Two Richmonders Against the Odds

Good grief! Planet Bill's first post of 2011, and we're treated to a cemetery shot? Am I in a dark mood? No, not at all; I've just been roaming Richmond with my camera, and Morris & I found ourselves sticking our noses in a couple of places that were new to us. Let's take a look.

The picture at the top was taken in Holy Cross Cemetery, located at the southwestern edge of Chestnut Hill. This district was one of Richmond's original streetcar neighborhoods, and contains many examples of Queen Anne, American Foursquare, Greek Revival, Bungalow, and Colonial Revival homes. The sky was gray, and the wind was cold & brisk on the day that Morris & I rode through the graveyard. We came across a curious plot with multiple iron crosses with no names, simply the abbreviation for Rest In Peace.

Cemeteries have never terrified me. Even as a child, when I found some of them pleasantly creepy, they were assurances of the order of life. I remember visiting the graves of relatives, some known and others gone prior to my birth, and hearing remembrances of these people from my grandmother. Like the books I loved to read, there was a beginning and end, but the stories between the similar covers were colorful, fascinating, and unique. Death is part of the natural order of life. Ashes to ashes, and all that. What is important is what we write on our pages.

After a Saturday breakfast at a place called Yesterday's (appropriately named, since we were fueling up for a day of local history), we drove toward downtown. At the edge of the city limits, we took a detour up a rutted road in search of Woodland Cemetery. It was a forlorn place, barely kept, and made meaner by winter's harsh light. Groundskeeping seemed limited to common areas, for many gravesites were wild with dead weeds & brambles. The cemetery was bordered by untamed thickets on two sides, and industrial buildings on another. The two pictures, above & below, give an idea of the unwelcoming atmosphere.

What better place to bury a local hero! Yessiree, here's where you will find Arthur Ashe, champion of Wimbledon, the Australian Open, and the US Open. After a lifetime of battling racial discrimination, he rests in a place for Richmond's deceased black citizens - desolate Woodland Cemetery.

Arthur Ashe grew up in Richmond. His athletic grace was matched by his intelligence. He had to fight to play tennis, growing up in a time when he was not allowed on most courts. Ashe was a fighter on & off the tennis courts, breaking into a traditionally "white only" sport, and then becoming an AIDS activist. Ashe contracted HIV through an unscreened blood transfusion in 1983. Although he wished to keep this information private, when he learned that USA Today was nosing around his business, he pre-empted their news coup by calling a press conference to make his own disclosure of his disease. He established the Arthur Ashe Foundation for the Defeat of AIDS, and became a champion of humanitarian causes.

Arthur Ashe attended Maggie Walker High School in Richmond, a school for black students during segregation named for another determined underdog, where teachers urged their pupils to excellence. Our destination, although Morris & I got sidetracked by cemeteries, was the Maggie Walker House in the Jackson Ward District. I highly recommend the tour of Maggie Walker's home, which is now a National Park Service property.

Maggie Walker was the first female president of an American bank, an accomplishment all the more noteworthy because she was African-American during a time of unabashed racial discrimination. Her mother was a former slave who took in laundry to support the family after Maggie's father was murdered. Maggie attended the Armstrong School, and became a teacher there after graduating. At that time, only single women were allowed to teach, so she left her job upon her marriage. She rose to a prominent position in the Independent Order of St. Luke, a benevolent organization that assisted African-Americans with health care & burial services. She chartered the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank and became its first president in 1903. Keep in mind that this was even before the Nineteenth Amendment gave women the right to vote in elections. Her bank gave many black citizens an opportunity to have a savings account and buy a house.

The picture above shows one of the double parlors in Maggie Walker House. When touring most historic homes, the tour guide (when pressed) will say something like "These pieces are reproductions. We've furnished the house the way we sorta kinda figure it might have looked originally." Not so with Maggie's house. The house passed directly from the Walker family to the National Park Service in 1979, and still contains most of the original furnishings, including the pictures on the walls. Recently, the Walker descendents donated fifty additional original items to the house. You really get the feeling that you are walking through Maggie's home, and that her boisterous grandchildren may run through the room at any moment.

Another wonderful aspect of the tour is that you get to see nearly the entire house. Parlors, dining rooms, and bedrooms are part of touring most historic homes, but I always want to see how people really lived. What were the back rooms like? Above you see the kitchen, and below is the laundry room. Can you imagine cooking a meal for a large family plus guests in a kitchen with no countertops? Today we have Viking ranges, granite counters, motorized gizmos, and most Americans haven't got a clue about cooking from scratch. If the box doesn't say add water & stir it's time to make restaurant reservations.

A small bedroom for a granddaughter has her collection of dolls on the bed.

Now, I can pretty much assure you that you're not going to take a tour of a gilded-age mansion and hear a tour guide say "Mrs. Vanderbilt repaired to this chamber when she needed to take a slash." Next we see Maggie Walker's bathroom, complete with clean-but-stained toilet, bidet & bedpan. There are no pretenses here; the tour guide will even point out the upstairs window where Maggie's son shot & killed his father, mistaking him for a midnight intruder.

In the next photo we see why there was a bedpan in Maggie's bathroom. She spent her later life as an invalid. She had diabetes, and her cause of death in 1934 was listed as "diabetes gangrene." Her two sons and their families lived with her, and there were up to ten people living in the 28-room house at one point. Upstairs, Maggie had her own little oasis: a large bedroom, her own spacious bathroom, and a kitchenette that had been fashioned from an upper enclosed side porch. The kitchenette had a wall of windows that faced east, and I imagine that she enjoyed this cheerful, sunny room in the mornings.

She also enclosed a porch off her bedroom at the front of the house, which you can see in the first photo of the Maggie Walker House. Here, she liked to sit in her wheelchair to watch the traffic go by, looking down at the Jackson Ward neighborhood that she helped make the "Harlem of the South" and the "Black Wall Street of America."

