Of Limited Interest...

I finally did it Friday night.

I was sitting in my den, when I suddenly popped up, went upstairs to my bedroom, and reached under my bed. There it was, where it had been waiting silently for nine years. A cardboard box, which I carried downstairs with me.

The first thing I saw when I opened the box was a stationery box with a note attached that read "Pictures of Bill when he was young (or little)". Next, an old autograph book whose first signatures were dated March 10, 1944. A leather folder displaying, when opened, a diploma from Reinbeck High School in Iowa dated 1949. And, finally, what I had been seeking. Dozens of diaries from 1962 through 1999. The 1999 diary is empty.

The last entry in the 1998 volume is dated Sunday, October 25. It reads "Time changed 2:00 a.m. Up 5:30 new time." My mother died a few hours later at church.

My mother kept diaries from January 6, 1962 until that morning in October, 1998. Her diaries were written for practical purposes, and provide a chronicle of the events of her days. Few feelings are expressed, if any, and you have to read between the lines to discern her emotions. She would often refer back to her diaries to confirm that the roof was replaced on this date, the taxes were paid on that date, the weather was sunny and warm or snowy and windy.

With one exception, I've never looked at her diaries. I kept them with the intention of looking through them one day, and was compelled to do so Friday night. It seems like a nice project now that the weather is turning chilly and the days darken earlier. This could keep me busy for a while.

As of this writing, I've only read through February 20, 1962. My mother stopped working when I was born in 1959, and my dad was a US Navy diver. My mother's first diary was presented to her on January 6, 1962, when her parents arrived for an extended stay with my mother while my dad was out of the country with the Navy. My grandmother kept a daily diary until her death also, and I guess she encouraged my mother to do the same.

It has been an interesting experience reading the first diary. My mother seems unsure of what to write initially, but gradually gets into the rhythm of writing each day. It is simply a record of the day-to-day life of an average American housewife. To me, it is quite interesting, but would be fairly dull reading for anyone else. I treasure these diaries.

What impresses me so far is how damned industrious my mother is. I've only read a month and a half of diary entries and ten pies have been baked, along with an assortment of cookies, cakes, puddings, cinnamon rolls, and butter horns. My mother and grandmother are cutting and sewing clothing from patterns, and making curtains and bedspreads nearly every day. They work in the yard, they apply cement to the walls in the garage and then paint them, they wax the furniture and the kitchen appliances.

I don't know what in the hell my grandfather does. He seems to escape the house a lot. He's always coming home from the airport. Since my grandparents drove from Iowa to Virginia, he isn't there changing airline reservations. These are the days when airports have observation decks, and he doesn't see many airplanes over his Iowa farm. Plus, it must be good to get away from those busy women.

All those pies and baked goods are needed because friends and neighbors drop in for coffee all the time. They bring vegetables from their gardens, or a kitchen towel set with matching apron for my mom. They sit and visit, and I play with their children. One neighbor brings an evergreen and four azaleas for the yard. In the evening we watch television while my mom and grandmother sew.

We go places, too. We go to the fabric store and the dime store. We visit friends, and run errands. We go for rides in the country. I get bored on one long ride and start playing with my eyeballs, turn my eyelids wrongside-in so my lashes are scraping my eyes, and scream like a banshee. Thank goodness my folks bring coffee and nut bread along on the ride, because they need a break after they get my eyes fixed.

Many letters are written and received. Real letters, delivered by our postman. Mom writes Dad every couple of days, and he writes back almost as frequently. Letters fly back and forth between friends and family. There's no zip-code. Urgent news is sent airmail, or "par avion." Long-distance calls are expensive, and for emergencies only.

There's one black & white TV and a record player (High-Fidelity!). There's no cable or satellite service; we get three local channels. Going to the movies is a rare treat. We have one car. Dining out is a luxury. Entertainment is mostly spending time with friends; we take date-nut bread to the Dowlings when Fred comes home to convelesce following a heart attack (we take him a pair of pyjamas, too).

My mother and grandmother are trying to potty-train me. No wonder. My mom spends a lot of time washing dirty diapers. This potty-training mission is a series of skirmishes; some won, some lost, but Mom & Grandma are like the Allied Forces - they have the might, they have the fight, and they know they are right.

As I struggle with my potty-chair, my mom is getting the house ready for my dad's return. I don't know when that will be. Maybe we can go to the pier at the Navy Base to see him wave at us from the deck when his ship comes home again.

For anyone interested, you can take a peek at Mom's 1962 diary. Spelling, grammar, and syntax are as written in the original, and reflect my mother's Germanic heritage. "Lunch" and "Dinner" refer to the mid-day meal. "Supper" is the evening meal. "Breakfast" happens early, and if you sleep late, you miss it. A.M. means morning, and P.M. means afternoon. Evening means we're probably home, and if you drop in we'll serve you pie and coffee, and I'll show you my new potty chair. Click here if you want to visit us, but remember, my mother doesn't write this for entertainment purposes.

Rain

It's a rainy day here, and much cooler than what we've experienced recently. I've learned to appreciate the beauty of a rainy day. A drought will do that to you.



