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As hard as I tried, I couldn’t free myself from the vines and honeysuckle along the barbed wire fence bordering Westside Cemetery.
What made it worse, my father, the late Jim Howey, was calling me to come home from the back porch of our Normandy Road home. Talk about your true rock and a hard place.
My recollection puts that day in the early 1960s when I was between ages 5-7.
Earlier that day, I had gone over to Westside Cemetery with my older brothers, Jimbo and Bill, for an afternoon of play in the northeast corner of the graveyard.
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