Alcoholism took its toll on her family. It is said that her husband and both of her sons were alcoholics, and that her husband came home drunk and was trying to sneak into the house via an upper rear porch when his son fatally shot him. There had been a series of neighborhood robberies, but the family had to endure a murder trial before the son was aquitted. He never recovered emotionally from the tragedy, sank deeper into the drink, and died a few years later.

Ending your tour today, we have a few more photographs. These were taken in the very old section known as Union Hill, a district which dates back to around 1805. Thanks for dropping by, and I hope your year has started out smoothly.

Dogtown & Hanovertown

A sign along the road at Hanovertown
On Sunday, I rode out to an antique mall northeast of town with Morris to visit a vendor who has a massive collection of magazines, postcards, photographs, and ephemera. Morris looked at postcards, which I usually look at also, but Sunday I got caught up in a box of old bills, report cards, business correspondence, advertisements and the like.

One 1956 company newsletter featured the story of Susie, a squirrel who would come to the back door & knock until someone brought her peanuts & "peacans." A letter from 1938 complained haughtily that the electrical work had not been completed when the writer & his wife went to their river home for the weekend. Another business letter from a firm's president extended get well wishes to one of the owners, and said he'd enjoyed seeing him at the fox hunt when they "rode to hounds." An invitation from St. Benedict's School announced their Final Ball at Tantilla Gardens, a long-gone Richmond ballroom, where you could "dance beneath the stars" courtesy of a roof that rolled back above the dance floor. A receipt from a local bakery showed that someone thought a half-dozen of their eclairs was well worth forty-six cents.

It's caused me to wonder over the past few days at all the slips of paper that have passed through my hands over the years.

Retirement for an Old Farm Hand
When we left Antique Village, we rode out through the countryside of Hanover County, turning off the highway onto River Road. We were searching for Hanovertown, a dot on the map and a place of which we had never heard. Sure, there's Hanover Courthouse, with the Houndstooth Cafe at the intersection of Routes 54 & 301, but Hanovertown? It seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, and there was little to indicate that there had ever been a town there.

Grocery shopping in downtown Hanovertown.
This market featured self-checkout, like many of the large grocery stores in town. Instead of an automated cash/credit card machine, there was an old metal breadbox with a slot cut in the top.
Hanovertown, not even a wide spot in the road these days, was a thriving village in the late 1700's. Originally settled in 1676 as Page's Warehouse, it was Hanover County's first major settlement. When the House of Burgesses decided to relocate Virginia's Capital, Hanovertown lost by only a few votes to Richmond. The quiet, bucolic landscape today does not hint that Cornwallis burned warehouses here in his failed Virginia Campaign in 1781, or that this land saw another bloody battle during Grant's Wilderness Campaign in 1864. Prosperity of landowners was made possible through enslavement, when the lives of some human beings were considered simple investments. Here is the text from a newspaper advertisement:

Fifty dollars reward. Runaway from the subscriber, on 21st instant, a mulatto man named John, alias John Strange. He is rather of small stature, well set, has a round and remarkably pleasing visage, and is an excellent house servant, hostler, and driver...He has a wife at Mr. Mann Pages, near Hanover-town, where he may probably lurk for some time. If apprehended, great care should be taken to secure him, as I expect he is desperate as well as vicious.
--Spencer Roane, May 28, 1805


The previous evening, Saturday, I was invited to speak at an AA meeting in the Manchester section of Richmond. Manchester, now part of the city of Richmond, was a separate town until it consolidated with Richmond in 1910. Manchester sits opposite the James River from downtown Richmond, and was a working-class town from early times. Its nickname, Dogtown, can be found as early as 1887 in a Richmond Times newspaper article. Today, Manchester is starting to show signs of renewal but its revitalization, though promising, is still tenuous. In general, most people would not want to walk the sidewalks in this area at night.

Saturday night, a few friends & I went to Belle's studio (shown below) for a meeting of the Dogtown Drunks. Belle had invited me to speak on the 4th & 5th steps. The room was packed. Most in the crowd had walked over from The Healing Place, a men's treatment & recovery center that takes in the homeless with addiction problems.

Belle's studio in Manchester, home of the Dogtown Drunks
It was the first time I had been to this meeting. When I was introduced to speak, I looked at the faces that surrounded me, mostly of younger, African-American men, and hoped that I would have something to offer them in the way of hope & recovery. Our life experiences differed, but we had at least one thing in common: alcoholism or addiction.

Belle's collection of driftwood from the banks of the James River
4th Step: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
5th Step: Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

I talked briefly about how each step provided me with a foundation for the steps that followed, and the principles behind each step. I mentioned how my first sponsor looked over my 4th step list, and gave it back to me, telling me to include my good qualities in addition to my faults so that the moral inventory would be complete.

Mostly, though, I told them about the gift I received when I finished my 5th step.

Two days after I sat down with my sponsor to complete my 5th step, I was at home alone after an early meeting. Without warning, a tide of anger rose up in me that was all-consuming. Anger, undiluted & elemental, at the man who had molested me when I was five. It burned through me, and left me shaking and weeping. I felt drained, and I sat and sobbed. I finally cried for the first time for the little five-year old boy inside me who had been betrayed by a neighbor. I had finally let myself feel the anger.

The emotions and conflicting feelings I had tamped down, suppressed, and ignored for years came up and out. I felt like I had gone over a waterfall in a wooden barrel. The wave of profoundly visceral feeling passed, and I dashed the tears from my eyes, blew my snotty nose, and just sat there. I felt clean and empty. And I had another gift coming.

I sat there, still a little stunned, and an awareness dawned. I realized that, up until that moment, I had held a deep & unacknowledged resentment against my parents. It was a revelation. Now, finally, I could understand that my parents did the best they knew how to do at the time. I saw that when they asked me "Why didn't you tell us?" it was not an accusation. They were also hurt & bewildered. They were first-time parents in the 1960's thrust into a situation with no frame of reference. As a sense of forgiveness grew in me, my shame & guilt slipped away. Those feelings had become obsolete; I was the only person who had ever given them form & substance.

