Born at Pottstown Hospital, William was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Fleck.
I never met William, or better put, I did meet him but didn't know it at that moment. I was visiting my birthfather in his apartment, and the doorbell rang. Before answering it, he said to me quietly, "Don't say anything, I'll tell you more later."
He opened the door and three young men came in. All of them were big, very well built young men, but one was outstanding. He was tall, with dark tousled hair, and was wearing denim overalls with a tight black t-shirt underneath. Despite his size, he just felt impish, like trouble, in that dangerously attractive way some guys have. The three had come to get tickets from my birthfather for that weekend's race at Pocono Raceway. They all chatted briefly, and then the fellows left.
As he closed the door behind them, my birthfather asked "What'd you think of them?" Wondering why he cared what I thought, I just said they seemed like nice enough guys. He asked if I'd noticed anything. I sort of stuttered, "Well, that tall one in the black tee was sure cute, and, uh, healthy looking."
He burst out laughing. "He's your cousin!"
Well, thank goodness we didn't meet in a bar. I really know next to nothing about William, who was usually called "Billy" but from what little I did hear, in a bar is exactly where anyone might have met Billy; he enjoyed his drinks. One of his cousins said Billy always kept his beer warm so he wouldn't have to share it.
Billy didn't make the newspapers much; in 1977 he was admitted to Pottstown Memorial Medical Center, and was discharged two days later. In June of 1996 when he lived in Parker Ford, Billy was arrested early one evening when police saw his vehicle swerving on Paoli Pike in West Goshen. After that, nothing else, not even an obituary that I could find.
I've no idea what took Billy from this world, but he never saw age 41. Someday I hope to learn more about him. Til we meet again, cousin.
I never met William, or better put, I did meet him but didn't know it at that moment. I was visiting my birthfather in his apartment, and the doorbell rang. Before answering it, he said to me quietly, "Don't say anything, I'll tell you more later."
He opened the door and three young men came in. All of them were big, very well built young men, but one was outstanding. He was tall, with dark tousled hair, and was wearing denim overalls with a tight black t-shirt underneath. Despite his size, he just felt impish, like trouble, in that dangerously attractive way some guys have. The three had come to get tickets from my birthfather for that weekend's race at Pocono Raceway. They all chatted briefly, and then the fellows left.
As he closed the door behind them, my birthfather asked "What'd you think of them?" Wondering why he cared what I thought, I just said they seemed like nice enough guys. He asked if I'd noticed anything. I sort of stuttered, "Well, that tall one in the black tee was sure cute, and, uh, healthy looking."
He burst out laughing. "He's your cousin!"
Well, thank goodness we didn't meet in a bar. I really know next to nothing about William, who was usually called "Billy" but from what little I did hear, in a bar is exactly where anyone might have met Billy; he enjoyed his drinks. One of his cousins said Billy always kept his beer warm so he wouldn't have to share it.
Billy didn't make the newspapers much; in 1977 he was admitted to Pottstown Memorial Medical Center, and was discharged two days later. In June of 1996 when he lived in Parker Ford, Billy was arrested early one evening when police saw his vehicle swerving on Paoli Pike in West Goshen. After that, nothing else, not even an obituary that I could find.
I've no idea what took Billy from this world, but he never saw age 41. Someday I hope to learn more about him. Til we meet again, cousin.
Born at Pottstown Hospital, William was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Fleck.
I never met William, or better put, I did meet him but didn't know it at that moment. I was visiting my birthfather in his apartment, and the doorbell rang. Before answering it, he said to me quietly, "Don't say anything, I'll tell you more later."
He opened the door and three young men came in. All of them were big, very well built young men, but one was outstanding. He was tall, with dark tousled hair, and was wearing denim overalls with a tight black t-shirt underneath. Despite his size, he just felt impish, like trouble, in that dangerously attractive way some guys have. The three had come to get tickets from my birthfather for that weekend's race at Pocono Raceway. They all chatted briefly, and then the fellows left.
As he closed the door behind them, my birthfather asked "What'd you think of them?" Wondering why he cared what I thought, I just said they seemed like nice enough guys. He asked if I'd noticed anything. I sort of stuttered, "Well, that tall one in the black tee was sure cute, and, uh, healthy looking."
He burst out laughing. "He's your cousin!"
Well, thank goodness we didn't meet in a bar. I really know next to nothing about William, who was usually called "Billy" but from what little I did hear, in a bar is exactly where anyone might have met Billy; he enjoyed his drinks. One of his cousins said Billy always kept his beer warm so he wouldn't have to share it.
Billy didn't make the newspapers much; in 1977 he was admitted to Pottstown Memorial Medical Center, and was discharged two days later. In June of 1996 when he lived in Parker Ford, Billy was arrested early one evening when police saw his vehicle swerving on Paoli Pike in West Goshen. After that, nothing else, not even an obituary that I could find.
I've no idea what took Billy from this world, but he never saw age 41. Someday I hope to learn more about him. Til we meet again, cousin.
I never met William, or better put, I did meet him but didn't know it at that moment. I was visiting my birthfather in his apartment, and the doorbell rang. Before answering it, he said to me quietly, "Don't say anything, I'll tell you more later."
He opened the door and three young men came in. All of them were big, very well built young men, but one was outstanding. He was tall, with dark tousled hair, and was wearing denim overalls with a tight black t-shirt underneath. Despite his size, he just felt impish, like trouble, in that dangerously attractive way some guys have. The three had come to get tickets from my birthfather for that weekend's race at Pocono Raceway. They all chatted briefly, and then the fellows left.
As he closed the door behind them, my birthfather asked "What'd you think of them?" Wondering why he cared what I thought, I just said they seemed like nice enough guys. He asked if I'd noticed anything. I sort of stuttered, "Well, that tall one in the black tee was sure cute, and, uh, healthy looking."
He burst out laughing. "He's your cousin!"
Well, thank goodness we didn't meet in a bar. I really know next to nothing about William, who was usually called "Billy" but from what little I did hear, in a bar is exactly where anyone might have met Billy; he enjoyed his drinks. One of his cousins said Billy always kept his beer warm so he wouldn't have to share it.
Billy didn't make the newspapers much; in 1977 he was admitted to Pottstown Memorial Medical Center, and was discharged two days later. In June of 1996 when he lived in Parker Ford, Billy was arrested early one evening when police saw his vehicle swerving on Paoli Pike in West Goshen. After that, nothing else, not even an obituary that I could find.
I've no idea what took Billy from this world, but he never saw age 41. Someday I hope to learn more about him. Til we meet again, cousin.
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