Christmas in Montana

With my eyes closed I remember the sound of tires crunching the snow as someone drove into the yard. My heart would begin to beat faster and I would get goose bumps on my butt. Will this be a good visit or will there be yelling and fighting and cursing again. My hiding place was either the bedroom I shared with my brother or the porch by the backdoor. This particular Christmas I was 8 years old and the visitor was my older brother. Dale was drunk and, I think only came home to antagonise our father. Mom was as nervous and I was scared. She always tried to keep peace between them. Most of the time Dale and Dad would yell and cuss at each other and then Dale would slam out of the house. Dad would blame mom's mother for his bad attitude by calling her every name in the book. Mom would cry, Dad would stumble to bed. For some reason I cannot remember where Jerry, my younger brother, was during all of this. I guess the reason this night keeps rearing it's head at Christmas is because that night Dale brought me 10 funny books as a present. It made me feel so good that he had remembered me. Maybe that was one night I felt loved by someone other than my mom.