I shared an abbreviated version of my 4th & 5th step experience to the Dogtown Drunks, and I told them why I thought it was important. It is estimated that roughly 80% of alcoholics and addicts experienced abuse in some form as a child. I do not understand the correlation, but I knew that the chances were good that a fair number of the men & women in that room had suffered mental, physical, or sexual abuse as children. I also knew that the 4th and 5th steps are a pathway to freedom, and that the secrets we keep...keep us sick.

The 5th step was scary for me; more frightening than my moral inventory. Sure, I could make a list of my character defects. But, to sit down with another human being and share all that stuff? I put it off as long as I could, until I started feeling restless, irritable, and discontented - in other words, sick again.

I could not have predicted the outcome of taking the 4th and 5th steps beforehand. It took a leap of faith to do something I did not want to do. When it was all said & done, I could look the world in the eye. I could be alone at perfect peace and ease. My fears had fallen from me, and I could feel the nearness of my Creator. I felt like I was in the midst of something spiritual. A few readers will know exactly what I'm talking about.

On Saturday night, in the dim light of Belle's studio after I'd sat down, men began to share. I had been guided by something other than myself. I had shared once again what was uncomfortable for me. One by one, from here & there around the room, the secrets began to be told. It was a very humbling experience for me to be in that room Saturday night. Some men left that meeting afterwards to return to The Healing Place. Some left to spend the night outdoors, wherever they could find a little shelter. I hope they slept peacefully.

Passing It On

There are a couple of things that I really like about this time of year.

For one, if you're mindful, you start noticing little hints of Spring around here. Small signals that the seasons are changing. I saw a big-breasted robin sitting on a dogwood branch last week. Twig tips are showing tiny signs that they're not dead at all, and are getting ready to start pushing out buds & leaves. Nights don't get quite as cold. I can usually leave the gloves at home. The Evil Topcoat can hang in the closet more often, and I can take a lighter jacket some days. The anticipation of Spring is a feeling of hope.

The other thing I really like (which will change soon) is that the sun comes up so early in the morning. I'm usually out the door a little after six each morning, and the sky is brightening as I drive toward the city. As I have my quiet time with meditation & prayer, I can hear the birds waking up.

The days and evenings are pretty busy, but in the early morning the world is still quiet, and I take time to notice things around me. The paling moon bisected by a thin strand of cloud. Pure, bright sunlight streaming through the pine boughs.

It was a busy week on the phone at the office. A lot of calls from people in pain. Some calls were about relatives who are alcoholics; some calls were from alcoholics who are still suffering. I talk to them all, referring the relatives to Al-Anon, encouraging the others to start going to AA meetings. The disease of alcoholism sickens everyone it touches. Some will get into their own program of recovery, be it AA, Al-Anon, or another source. Many, though, will not be able to overcome the fear of making a change.

They don't realize it, but their calls make me grateful that I am in the middle of recovery. I hear the pain, bewilderment & fear, and I am so grateful that I was given a chance to climb out of that well of despair before my disease killed me. I was at the brink. The turning point became very clear to me.

A woman came up to me at the end of a meeting the other day. She is someone that I happened to talk to when she reached out for help last summer. "Do you have any idea how many lives you have touched with the work that you do?" she asked. I probably had a blank look on my face when I answered her honestly and said "No, I don't."

And that is how it should be. I cannot save anyone; I cannot keep anyone sober. I'm simply a tiny cog in a big wheel. My best moments come when, for example, I am listening to someone weeping, and I think "Lord, what do I say?" in all sincerity, seeking guidance. Then the right words come, when I am humbly asking for help instead of trying to go it alone. The best I result I can hope for is that through some words of hope and encouragement, sharing some personal experience, and a little humor I can reduce their fear and get that caller to a meeting. Because that's where the healing truly begins, and it doesn't matter whether I ever meet that person or talk to them again.

I worked in the office Saturday, and one of my visitors was a tall, handsome fellow named Jim. Saturdays are usually not as busy as weekdays, so he was able to sit for awhile and talk. As we were catching up on each other's lives, I reminded him that he was at the first AA meeting I attended, and he remembered how shattered I looked. This fellow had three DUI's and other alcohol-related offences before he finally came to AA. One time he was charged with "drunk in public" when he was in his own driveway. His life was going down the crapper, but he's doing very well now.

I reminded him that he put a meeting directory in my hand at that first AA meeting I attended.
"Really?" he said.
"Yes, and you made sure I saw all the phone numbers written in the back of the people who wanted to help me."

It gave him goosebumps. We're like that. We love to pass it on.

Sunset Cruise

I took the above picture one evening last week as the sun was setting over the International Deepwater Terminal at the Port of Richmond docks. It had been an unusually busy day at work, with people crowding the office and both phone lines ringing steadily. I looked forward all day to a sunset cruise on Sadie's boat.

One of the calls I got during the day was from a man who had contacted me previously. When he called in May, he had been sober about a month and was calling for information about AA meetings in his area. Tuesday he called again, now two months sober, and said he felt like he was losing his mind. He still hadn't been to a meeting, and was trying to figure out things on his own. He thought he would feel better after he stopped drinking, but instead he felt worse. I told him that I understood how he felt.

I had the same expectations when I stopped drinking, and the same results. For about three or four months, I went through a period of confusion, restlessness, and feeling as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Like the guy on the phone, I thought I'd instantly feel better as soon as I stopped drinking. Instead, my brain felt scrambled, and I could only string together about three hours of sleep at a time. I frustrated my friends and frightened small animals. My behavior was self-absorbed and erratic.

The meetings I attended regularly helped a great deal, but I knew that it would take time to smooth the rough edges. Talking daily to other people who had been through the same thing helped tremendously. I didn't feel like I was the last man on Earth. And I wasn't. Thousands of people had been through this before, and I was nobody special. It took awhile to stop taking myself so damned seriously.

I told the fellow on the phone that I would have someone in his area contact him. I called the same member, Miles, who had contacted the man for me in May. When Miles heard who was calling back for help he asked "Has he been to a meeting yet?"
"No, he's been flying solo."
Miles chuckled and said,"It's like going back to the doctor and saying 'Doc! My ass is still falling off!' and the doctor says 'Did you take that medicine I gave you?' 'Well, no...'
I'll call him again and tell him to come home to where we are."