My best friend used to live in Spain in a beautiful villa on the Mediterranean Coast. I was fortunate to spend several vacations there, ranging between ten days to three weeks. All told, I spent about two months enjoying myself in this semi-tropical paradise. The weather would be described by most as "perfect," with constant sun and balmy breezes coming off the sea. I could count the number of overcast days on one hand, and still lose a few fingers in my kitchen blender. I noticed, though, especially during the three-week stay, that the endless sunny days became mundane. "Perfect" became commonplace, and I was actually invigorated by a rainy day when I returned home.



I see now that when I was trying to find bigger-faster-longer-more-more-more in a bottle, I was unable to appreciate the quiet beauty in ordinary things. The pursuit of heightened sensation actually dulled my senses, and I became a "dull boy." Wretched excess led to addiction, and this caused the hedonic threshold in my brain to be set at an unnaturally high level. The good news is that this pleasure-sensor can be reset to a normal level, although it has taken months for this to happen. I must always remind myself that just one drink will reset this brain mechanism, and I will be back to square one. I don't want that. I like being able to appreciate a rainy day.



A medical doctor who specializes in addiction cites study results proving the part of the brain affected by addictive substances is the mid-brain, where our basic survival instincts are housed. This explains why the will-power of "good and moral" people is thwarted by addiction. The mid-brain tags the drug (and alcohol is a drug, too) as the primary survival mechanism, so it trumps everything else. I know this is true because this is how I ended up in the hospital. Although my body was screaming and crying out for nourishment, my primary survival mechanism had become alcohol. Hungry? "Have a drink," my mid-brain urged. Stressed? "Shake a martini, quick!" my primary survival mechanism demanded.



This is why AA's 12-step program works if someone simply follows the program diligently. Faith will trump alcohol and other drugs by becoming the primary survival mechanism. Yes, Alcoholics Anonymous is a faith-based organization. No, I had no faith in a Higher Power when I went to my first AA meeting. I was so battered, beaten, and near death that I was ready to give up the fight. I didn't have any faith, and I didn't worry about it. I just adopted a "whatever happens, happens" attitude, and I was willing to concede that maybe, just maybe, there was a power greater than myself. I sure hoped there was, since I was powerless over alcohol. It stood to reason that if no other Higher Power existed, and I was powerless over alcohol, then my Higher Power was alcohol. How screwy does that sound?



So, I relaxed and went with the flow. I did my best to pray and meditate (even though I didn't think I knew what I was doing) during my morning AA meetings, and without my conscious realization I found a Higher Power that exists not only around me, but within me.



Anyone can do this.



A sunny day gives us no rainbows. Rain must be added to the sunlight for us to see the lovely spectrum of colors. Trite? Maybe. True? You bet.

The Little Father

Have you met someone in your life travels who, even years later, gives a lift to your heart when you remember them? Perhaps they were (or are) a part of your daily life, or maybe someone you encountered only once or twice. Something about them made a lasting impression, an impact on our lives, and from time to time we think of them with gratitude.

I first met Father Fred when I was in my early twenties. One of my favorite co-workers, Flossie, had a son who had just started high school at a Catholic school for boys. Tuna (his real name was Vincent, as I recall, although no one called him that) was a bright young man with a zest for life, but he had never enjoyed good health. Tuna had a passion for sports, and he begged Flossie to allow him to play football when he entered high school. With many misgivings, Flossie finally relented, and let him try out for the team, hoping he wouldn't make the cut.

Tuna did make the team, and he was on Cloud Nine. His dream had come true, and he eagerly exchanged his school uniform for his football jersey each afternoon for football practice. One afternoon, during a scrimmage, Tuna was tackled hard. He stood up, wandered a few feet, and collapsed on the field. He was rushed to the hospital, and later died.

My boss Cathy and I went to the hospital immediately after the accident to be with Flossie. Tuna was still alive, but the outlook was grim. Father Fred, Flossie's priest, joined us in the waiting room. He brought a sense of calmness and assurance to the chaotic little room. He was serene but not detached. Father Fred met privately with Flossie, and spent time with Tuna doing whatever priests do at times like these. He surprised me, though, by coming back to the waiting room to spend a little time with Cathy and me to be sure we were okay. Something about him assured me that, although Flossie would have to say goodbye to her son, God was there with all of us and everything was happening the way God intended. A few days later, Father Fred also made a point of coming up to Cathy and me following the funeral to comfort us and tell us that our presence was helpful to Flossie and her family.

Father Fred was a small, spare little man with a balding head and spectacles. He had a lively step, a bright smile, and warm sparkling eyes. As my Aunt Therza would have said, Father Fred was "cuter than a speckled pup under a mushroom on a rainy day." Not being Catholic, I doubted our paths would ever cross again, but I was wrong.

I transferred into a different job with the company I worked for, but by this time my former boss Cathy was a very close friend. Although I was still in the closet at work, when I met my partner Michael I knew it was time to tell Cathy that I was gay, so that she could meet this wonderful new person in my life. Cathy and Michael hit it off right away. A few months later, Cathy met the man who would become her husband, and Cathy and Dan started going to a different Catholic church close to their new home after they married. Re-enter Father Fred, who was the priest at their new church.

