Between bouts of drinkin’, fightin’, gamblin’ and carousin’, dad managed to earn him a Ph.D. He’d started out wantin’ to “make a real M.D.” . . . but he always said we “came along and loused that up.” He kept takin’ classes though inspite of us having been born and finally after 15 years up at the college, he actually graduated. Dr. Ralph C. St. John Sr. (Dr. of microbiology). We were so happy and proud and hopeful. He got hired at a research lab and we moved 200 miles north. Dad was able to put a down payment on a fine nice house . . . way too big for the few pieces of busted furniture we hauled up there. He had to drive 10 miles to work in the neighboring town, where he’d refused to live because they didn’t sell booze. Dad had picked a little nearby hard drinkin’ railroad town for us. Maybe he knew that his good payin’ job wasn’t gonna work out for long, maybe he knew that our beat up used car was gonna finally give out, maybe he knew that he wasn’t gonna ever get anymore offers in his “profession.” Maybe that’s why dad chose Roodhouse with a dozen beer joints. From where we live, it ain’t too far to any of those taverns. A feller can walk it, if he has to, even in the winter time. “Yeah, there ain’t no good reason to ever go thirsty.”