But, that's how it is with most of us. We'd rather admit to robbing a bank or flying to Argentina to visit a mistress than stand up and say "I'm Bill, and I'm an alcoholic."

It was so pleasant to spend quiet time with friends on an evening river cruise. We took fried chicken, snacks and drinks. There was a nice breeze, and the air was cooler on the water. We talked and laughed, and enjoyed a gentle end to a busy day.

Here are some additional pictures for you to see.
First up is Captain Sadie at the helm, with Robespierre looking insouciant in the stern.


The Pocahontas Bridge spans the James south of Richmond.


Robespierre happily full of fried chicken and chocolate chip cookies.


The remains of the day settle over the historic James River...

How Fights Start

A friend sent me the following, so I thought I'd pass it along. I'd heard some of these before; you probably have, too. But, let's face it, your memory ain't what it used to be. By the way, where am I?

Oh, wait! Before I forget, a woman who recently started coming to the early morning meeting picked up a thirty-day chip today. For my Earth-people readers, most AA meetings give out tokens in recognition of consecutive days in sobriety. At my very first meeting, a guy picked up a thirty-day chip, and I wanted to be just like him. Experts are still trying to figure out how in the heck one-thousand nights can be crammed into those first thirty days. That's how it feels, anyway.

So, at the end of the meeting this woman comes up to me and says "You're the Bill who answers the phone line? I was hoping I'd meet you one day. Can I give you a hug?" Of course I said no. Are you kidding? I gave her a big hug and thanked her, and congratulated her on her thirty days. What a way to start my day!

I rarely meet the people I've talked to, so I was grateful to hear that she is doing well. She said she was scared when she called, but I was encouraging and humorous. Note to self: be that way on all calls, even when you're swamped. I know that when these folks call, the phone receiver seems to weigh one thousand pounds. It is so difficult to admit we need help.

When I got to work this morning, one of the first things on my list was making a deposit at the bank across the street. Unless I'm depositing a million dollars, which hasn't happened yet, I walk to the bank. Today, when I went out the front door, there was a hullabaloo in the street. An SUV was straddling the median, windows blown out, one tire flat, and had sustained quite a bit of body damage. Glass was all over the street, along with a prone traffic light pole. I guess someone was in a hurry to get to work this morning, but they had been hauled off, either to a hospital or jail.

Oh, I promised to share the information on how fights start. Here you go...

My wife sat down on the couch next to me as I was flipping channels. She asked, 'What's on TV?' I said, 'Dust.' And then the fight started...

My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming anniversary. She said, 'I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 150 in about 3 seconds.' I bought her a scale. And then the fight started...

After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security. The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later. The woman said, 'Unbutton your shirt'. So I opened my shirt revealing my curly silver hair. She said, 'That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me' and she processed my Social Security application. When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office. She said, 'You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten disability, too.' And then the fight started...

My wife and I were sitting at a table at my high school reunion, and I kept staring at a drunken lady swigging her drink as she sat alone at a nearby table. My wife asked, 'Do you know her? ''Yes,' I sighed, 'she’s my old girlfriend. I understand she took to drinking right after we split up those many years ago, and I hear she hasn't been sober since . ''My God!' says my wife, 'who would think a person could go on celebrating that long?' And then the fight started...

I took my wife to a restaurant. The waiter, for some reason, took my order first. "I'll have the strip steak, medium rare, please." He said, "Aren't you worried about the mad cow?" "Nah, she can order for herself." And then the fight started...

A woman is standing nude, looking in the bedroom mirror. She is not happy with what she sees and says to her husband, 'I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly. I really need you to pay me a compliment. 'The husband replies, 'Your eyesight's damn near perfect.' And then the fight started...

I asked my wife to buy a case of Miller Light for $14.95. Instead, she bought a jar of cold cream for $7.95. I told her the beer would make her look better at night than the cold cream. And then the fight started...

My wife asked me if a certain dress made her butt look big. I told her not as much as the dress she wore yesterday and then the fight started...

A man and a woman were asleep like two innocent babies. Suddenly, at 3 o'clock in the morning, a loud noise came from outside. The woman jumped up from the bed and yelled at the man 'Holy crap. That must be my husband!' So the man jumped out of the bed, scared & naked, and jumped out the window. He smashed himself on the ground, ran through a thorn bush and to his car as fast as he could go. A few minutes later he returned and went up to the bedroom and screamed at the woman, 'I AM your husband!' The woman yelled back, 'Yeah, then why were you running?' And then the fight started...

Saturday morning I got up early, quietly dressed, made my lunch, grabbed the dog, and slipped quietly into the garage. I hooked up the boat up to the truck, and proceeded to back out into a torrential downpour. The wind was blowing 50 mph, so I pulled back into the garage, turned on the radio, and discovered that the weather would be bad all day. I went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back into bed. I cuddled up to my wife's back, now with a different anticipation, and whispered, 'The weather out there is terrible.' My loving wife of 10 years replied, 'Can you believe my stupid husband is out fishing in that?' And then the fight started ...

I asked my wife, "Where do you want to go for our anniversary?" It warmed my heart to see her face melt in sweet appreciation. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested, "How about the kitchen ?" And that's when the fight started...

My wife and I were watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire while we were in bed. I turned to her and said, "Do you want to have sex?" "No," she answered. I then said, "Is that your final answer?" She didn't even look at me this time, simply saying "Yes." So I said, "Then I'd like to phone a friend." And that's when the fight started...

Update on the traffic light out front: when I escaped for lunch at 2:20 this afternoon, there was a new pole already in place. I'm surprised they were able to replace it so quickly.

A Fifth (of Beethoven)

The pace at work is slowing down a bit following the holidays. I had five consecutive days off at Christmas. At left is a picture of my desk when I returned. I wish. It never looks that tidy. My desk is covered with post-it notes: reminders of things to do, people to call, unfinished projects, and reports clamoring for attention. Add some standing files, fax machine, computer, phone, and other typical desk items, and I'm lucky to have a large free-standing wooden desk instead of a modern Dilbert arrangement. That little desk in the photo would never work.