I would now see Father Fred socially when all of us gathered at Cathy and Dan's for dinners. Father Fred was a scream, and he could put the saltiest sailor to shame with the length and breadth of his profanity. He would hold us spellbound with his stories, until we dissolved into laughter. Fred had a gift for telling a story, and we enjoyed his quick wit. He was interested in the goings-on of each person in the room, however, and when Michael fell ill Father Fred always managed to find a quiet place for a few minutes of private conversation. His energy was amazing, and he seemed able to be everywhere at once.

I'll never forget a story he told at Cathy's table one evening. Father Fred had bought a small cottage in the country outside our city for a personal retreat, although he continued to live at the church parsonage. A winter storm caused him to worry about his cottage, so he drove out to the country to check on it. He promptly got his car stuck at the end of the driveway. Father Fred was pleased to discover that good old redneck boys live for days like this. They grab their girlfriends and hop in their 4X4 pick-up trucks. With the girlfriend planted right next to them on the seat, they roam the countryside looking for folks who need to be towed out of ditches and gullies. One of these helpful couples found Father Fred, and had him fixed up in no time. Fred was quite impressed. He was also amazed by the girlfriend who, despite her 1980's big hair and make-up, jumped out and pitched right in. Father Fred said "her jeans were so tight if she'd farted it would have blown her boots off."

Time passed and Michael's illness worsened. After he had been hospitalized for about a week he buttonholed one of his nurses for information. The nurse told him that he was reaching the end of his life. Michael was no dummy; he knew he had been moved to the hospice floor, but I think he just needed to hear it. Nonetheless, it did throw him into a tailspin. His mom and I would alternate spending nights with him; the hospital provided a fold-up cot. One night when it was my turn to stay with Michael, I walked his mother out to the parking deck because it was late and dark. When I returned to the door of Michael's room, I heard what seemed to be a conversation, but when I entered the room Michael was alone.

I asked Michael who he was talking to. Michael said he was talking to God. I asked Michael if he'd like me to leave the room and come back in a little while. Michael said "No, that's okay. I don't think God wants to talk to me."

Uh-oh.

When pressed, Michael said that God wouldn't want to talk to him because "God doesn't like gay people." Okay, now I knew I was in over my head and needed to call in reinforcements. I'm not a wise person, but I knew that this was no time for platitudes. The next morning, as soon as the hour was decent, I phoned Cathy and Dan. It was time to call in the Big Guns.

It was time for Father Fred.

Father Fred called me. I recounted the previous evening's conversation with Michael, and Father Fred said he would take care of it. That morning, Father Fred blew in. I left the room, and Fred and Michael spent time together. Father Fred found me in the waiting room, and told me he had to run because he had two weddings and a funeral that day. He said all should be well with Michael now.

He also told me what he told Michael, and I know now that he did this so that I could benefit from this message as well. He said:

"Michael, you know how you've suddenly had something get in your eye, and it drives you crazy? It seems huge, your eye tears up, you can't see. You can't think of anything else until you get it out. It feels like it must be as big as a boulder, and then when you get it out of your eye you can't believe it...it's such a tiny speck that you can barely see it. Michael, that's what you're doing. You are worried about something that isn't even as big as a speck in God's eye. Do not be afraid. God loves you and He is with you."

After that, Michael's smile returned. He was in pain, but his joy for life and his belief in God's perfect and infinite love was restored. And when God came for him a few days later, Michael met Him with a tranquil heart. God had prepared all of us for this by sending his powerful instrument, little Father Fred.

No Coincidence

Although I no longer live there, I grew up in Virginia Beach. My parents continued to live there until the mid-80's when they looked at each other one day and said "Why are we still living here???" Their pleasant neighborhood had remained much the same as when they moved there in the mid-50's, but the surrounding farms and little markets had been replaced by four-lane highways and shopping centers. Traffic made errands a chore. There was little sense of community with everyone leading busy lives on the go.

They decided to build a home in the mountains of Virginia, and when one of Dad's former co-workers heard they were moving to Abingdon he said "Our next-door neighbors moved there, and they are wonderful people. You should look them up when you get settled in." Well, we know how those things go.

My parents moved as planned, and one evening a nephew took my folks to a former country schoolhouse outside Abingdon that had been turned into a community center. Various bands were playing bluegrass music, and everyone sat at the old cafeteria tables enjoying the tunes. Strangers sat side by side, like in the famous Amish-cooking restaurants in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

My parents lived the maxim "a stranger is just a friend you ain't met yet," and inevitably struck up a conversation with the nice looking couple across from them. Chatting reached the point where names were exchanged, and when the fellow across from my parents introduced himself and his wife, my dad exclaimed "You're the guy I'm supposed to look up! I used to work with your old neighbor in Virginia Beach!" And so, Eddie and Irene and my folks became fast friends from that point on.

There are no coincidences in life.

My AA home group meets early each morning at a lovely church, and attendance at our meetings has blossomed in the last few months so that our supply of study books doesn't always meet demand. I've started taking my own books like several others do so that there are enough to go around until we can buy more. This week I couldn't find my 12X12, even though I'd searched my home and my car. Oh, well, it was bound to turn up, and it did.

This morning, after our meeting, someone pointed out a sealed brown package that had been left on a window sill. It had my name on it, and when I got home I opened it. There was my 12X12 book! A note was attached:

Bill-
I saw this book outside on a bench by Holy Comforter Church. I think that The Almighty wanted me to read it, so I borrowed it. I would like to attend an open meeting. Please contact me.

