Category: Archive

Part 1 Confessions I have a lot to confess – again. My mother and stepfather drank, driving me to despair, I thought. Did my parents’ drinking slow down? Yes, those were tranquil years. I’m not saying they never drank again, just that their drinking slowed down. So were they alcoholics like I have asserted in other essays? I don’t know. Maybe for a while – maybe. Let’s just say there was a time they drank heavily. Were they violent in these states of drunken stupor? I can only remember twice when my father was rough with my mother in my presence. Late one night – when they were first married- my mother came into my bedroom, and climbed into my bed with me. The next thing I remember, my father is entering the bedroom. He had on a white pair of navy underwear. He came over to my bed and pulled my mother out of the bed with a force I can feel even to this day. As my father was pulling her, she fell to the ground. He picked her up and marched her out. I was probably four years old. That can’t be considered good under any circumstance. My father’s show of physical force frightened me. It was my first experience witnessing any type of violence between adults, or at least male on Female violence. More than five decades later I have had this insight about my mother when she was drunk. More than most people, my mother was extremely vulnerable when she had been drinking heavily. It was hard for her to walk, her sentences were slurred to the point of not being coherent, at least I could never understand her. She was elegant sober, but in a trance like stupor when flat out drunk. She was easily compromised In this condition, and as I grew into my teenage years, nothing would put me on edge more than to be around her when she was drinking heavily. Looking back on that moment in my bedroom, I’ve concluded it was a big moment for me. Maybe my father had kicked her out of their bed. Maybe in her stupor – yes, she was drunk- she wandered into my bedroom and climbed into the only other bed available to her. Children lack the ability to develop context when they are very young. They can see very clearly what is taking place in front of them. What comes before and after an event alludes them. Children are in an ever present present. One quality I came to admire about my Parents’ drunken forays, was they never apologized to me for their drinking. One time at breakfast  when I was five or six, I asked them why they weren’t mad at each other when the night before they argued and fought with one another while they were drinking? They were honest and upfront. “We don’t remember last night,” they would say. Their lapse of memory was reassuring to  me. It was like starting over. The past  was over and the future would be full of hope. It didn’t work that way. The past was merely a prelude to the future. It gradually dawned on me, my desires to have them stop drinking , did not enter into their equations on how they were going to live their lives. They were quite a pair those two. My mother bouncing off walls walking down the halls of our home, and my father’s eye brows moving  up and down to the point of looking like a comedian. Were my parents violent with me during these times? No. I can only remember being spanked once by my father. I was very young, maybe four at the most. I cried. It was a hard whipping, but nothing after that – ever. My mother never whipped me. I was never afraid of being beaten or slapped by my parents. Pt 2 This is where another story begins. My mother was an attractive blond haired, blue eyed Dane. She had migrated from Utah To California in her early twenties. It was during The Great Depression She married, divorced, and started investing In real estate. She was successful and gained the reputation for being good at business. She was stylish in dress, and humble In manner. She never lost her talent for managing money. She invested the profits from her real estate deals. She would make sure there was equality of sacrifice if she felt we needed to “tighten our belts”, and be more frugal in our spending. She made a sharp distinction Between friendship and business. To friends who asked for money she would say, “No, your friendship is more important than money to me. Private loans end up dividing friends”. When investing money, she included me in discussions she would go through, as she made decisions. Even as we listened to investment proposals, she wouldn’t silence me when I would pop off. She didn’t drink during the week come to think of it. Neither did my father. They drank on the week-ends. Sometimes they slipped, but not a lot. I think my dad drank beer during the week, but not enough for the eye brows to start moving up and down. My mother was protective of me, especially if she thought I was getting too intimate with girlfriends. She intervened a time or two to ensure I wasn’t. My stepfather stuck with me. He played catch with me. He took me camping. He decorated my scooter and helped me win an award for the best Fourth of July scooter. I led the parade at the recreational park where I played during the  summer. I was seven years old. He also made a marvelous display case for my collection of shells when I was in fifth grade. It stayed on display for an entire month in the elementary school library. I felt very smart that month. Part 3 Insights I am relieved that the telling of my story can be told once more. The more I write the story, the clearer the story becomes. As the seasons have passed, the more reflective I have become. It’s a miracle a child’s memory of past events is right the first time. If I tell the story with  a child’s eyes, It will be seen with exaggerated eyes. If I tell the story with adult eyes, context begins to soften the edges If I tell the story with the eyes of old age, truth is a mere tale told.