I was on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride for a few weeks. There's one of me but two phone lines, which is usually very manageable, but when I'm juggling two distress calls and handling walk-in customers, it can be edgy. The day certainly flies by, though, so that's nice. I'm happy to be moving at a canter rather than a full gallop this week, and I can spend a little time on organization rather than SOS calls.

I'm wearing an orange hooded Champion sweatshirt today with khaki pants. Sheldon gave me a Target gift card for Christmas, and I took advantage of sale prices. I also bought a black flat-knit cotton cardigan with gray piping, and a new pair of sneakers. The sneakers were sorely needed; my old pair looked disgraceful, but the damned things refused to wear out. These new ones feel great, and have put a spring in my step.

Have you changed the way you feel about colors over the years? Orange used to be my least favored color, but now I love it. I don't have a favorite color, and what I like on a particular day may vary. Perhaps it depends on my mood. Some days I feel like wearing muted, monochromatic tones, but the next day I may choose an eye-popping palette.

Is it just me, or is anyone else interested in giving Barney Frank elocution lessons? I'm sure he's a smart guy, but he sounds like he's got a mouthful of marbles or mashed potatoes. Or both.

A woman called me today because of a friend who has a drinking problem. We talked for awhile, and the woman started crying and admitted she was calling for herself. Her friends & family are worried, because she just got out of the hospital. Her liver is in bad shape. It's the typical story of feeling guilty, remorseful, isolated, and bewildered because her willpower fails her. I told her that was because we have a disease, and that a frontal assault using willpower simply won't work...if she didn't believe me try willpower on a bad case of diarrhea. I said she didn't have to live this way any longer, and found a few meetings she could get to easily within the next couple of days. I usually don't give meeting information more than a couple of days out, because their disease will tell them to choose the latest available option and then try to talk them out of going to that one. I made her laugh, and I could hear a small spark of hope in her voice. She said she hoped she would meet me one day. I told her she probably would if she went to enough meetings. That may not happen, but it doesn't matter. She'll meet many people in the rooms who will love her and help her recover her health and sanity. It was a privilege to talk with her today; she helped me more than she knows.

Boy, do I need a haircut. Most people like my hair with some length to it, but it drives me crazy. Even though my hair is finely textured, it's like a pelt. Unless things change drastically, I won't go bald. My hair is unruly and curly, so it's easier to handle when it's cropped short. We've had several windy days, and when I go outside I end up with Beethoven Hair. Maybe I can get a haircut later this week or this weekend. Think of the money I'll save on shampoo.

A Trickle of Rain

"There was nothing separate about her days. Like drops on the window-pane, they ran together and trickled away."
- Dorothy Parker

That sums it up. Dorothy Parker describes quite well what my life was like in the last year or more of my drinking career. Each night when I crawled into bed I promised myself that I would eat something when I awakened. At best, I would sleep fitfully for a few hours, and the cycle would begin again, just like the days stretching behind me like a red carpet to Hell.

When I woke up, it wasn't long before the shaking started. Then I would vomit. This happened every morning, and it would come on so suddenly that I started keeping the kitchen trash can right in front of my chair in the den. The vomitus was black as pitch; my body was expelling a bellyful of putrified blood that had collected in my stomach while I slept.

All thoughts of eating were wiped out of my mind. The only thing that would stop the violent tremors that wracked my body was another drink. It seemed like the only solution at that moment, even though I knew it was killing me. I couldn't see any way out.

I'm sad, and a little angry this evening. This morning, when I answered the local AA phone line, I got a call from a man who was reaching out for help. He was at the end of his rope. After twelve years of sobriety, he started drinking again last June. He thought he had his problem licked. Now, at the beginning of 2009, he cannot stop drinking.

Last night, he went out to his shed to look for a hose he could connect to the exhaust pipe of his car. Only the worry of what would become of his dog kept him from finishing the job. I told him that, although suicide was an option, it was also a permanent solution for a temporary problem. I told him I knew how it felt to feel hopeless, to dread the brightening sky at the end of each night and think "Oh, please, not another day. Not another day."

From the way he answered my questions, I knew he was in the danger zone. His pattern of long-term constant drinking meant that withdrawal from alcohol must be medically managed. Without treatment, alcohol withdrawal syndrome can be fatal. The mortality rate is 35% if untreated, and drops to 5-15% if treated early. Complicating his situation is the problem of his relapse after a period of sobriety. Alcohol withdrawal symptoms can increase in severity following each relapse. This phenomenon is called kindling, and frequently leads to full-blown delirium tremens, seizures, and heart failure or stroke.

After spending time with him, assuring him that he could get better, that help was available, and that he could start enjoying life again by getting help, I got busy calling people. I found a man who wanted to help. He took our fellow to the emergency room nearby. And that's where things went downhill.

Our helper spent hours in the emergency room with our man, waiting for a doctor. Meanwhile, our fellow starts craving another drink. His heart is racing and his blood pressure is very high. He is disoriented, and wants to go home. He is hooked to an IV, so at least he is getting some good fluids.

And finally the doctor comes in. He tells our guy that he is drinking too much, and needs to stop. And that he is wasting his time. And he sends him home.

And that is why I am sad, and more than a little mad this evening.

An American Tragedy

see more pwn and owned pictures

I hope none of my readers has killed anyone in their zeal to find Christmas gifts this year. Can you believe that story about the Walmart greeter getting trampled to death? I can't say I was surprised, but I certainly was disgusted. Someone told me that the remaining crowd was angry that they couldn't get inside to shop, and had to be told "No. You've already killed someone. We're closed."