The note ended with a name and a phone number. I called and spoke to this man. We had a very nice conversation. He is retired, and he and his wife moved here about a year ago. He is a heavy drinker, and wonders if he is an alcoholic. I had left my book (my name is inside the cover) on the bench on a day when he happened to deliver a notice of an upcoming event at another church to Holy Comforter's office. He left town the day after he found my book for a religious retreat, took the book with him, and read it cover to cover. He returned the book (with money inside the cover), when he returned home from the retreat.

He plans on visiting our group next week. He has never attended an AA meeting. I look forward to shaking his hand.

There are no coincidences.

Wanted! Comments, Dead or Alive!

In my early meeting today a fellow introduced himself (we'll call him Jay), and said he wanted to explain why he was with us. He said he was not an alcoholic, but had incurred an alcohol-related traffic violation earlier this year, and his lawyer demanded that he attend several AA meetings. His lawyer had administered some test or other and determined that Jay is "clinically close to becoming an alcoholic." I'm not going to waste your time or mine wondering what indicates this diagnosis or what qualifies the lawyer to provide this diagnosis. I guess it's one-stop shopping, like getting a flu shot at the grocery store.

Of course, at least one group member thought it was a good idea to convince Jay that he's an alcoholic. I'm not sure when I crossed the lines from social drinker to occasional drinker to regular drinker to heavy drinker to alcoholic, blah blah blah, and frankly I don't care at this point. I yam what I yam today, and that's my base of operation.

I certainly don't know whether Jay is an alcoholic or not. I do know, because he said so, that he got behind the wheel of a vehicle legally drunk. If he had maimed or killed himself or others, I don't think any loved ones would smile and say to each other "Well, at least that guy wasn't an alcoholic! Thank goodness for that!"

So, just for sheer fun and frolic, join me if you will in compiling a list. I'll start it off, based on my own experiences.

You Might Be An Alcoholic If...

• you know the locations and store hours of several liquor stores in your area


• you rotate purchase locations so that the clerks won't think you drink too much


• you greatly prefer being around your friends who drink to those that don't


• the only reason not to make a drink as soon as you get home from work is a screaming bladder


• you get uneasy or miffed if you are in a social situation and feel pressured to stop drinking (or slow down)


• you compare your drinking patterns to those who drink more than you rather than those who drink less


• you eagerly watch and share health study news reports that indicate red wine or other alcoholic beverages promote good health


• you are on a pretend cell phone call when you reach the liquor store check-out counter, saying "Honey, you said you wanted XYZ brand, right?"


• you tape the liquor cabinet shut after a certain hour

Okay, I cheated. I heard the last two in AA meetings, but I would have used these if they had occurred to me. I didn't include all of mine by any means because I'd like you to leave comments to add to the list. Have fun; be real or be silly (or both at the same time).

A Slap on the Back

At the moment I'm writing this, I'm feeling good about completing my worksheets for my Back to Basics class which my sponsor and I will attend Thursday night. We were given these as homework last week. I'm meeting with my sponsor tomorrow morning to review these worksheets, which are 4th Step inventories. AA's 4th Step is where we make "a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves."

As a Procratinator Extraordinaire, I told myself I would work on this Friday, then Saturday, then Sunday. I could berate myself for waiting until Tuesday, but I'm celebrating not having to set my alarm for 4am tomorrow morning to get it done. Progress, not perfection, right? For me, this is progress even if it is in small measure. I'm the kid who used to write term papers moments before the class bell rang.

As self-absorbed as the alcoholic me can be, you'd think that being asked to devote time to self-examination would have been met with an "Oh, goody!" but this was not the case. The largest part of Step 4 involves facing character defects, although my sponsor told me to be sure to list good qualities as well (probably so I wouldn't jump off my back deck, which would mainly be a symbolic gesture since it's only 18 inches off the ground). The point of listing these flaws is not self-flagellation, another favorite activity of mine; it is preparation to ask God to remove these qualities. At first I thought "it looks like God has His work cut out for Him" after reviewing my list, but that's just my ego clamoring for attention; if He or She can keep the world spinning and the Heavens in place, I know He can handle my shortcomings. The real question is will I be ready to give them up? They must have provided some twisted form of payoff or I wouldn't have nurtured them so carefully for 48 years. I'd share my list with you, but you really wouldn't have time.

For me, self-evaluation itself becomes a character defect if there's no subsequent action taken.

I really like this quotation from the Pocket Sponsor that Scott shared:

Whether we think good things about ourselves or whether we think bad things about ourselves, mostly we are thinking about ourselves.

I think that puts both smugness and self-deprecation in proper perspective.

A Call from Al

I got a call from my old friend Al the other night. We haven't seen each other in six months, and I was surprised to hear his voice. Time has really flown by since I saw him last. His voice was as smoothly beautiful as ever, but it disturbed me to hear it. We parted ways half a year ago on very bad terms.


The conversation went something like this:


Al: Hello, buddy boy! Remember me?


Me: Al...why are you calling me?


Al: Oh, Bill. I was hoping you'd be glad to hear from me.


Me: Al, really, why would I be glad to hear from you?


Al: Well, I'm glad to hear your voice, but you sound just a little shaky. Bill, I was just thinking about how much fun we used to have. We had some wonderful times, we really did. Remember?


