Short Story of Growing Up Poor in the South.

Born in Augusta Georgia my earliest memory, is that of waiting my turn to use the outhouse, which we shared with two other families that lived in the apartment building. It was the dead of winter and, although there was no snow, there was a steady cold rain, every drop of which seemed to target the numerous holes in my jacket. I recall wondering, can rain see?
I was about five years old at the time and was very happy when I finally made it inside. The rain was coming down harder than ever; I could hear the drops pounding the tin roof. I finished my business and was dreading having to go back out, but a fate even worse was having to flush the kamod. That sound of the flush, for some reason, scared the hell out of me. My sister, who was just under a year older, made fun of me for years about that.
You may have gathered by now that we were poor, but not just money poor. Both of my parents were alcoholics, and my mother being a mean drunk. There was no physical abuse, unless, I reckon, you count hunger pains, but it was more that she would say mean things. In retrospect I suppose I looked a lot like my father, whom she loved dearly when she was sober, but seemed to hate when she was drunk. Don’t get me wrong, I loved both my parents very much and was especially close to my father, when he was sober.
My sister and I loved the times when we would wake to see our parents with their hands shaking because we knew that meant they were dry. I remember how guilty they would feel when they became sober. My father would hug me as though he did not want to let me go; his several day old beard would scratch my face. I remember feeling like it was Christmas morning, in fact, many a Christmas I wished, not for toys, but for mom and dad to stop drinking. I know, it sounds cheesy, but it is true.
Now, fast forward eight years; I am now 13 years old; we have moved to a one