I avoid that store unless I have a very compelling reason to be there. My cousin in Iowa sent me an idea recently that I'll share just in case you must shop at Walmart in the near future. It's Walmart Bingo, but you'll have to make your own game cards because I'm not clever enough to copy it from her e-mail message to this post. Here are the things that go on your Bingo card:

• child without shoes
• woman with hair curlers
• someone with an eye patch
• "rat tail" hair style
• obese person using scooter
• Rebel flag tee-shirt
• white girl with 3+ multi-racial children
• someone using an oxygen mask
• kid riding a bike in store
• frozen food item left to melt in random aisle
• dirt diaper left in parking lot
• someone using a voice box
• (free space) person oblivious to the fact that they are in your way
• bearded woman
• teardrop tattoo
• child over 5 drinking from baby bottle
• someone buying beer and diapers
• entire family wearing NASCAR apparel
• man under 30 with no teeth
• somone missing a limb
• someone giving away kittens
• someone with puke or blood on their clothes
• unattended crying children
• pregnant woman with visible "tramp stamp" tattoo
• someone with unbearable body odor

I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet. I'll probably do most of it on the Internet. Some folks enjoy the holiday crowds, but I'd rather eat ground glass. I'm the new Scrooge.

On a lighter note, I took my first ever Yoga lesson today. It was very enjoyable and relaxing. I'll probably wake up sore tomorrow, but I'm looking forward to the next lesson. It's too good of a deal to pass up because there's no charge. My sponsor is a Yoga instructor and a Feldenkrais healer, and he is giving free lessons prior to our Saturday morning AA meeting. Sweet!

Car and Driver

Four people who didn't know each other very well were talking at a party. Jason, who had recently obtained a new car, was telling the others about how much he liked it. He had never had a car before, and was excited about his new sense of freedom. He described how his car did things for him that he hadn't even known it could do when he got it. To hear Jason talk, you'd think he was the first person on the planet to drive a car.

Mary listened to Jason, and thought about her own car. She had had it quite awhile, and as far as she was concerned she planned to keep it. Although she didn't speak of her car - she just let Jason talk - she reflected to herself about how safe and comfortable her vehicle made her feel. Even though it had a lot of miles on it, it seemed as good as new to Mary. She was very content, but Mary didn't try to talk anyone into driving a car like hers.

Sam hung on Jason's every word. He was driving a car that belonged to his parents, but had secretly been thinking of giving it back to them, and making his own choice. He knew this would cause a ruckus, especially with his dad, who always thought he knew what was best for Sam. The truth was that his parents' car just didn't have the right feel to it, but he hated to cause trouble in his family. Sam wondered whether Jason's car would be a good choice for him.

Bruce was irritated as he listened to Jason talk about his damned car. Bruce didn't think anyone needed a car, and he always got edgy when the topic came up. He had been injured in a collision between two vehicles when he was young, and had been a loud opponent of them ever since. It angered him to hear how easily car owners went places he could only reach with a struggle. Having had enough of the conversation, Bruce left the party in a huff.

Now read this vignette again, replacing the car with whatever you call your Higher Power.

Earlier this week, I had the duty of answering our local AA Hotline. I got a call from a fellow who said he needed help with his drinking problem. He wanted me to find a meeting near him. I told him about a few, and he asked "what kind of meetings" they were. I explained that one was a speaker meeting, another a discussion meeting, anf the third was a book study. He said he wouldn't go to the book study because they would talk about God.

Hmmm, I thought. It's actually likely that the word God would come up in any or all meetings at least once. Although he had said he had not been to a meeting, I asked him again if he had been to AA before. He admitted that he had several years ago, but couldn't deal with the "God stuff."

I reflected that I had felt the same way when I first went to AA. I was, however, in such despair that I went anyway. I had tried to quit drinking on my own with no success, and the progressive nature of the disease had brought me so close to death that I was willing to try anything. I figured I'd just go see what AA had to offer, and I'd deal with the "religious crap" somehow. Oddly enough, it wasn't a problem at all since AA's steps are presented as suggestions, and you work through things at your own pace. I was also relieved to discover that no one in the program tried to define what my Higher Power should look like.

The best thing I could think of to tell this fellow was based on my own experience with getting sober. I told him that I knew how he felt, that I had felt the same way, and that the steps in the program were suggestions for recovery, not commands. I explained a little bit about what life was like before I got sober; the promises to myself that I would not drink the next day, and the compulsion that drove me back to the bottle each new morning. The awful realization that I could not stop on my own. My fears about my future, and the near certainty of death.

Here's how I reasoned it out, I told him. I finally had to admit to myself that I could not stop drinking. This made me powerless over alcohol. Therefore, alcohol was my higher power. This was, frankly, too screwed up to endure. So I gave in and turned to AA. I went in with an open mind and complete willingness. I let go of my fears and relaxed, and that's all I needed to do. I advised him he could take or leave whatever he heard, but he should go to a meeting since he'd had the courage to pick up the thousand pound phone to call AA. This seemed to make sense to him.

I hope he went to a meeting. I rarely know what happens to people after I answer the hotline. I do my best, and then I must let it go. Sometimes I do see them in meetings, or I will hear about them from others in the program. Alcoholism is cunning, baffling, and powerful; it will use our fears of appearing weak to others, our fears of religion, our fears of losing relationships, and our fear of change to prevent us from getting help. Sadly, the noise of those fears keeps many from getting the help they need.

Never Argue with a Drunk Person

Yesterday morning I put on my Good Deed Hat, hopped on my unicycle*, and went to our local AA Intergroup office. Nancy, the lone office employee, had a pre-paid vacation that she would lose if she couldn't get the time off, and she ran into an unexpected snag. The two people who normally fill in for Nancy were not available; one had recent surgery, and the other is out of the state. Nancy works like a dog, and I hated the thought of her missing her vacation and losing that money, so I volunteered along with others to help her out.


The Intergroup office is in a blocky old building that was built, I'd guess, in the late 1950's. It's all right-angles and long hallways. The only curved parts of the building that I've discovered are the toilet seats, and they are concealed from view by right-angled Sany-Metal partitions. As I was telling Scott, everytime I walk down the hall to the Intergroup office I feel like Jonathan Pryce in the 80's film Brazil.