Me: I remember being in the hospital six months ago.


Al: I'm not talking about those times, Bill. Forget that. It doesn't have to be like that. We don't have to spend so much time together. That's what got us in trouble. But we could spend time together again, just now and then. No worries.


Me: I'm not worried. I've been doing a lot of thinking and praying the past six months.


Al: I know you have, Bill. I know exactly what you've been doing for the past six months. I keep tabs on you, buddy. I know who you've been talking to, and they're wrong about me, Bill. I'm not a bad guy. I have plenty of friends who will tell you that. Those new friends of yours...they really are unfair. Bill, they're fanatics. They're like a cult. You can think for yourself. Look, just let me come by for a visit. I promise I won't stay long...just an hour or so. You give these new people an hour or more each day. All I'm asking for is a little fair play here, some equal time. Doesn't that sound reasonable?


Me: No, it doesn't. And it doesn't work that way with my new friends. I'm sure you have new friends by now to play with, Al. Leave me alone.


Al: You're right, Bill. I make new friends every single day. But, Bill, you know that none of them mean as much to me as you do. I just want to be with you, and hold you and comfort you. I know you get lonely at times, and I will be there for you. I'll hold you, Bill, just for a little while and then I'll go. I won't move back in. We can just hang out a while, and see each other every week or so, okay? I know you'd like that. It can be like those grand old times again, I promise!


Me: I'll tell you what, Al. I'll ask my new friends and see what they say.


Al: NO!!! Let me come by first, just for a short visit!


Me: Goodbye, Al.


Al: I'll be right outside your door, Bill. ALWAYS. I'll be looking in your windows. You know you're going to ask me to come back inside sooner or later. You know you need -


Me: (click)


Al has made many promises to me that he will never keep, but there is one which I know is sincere. He will wait for me; he will lurk outside my door. I must be watchful and wary, but I do not need to be fearful. Like Odysseus, I have a crew who will keep me tied fast to the mast as long as I continue to sail in their company. The Sirens will sing, with Al smack dab in the middle of them. My job is no longer captain of my ship; I just need to keep my vessel seaworthy. There are only twelve simple steps to keep my boat afloat, and as long as I am diligent and work hard I will remain safe. My own mighty Captain will set the course, and He does not heed the Song of Sirens.


My call from Al, as happens with so many alcoholics in recovery, came when I least expected it. I was in a two-hour class on the 12 Steps of AA when the call came, and for a few moments I could not hear the instructor. If Al could call in this setting, he may call me anywhere. AA gives me tools; I need to be sure they are put to use. I started today with an early meeting. I am writing this now because it helps me clarify my confusion. Today I will actively work on my homework assignment from my 12 Step class.

(Click here to read the background story about my friend Al)

Ella vs. the Groundhog

My maternal grandmother was born in 1900, on a farm a few miles from Grundy Center, Iowa. I used to clamor for her stories of "the olden days," and loved to pore over the albums of antique photographs from her growing-up years on her parents' farm. The folks in these old pictures barely looked like real people to me when I was little, with their strange hair-dos and funny clothes. As I grew older, I began to see the humanity shining out of these candid shots, and I felt like I knew these wonderful characters through my grandmother's remembrances. Grandma was tickled that I had such an appreciation for these pieces of history, and before she died she made sure that my mother brought them to me so I could take care of them.

My grandfather was a farm hand on my great-grandfather's farm. Lucas Abels was not pleased when he discovered that the farm hand was secretly courting his daughter. He fired my grandfather, who then left for a while to see the world...or, at least, the mid-west. Grandpa traveled with a small circus as a roustabout, and was a ranch hand in Montana, but he continued to court my Grandma through letters. When my grandfather returned to Iowa, he and my Grandma eloped on Christmas Eve.

When my Grandpa died in 1965, my Grandma found out that he was not the best manager of household funds. She continued to farm for a couple of years before buying a small house in the town of Morrison. But what to do about money? Grandma never lacked self-confidence or an unshakable belief in her abilities. She was accustomed to hard labor through farming. She found jobs painting people's houses, inside and out, and I believe she even painted a barn one time. She was frugal but not stingy, and she believed in doing things for herself. She learned how to plaster walls, lay floor tile, and mix cement so she could patch the foundation of her house. If something needed doing around the house, she did it herself whenever she could.

I remember one visit when I was about ten. She took me out to her backyard and told me to draw a bucket of water from the hand pump. She showed me a hole in the ground, and instructed me to dump the water in the hole when she told me to. She stationed herself at a similar hole about fifteen yards away, and told me to start pouring fast. I don't recall whether I noticed the shotgun she was toting, but I'm sure the groundhog didn't. When he popped up sputtering out of the hole at her feet, he had seen his last glimpse of daylight, and Grandma's flowerbeds were safe once more.

I won't even go into the epic battle with the snake infestation. Just know that the state newspaper picked up the story and dispatched a reporter and a photographer on an 85 mile trip for a feature article. Think old lady versus over 75 snakes. Guess who won?

In the 1980's poor circulation necessitated a leg amputation. Friends and family shook their heads and tut-tutted sadly. "Ella won't be able to live by herself now. She'll have to go into a nursing home." Grandma would have none of that. She continued to live in her little house. The main danger was to others. Grandma was a fast mover, even in a wheelchair or electric buggy, and she ran over toes and knocked people over if they weren't watchful.

