculean task of erecting a truly extraordinary garage, seamlessly complementing the splendor of their new home.   

The culmination of his efforts swelled him with a sense of accomplishment so profound, it radiated from him like a beacon of pride. This architectural marvel stood sentinel-like, a reliable guardian, ready to shield the family’s cherished possessions from the whims and caprices of mischievous neighborhood gnomes.  

The house, now a cherished home, had cradled them for a year. It whispered promises of permanence, echoing through the hallways, filling each room with a sense of belonging.   

Every nook and cranny bore witness to the laughter, the trials, and the minor victories that had woven the fabric of their lives into the very essence of the dwelling.   

The garage was a testament to Billy’s father’s unwavering commitment to perfection.

Its walls rose tall and proud, an architectural masterpiece that seemed to defy both time and gravity.   

The family and neighbors gathered here often, drawn by the magnetic pull of this sacred space. It was a hub of activity and a wellspring of inspiration.   

Here, dreams took shape, and they gave aspirations for form. In the warm embrace of the garage, they forged not only physical creations but also memories that are etched into the annals of their family lore.   

The passing seasons left their mark on the landscape around the house, but the garage stood resolute,

an enduring monument to craftsmanship and familial pride.   

AND SO, IN THE HEART of their new house, the garage stood as a testament

to the indomitable spirit of a father’s love and the enduring legacy he had crafted for his family. 

BUT THERE WAS ALWAYS this nagging fear that lurked in the depths of my young heart, a fear that had convinced me that some lurking creatures were just waiting for the right moment to pounce on me.   

It was the basement. Even with the door closed, I was hesitant to walk by it. I feared the door would open abruptly, arms would come out and snatch me, and I’d vanish forever. That mysterious and dimly lit place beneath our home was one scary place for this five-year-old! It held all the secrets of the world, and I wouldn’t go down there unless I had the army with me!  

To help ease my anxiety, my mom produced a clever idea. She bought roller skates for both Bart and me. These were no ordinary roller skates. Oh no, they were special, the kind you could attach to your shoes with a trusty skate key.  

She had Dad install some bright lights in the basement and clear out a good track to skate on.   

The basement was as big as the house, with no inside walls, just steel poles that supported the house, and where the washer and dryer were. The rest was open to skating.  

Mom had her own set of skates, the kind you would typically see at a bustling skating rink. She used to teach roller skating on weekends when she was in high school; I think.  

With these roller skates in hand, Mom took charge of our basement expeditions.   

She would start our skating sessions, and there we would be, Bart and I, merrily gliding in circles around that basement, holding hands.  

It was an ingenious plan. The fear kind of melted away, and that once-ominous basement became a place of joy and laughter.   

We got accustomed to being down there, but let me tell you, we never quite dared to venture into the depths of that basement alone. It wasn’t meant to be for us. One day, after a few successful trips downstairs with Mom, she popped the big question.  

Are you guys still scared of going downstairs alone? she inquired. I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I shouted out, Yes, I am! my heart still harbored some of that old fear.   

Bart sat there, vigorously nodding his head up and down without saying a word.

With a reassured smile, Mom spoke those words that we had been longing to hear: There’s nothing down there that you should fear!   

This turning point encouraged us, making us feel braver and ready to face the basement’s mysteries on our own. But you know that roller-skating adventure with Mom? It is a memory, and I’ll cherish it forever.

CHAPTER TWO

Ice Skating–1956

As winter drew nearer with each passing day, the air grew steadily colder. In a display of municipal ingenuity, the city opted to transform one of the empty lots close to Billy’s house into a massive ice-skating rink for the subdivision’s children. This initiative would have to continue annually until they sold the lot.   

We were confident it would endure for at least a few years. It was a magical, remarkable sight—a vast expanse of frozen water beckoning with promises of icy adventures.   

Billy and Bart pondered, Hmm! An ice-skating rink right by our house.  

Well, now that I’ve mastered roller skating, this should be a piece of cake. Right Bart? Bart, with an amused expression, replied. Oh, sure Billy.

You’ll have no trouble at all. He then burst into laughter. Just as Mom entered the room, she inquired, Bart, what’s so funny? 

Billy assumed ice skating would be like roller skating. Bart cautions, Ice skating is a bit more challenging Billy. You’ll have to be extra careful.  

Billy’s loving and cautious mother wanted to ensure her youngest child’s safety on the treacherous ice.   

Determined to protect her little one from any potential tumbles, she concocted a plan that would surely secure his derriere from harm. Armed with a pillow, a rope, and the best intentions, she carefully tied the fluffy cushion around Billy’s posterior, fashioning a makeshift safety cushion.   

Amused by the whole affair, Billy’s older brother, Bart, couldn’t hold his laughter. He found the sight of his younger sibling wearing a pillow as a bottom accessory to be downright hilarious.   

The sight was so comical that Bart’s laughter reached such heights that he had an unintended accident—a giggle-induced pants-wetting incident that left him