This office building would have tumbleweeds rolling around the lobby on Saturdays, but since they are round they are banned. I pasted the how-to-get-into-the-building sign on the main entrance, went up the elevator to the sixth floor, visited the curved element in the men's room, and unlocked the Intergroup office. I woke up the hamster that lives in the office computer and got him running on his wheel, took the 24-hour hotline off the night service, and hung the reassuring We're Open! sign on the door. I was prepared for a busy day.

Tick.

Tock.


Tick.



Tock.



I got a few phone calls, but no customers for awhile. The Intergroup office, in addition to administrative chores, stocks books & literature, newsletters, sobriety chips and medallions, jewelry, cult-wear robes, magic wands, and blueprints for Druidic circles for AA members and groups. I bought a book and was reading it when the phone rang.


Here's something I've learned. If someone wants to get sober more than anything else, they will get sober. If someone wants to drink more than anything else, they will drink. Either way, no obstacle will stand in their way if it is something they really want. My caller was a 66-year-old man in Williamsburg. He was afraid he was going to go to the liquor store. He had been sober and relapsed many times. He had lost his wife because of drinking. He was a retired military man and war veteran.


How old was I? Good, he didn't like calling and getting a young person.

How long had I been sober? Good, he didn't like talking to people who got sober the day after the Lord's Last Supper.

Blah blah blah blah blah. It soon became obvious that this man just wanted to talk. Loneliness is a big problem for many active alcoholics, and no wonder. When you act like an asshole, people tend to disengage. I kept steering the conversation back to his problem with alcohol, because on Saturdays the only way a client can get into the building is by calling me from outside and getting me to buzz them in. I asked Mr. Williamsburg if he was looking for a meeting. He was, but not in Williamsburg, because everyone went to the meetings drunk. I had a feeling that everyone meant him.


I suggested a meeting in Richmond, and gave him the directions, telling him that it was at the corner of Monument and Staples Mill. He told me there was no such intersection. I assured him that there was. He said that Staples Mill ended at another street. I told him that I was sure it didn't, because I went to this meeting five days a week. I thought we had settled this, and that he could find the meeting with confidence.


But no, he had to go back there: If you would look a a topographical map, you would see that Staples Mill does not extend to Monument. Well, dang, I must have been driving through peoples' yards for the past year.


"I'll tell you what. You come to the meeting at 4819 Monument Avenue tomorrow, and I'll show you," I replied. He hung up.


It's probably a good thing he did, because Nancy doesn't take any crap on the phone, and I won't either. I try to exert restraint of tongue, so I wouldn't have said anything more than "I understand. I always had to be right, also. But then I realized that I'm human, so I can't always be right, and thinking that I could always be right and then getting frustrated helped me keep drinking." The restraint of tongue would have been not adding "I'll bet these are the kind of stupid arguments you started with your ex-wife, and that's why you're alone now." He probably hung up the phone and made a beeline for the ABC store, thinking "AA is nothing but assholes." As I said, if someone wants to drink, they will drink. At least I got a rueful chuckle, and he got the excuse he needed to drink.


He will drink because it's a bad day. He will drink because it's a good day. He will drink because he is angry or sad, happy or depressed, it's rainy or sunny or windy & cold. Because his wife left him/dog died/truck broke down or his dog left him/truck died/wife broke down. He will seize on any excuse to drink, and blame everyone else for every problem in life as he raises the bottle to his lips. I know this from personal experience.


I am sober today because I want to be sober.


During my morning visits today I found an interesting meme on Lemuel's blog. Here's how it works:

1. Pick up the nearest book (at least 123 pages).
2. Turn to page 123.
3. Find the 5th sentence
4. Post the 5th sentence.
5. Tag 5 people. (I'm not tagging anyone. Do this if it sounds fun to you.)


Okay, can you believe the the first three books I picked up didn't have 123 pages? Maybe it's time for me to put the Dick & Jane books away. Then I tried my mother's 1963 diary. No page numbers, and I didn't feel like doing even simple math. Then I found this:

We would not believe that our adult dreams were often truly childish.

That's from Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, a staple of the Alcoholics Anonymous literature.


* If anyone believes that I really hopped on a unicycle, jump up and grab a thermometer immediately. You may be running a dangerously high temperature. I did long for a unicycle when I was a boy, but my mother would have none of that nonsense. She hated spending time in doctors' waiting rooms when she could be ironing clothes or scrubbing a bathroom floor.

Sunrise Squared

I was out of touch with the Land-o-Blog for a few days while I was out of town. I had the duty and the privilege to represent my main-squeeze AA group at a state assembly, and about 400 recovering alcoholics were gathered together in Virginia Beach for three days. We stayed at the Cavalier.


The Cavalier Hotel opened in 1927, and now consists of two hotels. The original hotel, also known as the Cavalier on the Hill, is only open during high season. The newer hotel, opened in 1973, is directly across from the old hotel and situated right on the beachfront. Our assembly was held at the newer complex, which houses the convention center. As a child growing up in Virginia Beach, the old Cavalier was a grand structure looking out to the sea, even though she was showing signs of wear and tear at that time. I'm glad that the old hotel has been refurbished and maintained. It is the city's only grand old hotel.


This gathering was the first state assembly I have attended, and I was gratified the see how each person focused on the volume of work we needed to accomplish in a short amount of time. Visions of the political posturing, grandstanding, and self-promotion I have endured at so many corporate conventions in the past faded away as I participated in the workshops, committee meetings, and business session. Everyone there, although opinions on methods varied, rolled up sleeves to keep the worldwide organization of Alcoholics Anonymous a vital source of recovery for alcoholics who still suffer. We stayed busy from early morning until late at night.


On Saturday and Sunday, I hopped out of bed and walked out to the beach. I wanted to spend time alone preparing for the bustling activities ahead. For me, seeing the sun rise over the ocean waters is a calming, spiritual event. Even as a teenager, when getting up early meant before lunchtime, my friends and I would sometimes pile in the car and go watch the sun come up from the sands of the shore.