She had help, of course; family and friends checked on her daily. Grandma was nearly deaf, so she would unlock her door each morning so visitors could come right in since she couldn't hear them knocking. My Aunt Mary was in a panic one day when she couldn't find Grandma. A thorough search found her in a walk-in closet, standing on the seat of her wheelchair with the wheels locked, replastering a spot on the ceiling.

One time when my mother and I flew out to Iowa for a visit, Grandma confided "I like to watch that Doctor Ruth. But I don't want anyone to catch me, so I lock my door." My mother and I exchanged glances. The volume on Grandma's TV made the windows vibrate. Anyone in town could have told you what was tuned in on Grandma's television just by stepping out their front door.

Grandma is gone now, but I still look to her for inspiration. She met adversity with squared shoulders and a determined chin. Groundhogs, snakes, poverty, amputated leg - none of these could get the best of her. As I face a battle for my health and well-being I try to remember what I learned from Grandma: determination and hard work will see you through rough times, and when people see these qualities in you, they will gladly be there to give you help.

The White Chip

I don't quite know when it happened, but sometime last summer I began dropping some of the AA meetings I had been attending regularly, and going to most if not all of the Monday-Friday meetings at 6:45am a few miles from my home. In April and May, new to AA, I attended lots of meetings throughout each week, and by June or July I had found the ones that seemed to fit me best. I averaged one or two meetings per day. I attended large meetings and small, and discovered that I preferred the smaller meetings. This is based strictly on personal preference; I've never been a fan of crowds. Others like the energy found in meetings with many in attendance. I guess this is similar to folks who choose a mega-church versus a church with a small congregation.

I am prone to bouts of insomnia. These spells used to drive me mad, but now I just accept them as a matter of course. Sometimes it helps to read in bed; other times I just get up and start puttering around the house. This quirk seems to be a characteristic that pops up on my mom's side of the family. My grandmother used to get up in the middle of the night to bake bread or cookies from time to time.

Because of this tendency, I missed an early meeting one Thursday. And again Friday. And the same thing happened Monday. By this time, my early morning meetings were my favorites, so I really wanted to get back to them. For me, it's a wonderful way to get my head straight to face the rest of the day.

A funny thing happened Tuesday morning. By then I was rested and back on a normal sleep cycle. I was up early and I was all gussied up (tee-shirt and shorts) for the 6:45 meeting.

And I was reluctant to go back.

I wanted to go, but I felt embarrassed about missing three meetings in a row. I usually arrived early to get coffee brewing and set things up for the meeting. I felt like I had let people down. I didn't delude myself into thinking that the meetings had suffered, but I was afraid that I'd stick out like a sore thumb.

I went back and people were happy to see me. The only questions asked came from a couple of people who just wanted to be sure that I was doing okay. They were happy to see me, and gave me big hugs. I made sure that some folks had my phone number, because they hadn't known how to reach me. I was back on track.

Afterwards, I reflected on how silly my apprehensions had been, and how dangerous. What if they had kept me from ever going back? As an alcoholic, I could teach a graduate course in making a mountain out of a molehill and a companion course called "The Universe Restructured: It All Revolves Around Me." This is the same line of thinking that causes me to think that complete strangers are going to notice a stubborn stain on my clothing from 100 yards away, instead of realizing that they probably won't notice me at all. They have their own worries and insecurities consuming their thoughts.

This little episode also brought appreciation for those brave souls who return to AA following a relapse. I hadn't even been drinking, and I had to lash myself into walking back in that Tuesday morning. I understood that these folks who picked up another white chip are the bravest people in the room at that moment in time. In their heads they may be saying "I fucked up," but they are surrounded by a room full of people who are simply saying "Welcome back."

Because each one of us knows "Tomorrow it could be me reaching out for another white chip."

(note: In AA there is a chip system that marks time in sobriety. In my area, the white chip is given to the drinker who wants to stop drinking just for that day. We take life one day at a time.)

The Clue in the Diary

My mother died several years ago, quite unexpectedly. What gall; what nerve! I would have called her more often if I'd had any inkling. She was just 67, apparently healthy, and took good care of herself, but she dropped dead at church one sunny autumn morning. Once we are born, there's only one thing we're guaranteed: Death. Nothing in between is a certainty, so we'd better make the most of our time and circumstances.

A close friend made the long trip to my mom's house with me so that I would not have to be alone. After we got settled in and I had consulted with the mortician (there was nothing to do except select flowers. Mom had pre-arranged everything years beforehand), Cathy asked me if I would mind if she looked through my mom's diary. She wasn't trying to be nosy; Cathy was as bewildered as I was, and thought we might find a clue in the diary about her death. In the spirit of my mom's girlhood heroine, Nancy Drew, my mother had indeed left a clue. Two weeks prior to her death my mom had a "bad spell" one afternoon and laid down on her bed. This was unheard of for my mother, so Cathy and I knew that she had to be feeling extremely ill, and this was probably a foreshadow of the massive heart attack that followed.

