It wasn't Russian Roulette that did him in; it was much worse, one of his own

As my father lays down his last dollar, he says ¨I call.¨ A pile of coins and a few dollars are thrown in the middle of the table. 

There were beer cans strewn around the table. Cigarette smoke billowed up through the crack in the ceiling I was looking through. 

The men were below our bedroom.

It was a frequent occurrence in my house. Yet tonight, stakes were raised.

Next to my father sat a pistol, five bullets loaded as they continued to play Russian Roulette Poker. 

It was the early 80's, and they were all my father's clients. He was one of the only local dealers in town. He had been growing weed in the hills of Kentucky since I was born. 

After my mother died, it was the only way he made enough money to support his family. If she were alive, this activity would not be allowed, especially since the four of us kids all peeked through the crack one at a time. 

What are they doing my sister said; I responded I have no idea. 

Should we go down there? 

Is it safe? 

Are they all drunk and crazy? 

I said yes, I think they are, but I have to pee.

To go to the bathroom, we had to go outside; we had an outhouse, and it was dark out. None of us like to go into the woods at night.

There were always noises, and I always felt like someone was watching me at all times. 

The land always had a cloud hanging over it, almost like it knew people had died there, and the curse on the ground would continue. 

I snuck downstairs, and now the smell of cigarettes and marijuana increased, as that was the product that my father was most proud of.

He grew the best in Kentucky; in the 80s, that was an accomplishment. 

I think the real achievement is that he never got caught and imprisoned. His sentence was much higher. 

The stairs creaked, and I took one at a time, but I did not want to go outside alone; I knew I needed to get his attention. I walked over and said, I have to go to the bathroom. 

He looked at me, drunk and high, and said, ok. Let's go. He walked me outside, waited, and we returned. 

As I walked up the stairs, he said come here, let me tell you a story. Something that will happen in your life that I might not be here or be able to protect you from. 

He showed me the gun and said I would have to learn how to use this to protect my family. The mark of the beast is coming; 666 will be here in your lifetime. 

I am unsure what it will look like or in what form, but you will need to learn the skills I have been teaching you. 

My father was big into reading the bible, as his extracurricular activities would not have led you to believe this; he read it over three times in his lifetime. 

He could recite any passage you wanted. He was smart, except he made poor choices and kept bad company. 

This particular night he was citing Revelations. The rapture will come, and I will have to lead my family to develop the skills needed to survive.

He was unsure if he would be there to protect us, yet this is why he and my mother chose to raise us off-grid in the middle of nowhere. 

We did not have running water or a working bathroom. Most of our food comes from our land, and we slaughter a hog a few times a year.

It was the first and only time he ever spoke to me about the predictions he saw about the future. He kissed my forehead and said no, go to bed; these people here are not anyone you want to know. 

He said this about almost all of his friends. They were customers but, by default, became friends. When they came over, we often were told to get lost in the woods until they were gone. 

This story has stuck with me for over 30 years. For a long time, I thought my dad was crazy; who says this stuff to a ten-year-old? 

Was it because he was drunk, or did he mean it. 2 years later, one of his clients/friends attempted to rob his crop. 

My father somehow got word of this, collected all the product he had hidden in the woods, and hid it in his bedroom. The man was not satisfied with his answer that he had no plants left; the guy pulled a gun on him. 

My father turned to walk to the house, and the man shot him; he died instantly. 

According to the court records, my father begged for his life, as he had four children who lost their mother two years prior, and he was all they had. 

I will never forget that night he predicted the future that I now sit and witness myself. My father was always right, and I took care of my family. 

For so many years, I thought he was a little crazy after my mother's death; now, I see he was wise beyond his young years. 

I have outlived both of them. Yet in times such as we are at, possibly the end of days, I think back to the night he played Poker Russian Roullette, and I still have never learned to shoot a gun.

XOXO

Sara