Each sunrise is unique. On Saturday, the horizon was clearly delineated by ocean and sky. Strands of wispy clouds hung above the horizon, and although the sun had not yet appeared from my little point on the globe, these clouds were already suffused with colors of lavender and pink. In my experience, if the horizon is clear at the ocean, when the sun first breaks you can actually see it rise. Steady and sedate, it rose, and I said the Saint Francis Prayer as the sun burned crimson. I was prepared for the day ahead.


I visited the sea before I went to bed. At night, the steady pulse of the waves dominates, simultaneously reminding me of the passage of time and the possibility of timelessness. Several blocks away, the nightly throb of humanity hummed in the heart of the resort area, but the Cavalier is the last large building at the north end of the hotel district. The boardwalk does not come up this far, and there are no bright lights. I think this is the best way to experience the beach at night.


Sunday's sunrise was different than the one I watched the previous day. There was a low, opaque, crenelated line of clouds that stretched across the horizon. The sun sent up four beams of cornsilk, telling me to be patient, to wait and watch. The sand was crossed with patterns from strolling gulls and sandpipers, and the breeze from the sea was a better tonic than the coffee from the hospitality suite. This morning, when the sun broke over the clouds, it was white-gold, and too intense for direct inspection. The pale purple clouds were edged with bands of gold along their tops. Another day begun with prayer and meditation.


A special gift for me on Sunday morning was a visit from one of my teachers from high school, Linda. More than just a teacher, she has been a friend and mentor for all these years. She had an enormous impact on my life at a time when I was shy and uncertain, and she built my confidence and my abilities in public speaking. Although our time together was shorter than we would have liked, it was splendid to see her, and we enjoyed a quiet breakfast together at the hotel. She had asked me to bring my laptop along, and after we ate she showed me a slide show she had assembled from our time at Bayside High School. My, how young and full of hope I looked back then!


Today, I am no longer young, but I am once again filled with hope. I hope you are, too.

The Merry-Go-Round

When I was in high school, my friend Brenda and I went to one of those carnivals in a shopping mall parking lot that unfold overnight out of suitcases. We roamed around admiring the carnival workers with their interesting attire, and rode several rides. After a while we ended up on The Octopus, which spun around at a dizzying speed while its arms flailed about. We were in our own pod at the end of an arm. It was great fun, and the carny operator, feeling magnanimous, shouted out an invitation for us to take another turn for free if we liked.

We did like, and we said so with enthusiasm. Here is where I should tell you that I had recently enjoyed a grilled steak, baked potato, and home-grown salad from Dad's garden before embarking for the glitter of the carnival. My stomach was already rumbling during the first spin, but we were whirled off on another round before it could shout "NO" to the nice man's invitation. After all, who in their right mind would turn down a free offer at an enterprise that was designed to turn you on your heels and shake all the silver out of your pockets?

Well, you know what happened, so I won't go into details. Brenda exited our soiled pod covered in my dinner, and the carnival man was disgusted at being repaid for his largess with a nasty clean-up chore. Brenda & I tucked our tails between our legs and headed home post-haste.

I don't remember whether we rode the merry-go-round. If it was an all-inclusive ticket we may have, but if it was a pay-as-you-ride establishment we probably passed it by. Personally, I think merry-go-rounds are fairly dull. They look pretty, and they are certainly iconic, but most of the riders' faces you see rotate past look a little bored. No wonder, all you do is go around and around to that loopy music, and most of the horsies don't even go up and down.

I ought to know, I spent several years on a merry-go-round with a gin bottle in my hand. It looked like it would be great fun, and it was for a while. The lights were bright, the horses were painted prettily, and the music was peppy. I paid a high price for the ticket, but I was told it could be a life-long ride of fun. I chose a horse named Tanqueray. We went around and around.

And around and around and around and around and around.

My mare, which had looked so elegant from a distance, showed peeling paint when I looked at her closely. The canopy of bright lights had bulbs that were burning out. And, God help me, that music that had sounded so enticing at first would drive anyone insane. Why hadn't I noticed that it was an endless loop of the same melody playing over and over? The strongest mind would be driven mad after a while. I looked around me, but none of the other horses were in any better shape, there was no brighter spot on the ride, and that damned music was inescapable. My fellow riders wore glazed expressions of hopelessness. We were on the same ride, but we were each all alone.

That lifetime ticket looked less like a bargain and more like a sentence. I finally decided to jump off this crazy ride. This was scary, because the merry-go-round was turning faster than when I first got in the saddle. I ducked and rolled, and I crawled away bleeding and bruised. A crowd gathered around me, and someone pressed a white chip in my palm - a token for a new ride.

So I climbed on the roller-coaster, and off I went. There was a slow, steady ascent, and I could see all over the park. People were laughing and having fun. They were eating corn dogs and cotton candy, and playing games of chance. The breeze felt good on my face. I closed my eyes and relaxed.

And then came a gut-wrenching plummet, and I held on for dear life. With a whoosh I was up again. It was exhilarating! My fellow riders screamed with joy, and I suddenly realized that I was screaming along with them! I thought I had lost my voice back on that boring merry-go-round, but we were all looking at each other, wild-eyed with amazement, as we careened around curves. What was next? The anticipation could be a little scary, but this was living! We saluted each other when we survived the plummets, because we knew we would be lifted up again.

We also knew that we would leave this wild ride after a time to wander through the rest of the carnival. There was so much more to experience, and although the excitement level might be a notch lower on the ground, it would be even more fulfilling. The activities to experience were endless, and there were so many people to meet and have fun with.

We also knew, because we pledged this to each other as we neared the end of the roller-coaster ride, that a time would come when we would gather together at the edge of the merry-go-round. We would wait for the next desperate riders to leap off, and we would gather around them. We would lift them up and dust them off.

And some of us would reach in our pockets for a token, and press it in their bruised palms for a ride on the roller-coaster. We would all pray that they would take that ride. We knew what a trap the once-seductive merry-go-round truly was, and we were grateful that others were there when we finally jumped off in search of something better.

My thanks go out to Betsy for inspiring these musings.