There were several noteworthy aspects of my mother's diary, but here's the one I want to talk about today. As we read backward through her last days, Cathy remarked "Bill, your mother did something for someone else every single day." Sure enough, the diary entries confirmed this. She didn't do monumental things like rescue people from the edges of cliffs or stop locomotives before they plunged off collapsed bridges. They were quiet, small things perfectly in keeping with her need to be inobtrusive. Her journal revealed that she took a homemade cake or a casserole to a neighbor when they were ill, visited a friend in a nursing home, or gave a non-driving church member a ride to Sunday services even though it meant going miles out of her way. Small acts of kindness that I am sure made a huge difference in someone else's day. Every single day with no fanfare, she made someone else's day a little bit brighter. That's quite a legacy, and I never would have known about it if she hadn't been a meticulous diarist.

Being fairly new to AA, I heard a lot about service from the beginning, but didn't know what I could possibly offer. At first, simply getting out of bed, shaving, bathing, brushing my teeth, dressing in clean clothes, and making myself leave the house seemed overwhelming, so I focused on doing those things one step at a time. I was so battered and broken that I felt worthless, and knew I didn't have one worthwhile thing to offer. Several Guys gave me their phone numbers. At the beginning of my journey I was afraid to call anyone, figuring I would be an intrusion, and I waited for more help until my second AA meeting. A lady asked me at that second meeting who I had called for support during the week. I explained that I hadn't called anyone but that I hadn't taken a drink. That wise soul told me that calling someone for guidance actually helped that other person, and was never an intrusion.

So, I began to take baby steps. I reasoned that I didn't have any wisdom to offer, but I did know how to pick up stray coffee cups and take out trash. I knew how to pack supplies and books back in a plastic container at the end of a meeting. Gradually, I took on more and more of these custodial duties (I knew how to make coffee, too!), and without even realizing what was happening to me I found out that I was helping myself while I was helping others with these small things. I became more involved with the groups, and started feeling like I belonged to something roomier than the inside of a bottle. Today, just six months later, I am humbled to be my home group's service representative at district meetings.

Last night, one of my new buddies called me. He asked if he could come over, because he was troubled. The "old me" would have worried that my house wasn't clean enough for company. The "new me" knows that no one is going to walk in wearing a white glove. My friend's live-in girlfriend had gone on a bender, and was violent. He simply needed some time away from home. He didn't need sage advice; he needed an ear that would listen. Well, I have two of those! We drank coffee and talked for several hours, and then he headed home with a spare key in his hand in case he needed to come back in the night. It didn't cost me a thing, and I felt much richer.

Today his girlfriend entered re-hab, and my friend is still sober. He's been in the program for several years, but, you see, he had a very bad relapse and just returned to AA a few months ago. This time he didn't drink or use. He sought a little help, and all I had to do was answer the phone and open my door. I could do that. Heck, I've been doing that since I was a little kid.

More Matchbox Memories + GI Joe

An unexpected thing happened to me after I finished writing yesterday's entry about the sexual predator in my neighborhood. I shed some unplanned tears as I wrote, posted the blog, and got up for another cuppa joe. Suddenly, I was bowled over by an avalanche of pure 100% RAGE. It took my breath away, but I just let it keep coming. Bring it on...it's long overdue. In my mind, the man who molested me was in my home. I beat him senseless. I beat him until he collapsed on my floor. And I kicked him in the face over and over and over until I couldn't even recognize him. I kicked him until what had been his face was nothing but blood and snot and bone. And then I stopped, because I did not want him to die, and God help me I did not stop out of mercy. I stopped because I wanted him to live so that I could watch him suffer and gasp for breath.

And I felt better.

This is not a pretty picture, but I make no apologies. For years I have acknowledged the event, but completely repressed my feelings about what happened. I am angry about what happened to me when I was simply a little boy who went to a friend's house to play and the grown-up brother entrusted with my care violated me in the cruelest, vilest way. I am angry at my parents for not calling the police. I'm angry at the neighbors for making me feel like I did something wrong. I'm angry at the feelings of guilt, confusion, and shame that have made it difficult for me to establish deep intimate relationships because keeping people at arm's length feels safer.

But, I am grateful for this unleashed rage; and, Lord, I am grateful for a sense of release at long last. Thank you, God.

I shared a little of this in this morning's meeting, and it generated some wonderful discussion. So many of us AA's used alcohol to numb our feelings and emotions, and it can be a wild ride when we decide to stick the little knob-headed pin in the plastic car so we can get back on the road in the Game of Life.

An amazing thing happens when we jump back in the plastic car. Connectivity can be as limitless as we care to make it. The road doesn't end at the edges of the board game. Each day I go here for inspiration, and I discovered this new world by clicking on "AA" in my own blog profile under my interests. There's a wonderful world out there that I've been ignoring. There are lots of boys and girls with Matchbox memories. The bottle wasn't nearly as much fun.

One day recently several of us guys were outside after a meeting, and the subject of GI Joes came up. Clark, a macho-man contractor, still collects them, and we were all sharing GI Joe stories from boyhood. I had a GI Joe (never could figure out the right approach to ask for a Barbie), and I was the only kid I knew who had a black GI Joe. I'd like to say that my parents bought this because they were so liberal, but I suspect they waited too close to Christmas and NAACP Joe was all that was left on the shelves. I loved my GI Joe, but (unlike Clark) lost interest in playing with him eventually.

There comes a day in each boy's life when he wants to play with fire. My dad had a nice stick-built wood-framed shed at the back of our yard, with a lean-to on the rear for lawn and garden machinery. My buddies and I gathered in the lean-to one afternoon to torture GI Joe. We were having a blast wounding and disfiguring poor Joe with matches when he suddenly exploded. After we made sure the shed wasn't on fire, we collected Joe's far-flung charred parts for autopsy. In case you don't know, vintage GI Joes are held together with thick, strong rubber bands under very high tension. When those suckers burned through, Joe went flying everywhere. I was a bit chagrined, but would have been even more dismayed if I knew how much a black GI Joe from that era would sell for nowadays. Mine was the first black GI Joe, with painted on hair. Clark says they are highly sought by collectors.

So, today, through exorcising ghosts and the love and support of others, I can say that all is well. I am exactly who and where God intends at this moment.

Mud Pies and Matchbox Cars

I remember making mud pies, building Matchbox cities in the dirt, and forming sand castles at the beach when I was a little boy. We had a brick-chimneyed barbeque at the back of our yard, and the baked mud pies, elaborately decorated with pyracantha berries, sure looked pretty but they turned back into dirt. The Matchbox world under my washing-machine treehouse was regularly ruined by rain. The sand castles were washed away by the tides before we even left for home. All that work, and nothing to show for it.

If you know me or have roamed through Planet Bill, you know that I had a wonderful partner named Michael who is no longer with us. For years I had dreamed of meeting that certain, special person I could march through life with. He wasn't exactly what I had pictured in my mind, but I knew when I met him that he was "the one." He wasn't the shiniest pebble on the beach at first glance, but he was my pebble, and I wasn't too shiny either. We were a good match. Life together was perfect bliss. Well, not exactly. Sometimes we fought like cats and dogs. But we rarely went to bed angry with each other. We were both head-strong, but we walked hand-in-hand, even if we did step on each other's toes once in a while. And then one day he was gone.

And life goes on. I wasn't interested in becoming the twentieth-century version of Queen Victoria, dressed in widow's weeds and pining for Prince Albert. A time came when I became interested in getting back into the world so I could experience the beauty, wonder, and splendor of dating again. Or, at least having a romp in bed occasionally. Some of the stories from this period are funny and some are tragic. Maybe I'll write about them at some point, but that's not the purpose of exercising my keyboarding skills today (I don't think I can call it typing when I only use three fingers and a thumb).

As I take twelve steps through my mind, I can see that something is really wrong in there. I've got to do some serious housecleaning - and perhaps hire an exorcist - before I will be ready to tackle another relationship. Otherwise, it wouldn't be good for me, and it wouldn't be fair to someone else.

I grew up in a Leave It to Beaver household. I'm not kidding. My friends used to compare my parents to Ward and June. My parents had real-life flaws, but they were about as close as you'd find to Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver. Our neighborhood was nice and safe. Cookies were homemade, fireflies danced in the yards at dusk, and beds were warm and cozy with sheets dried on the clothesline.

But weeds grow in unwanted places, and even the prettiest flowerbeds harbor snakes.

Significant things happened when I was five years old. I am finally starting to understand how they still impact my world.

I was repeatedly molested by the grown son of a family two houses down from my home. I don't remember many specifics, but I do remember crying and feeling sick when this man called me into his bedroom and told me to shut the door. Our sessions together always concluded with instructions that I must tell no one or something horrible would happen to me. I thought I had dealt with this, but I am coming to understand that this is when I started to isolate myself and hide my feelings from others.

On Saint Patrick's evening in 1965, my grandfather got up from the sofa to get his eyeglasses off the fireplace mantle so we could watch Gunsmoke together. Midway across the room, he collapsed and died painfully of a massive heart attack. He was my best friend. This happened after the molestation came to light, and many of the neighborhood children treated me like a pariah. I knew that if I made it home safely from the kindergarten bus, my Grandpa would be waiting for me so we could play a board game or go for a ride in the car. Before Matt Dillon could saunter into Miss Kitty's saloon, my best friend was gone.

These two events taught me that danger lurks behind friendly faces, and that the people you love will leave you. My dad was in the military, and was frequently away on missions. Living in a Navy town meant that your best friends often moved away because their dads were given new assignments. People up and die on you; even kids...when I was nine my best friend died with bone cancer. I was beginning to feel like the Beaver Cleaver version of Typhoid Mary.

Today, while writing this, I have cried for the very first time for that scrawny little five-year-old boy. I'm not looking for sympathy or understanding. I am writing about these things because doing so chips away at the power they hold over me. It's just part of my life, and shit happens whether you are ready or not. I am now understanding that I have resentment, confusion, and anger about these things. They have damaged me, and I'm pissed off about it. But here's what I have decided:

I'm not a mud pie that will dry up and crumble.
I'm not a toy car village that will wash away in the rain.
I'm not a sand castle that can't be rebuilt.
And I am not a helpless, hopeless drunk that will turn to a bottle any longer.

I am a living being with the power to heal.

I am no longer numbed senseless by alcohol, and I am starting to feel things intensely. It hurts, dammit, but I welcome it. I am not ready for another life-partner. Yet.

If I keep working the 12 Steps, that day will come if it is God's will, but even if that never happens I have plenty to keep me busy. There is much work to do, and I need to do this for myself.