My Own Private 9-11

I imagine there are few people over a certain age who do not know something about the horrible events of the September 11, 2001 attacks by al-Qaeda against the United States. The four coordinated suicide attacks on that Tuesday morning were shocking, devastating and resulted in many changes to the routine ways in which some things are conducted in the U.S. and throughout the world. I am not a good enough wordsmith to add anything cogent to the millions of words already written about the horrors. I don't have a photo or film clip to present. I was nowhere near any of the individual events. I was distracted that day. I had to learn much of what I know about 9-11 by reading and discovering long after the fact. For I, too, had been focusing on the 9-11-01 square on the calendar for some time. I had personal business to conduct on that day.

I was downstairs chatting distractedly with Ex, making the coffee, even though I would not be allowed to drink any that morning. That seems odd now - that little snippet. He was perfectly adept in the kitchen, by now acting as menu maker, shopper and cook. Why I, coffee hound, was messing with the makings when it was denied me is unclear. Likely I had insisted. I needed to keep my hands busy while my head spun out of control.  Amber came down the stairs with an odd look on her face. While getting ready for school, she'd seen the first news bulletins on TV. She didn't fully comprehend what was happening (who did?), but she knew she should likely say something. "You know those twin buildings in New York? You guys better turn on the TV." We did so, and I have a sense of us staring like two slack-jaws at the screen, comprehending no part of what we were seeing. At the time we switched on the set, all eyes were on New York. Then the Pentagon was hit.

I knew my mother would be preparing and drinking her coffee in the north county, and I knew there was no chance she'd partake of news delivered by any media. She is a TV-phobe, not very interested in hearing about anything remotely resembling news. She likes floating around in her own world and her own head. She would soon join Ex and me at a hospital, for I was to have surgery that day and we'd all made careful plans to support me and to support Amber so she could have as normal a day as possible. Nevertheless, we felt Mom should be told what was going on. She can't always be allowed to float along in a bubble. "Mom, dust off the TV and turn it on. I think we may be at war." She asked a good question, given the hour: "With whom?" I didn't know. Anxiety was creeping up on me. I already had a good sense of fear and dread going on. I didn't have much fiber left with which to deal with the attacks. "Just turn it on, Mom. We'll both be available on cell phone. Please take yours out of your purse and turn it on. We're going to the hospital as planned."

Amber had seen and heard enough. She'd been offered some options for her day. She'd landed on going to school as usual and walking afterwards to Aunt Becky's. Her dad would pick her up for dinner and they'd come to see me in the hospital after their meal. She'd been made to understand Mom wouldn't be very frisky and they'd only stay a few minutes, just so she could see I'd come through surgery and now was on the other side. The breaking news distressed her - she was 11 - and now she wanted to simply spend the entire day with Aunt Becky. We actually preferred that. We wanted her in one known place rather than two places with a solo walk in between. Oh, yes, it was Lemon Grove. On her walk, she'd pass the homes of a few different relatives in a 6-block walk, but we still favored her being in one location with a person we trusted 100% to make good decisions.

Amber and I had had a Mom-Daughter sleep-together the night before, bunking in her waterbed playing music we both loved, talking as needed. I don't believe our hands ever ungrasped, even through the sleeping hours. We woke from time to time, both crying. We were scared. We were a well-counseled family, the bulk of that bestowed on me, a bit less on Ex and a sanitized version applied to Amber, appropriate to her age and understanding. Even my mother had been let in for a little bit of preparation. For this surgery was going to drastically change me, and - therefore - everyone close to me, everything I did, everywhere I went, everything I thought, felt and emanated. We were in for some change. I was 49 years of age. I was very reliable and predictable. Good old Les. A rock. The one you could count upon to remain steadfast. I wasn't known for changing up anything in any way.

At the hospital, I was ensconced in the corral where pre-surgical patients wait together in their anxiety and misery. The staff members were clearly distracted, patients' families gathering in front of TVs in the various waiting rooms. I heard one woman make a tart comment to her companion: "Hey, I'm having surgery. Can I get a little attention here?" Though my procedure was scheduled for the afternoon, I reported at 7:00 a.m. and was given an IV. This caused me to need the bathroom 2 or 3 times an hour, dragging my little pull-along contraption with me. I remember feeling absolutely frozen, begging warmed blankets which were produced repeatedly with a smile. Between them, Ex and my mother managed to both keep me company and monitor the news. And finally I went from the corral to the chute. "Bye, Mom. Bye, Ex. See you on the other side." In the chute, my hair was covered, I got a light sedative in my IV (odd, because I'd toughed out many hours without sedation and now I was about to go completely under, but sedate me they did). The nurses there were also distracted, chatting among themselves. One commented on a grisly TV scene wherein body parts could be seen on the roof of a New York building. I didn't think much of that in my sedated state, but she apologized to me for being too graphic. And suddenly, "he" was there.

By pure happenstance, one of the world's recognized front runners practiced his specialty at his clinic and at the hospital 5 miles from my home. I was - once again - the chosen one, the lucky child, to be in his care. I was his third surgery of the day. "Do you know what's happening in the world today or have you been too busy to hear it?" He said he knew about the attacks. "Are you distracted in any way?" He said he was good to go. "OK, then I am, too. I have an 11-year-old who is relying on you to be as expert as you are." He promised to do his best. I suffered a few slight indignities in the operating room, such as meeting the crew that would film my surgery. And then I was mercifully removed from consciousness.

I have said many times in writing that I have suffered more than one addiction. My surgery was to help me with but one of those. I walked into Alvarado Hospital that morning weighing 340 pounds. I'd been gaining toward that peak for many, many years. Though I had managed such things as a successful career, a pregnancy and childbirth, international travel and many more of life's most wonderful gifts, I was now beaten down with nowhere else to turn. I'd tried every reasonable remedy but I'd succeeded in nearly destroying myself. My surgery was Roux-en-Y gastric bypass, the hard way. I was not a candidate for the less invasive laparoscopic procedure. It would color everything that came afterward. Not all outcomes have been joyous. Amber calls 9-11-01 the day she lost her mother. That is an enormous and powerful statement she means completely. My truth is that this was the first enormous gift I gave myself in order to find myself. The 10-year journey has been one of tremendous highs and a few deep lows, those not directly related to the surgery or its results. I wouldn't change a thing. The enormity of the impact of all of my changes cannot possibly be expressed in one blog post. I will continue to write about them, though. I have wanted to write of this for a very long time, as it is such a deeply integral part of the me of today. And - there - now I have done so.

A few things I know: there are enough of "us" now that we know 5 years post-surgery, 80% of us have gained back 50% of our excess weight. I am not one of those. Knowing what my skeleton, blood, muscle and other parts should weigh, I was given a number that - if I reached it - I should accept with good grace and call it a day. I weigh 35 pounds less than that number, without ever once taking extraordinary steps to cause more weight loss. I know about infections and torn staples and all the other horror stories. I read the same news reports you do. I just haven't suffered any of them. I know "they" were right to counsel us about the number one side effect: broken relationships of all kinds. Though Ex and I had been together 30 years and scoffed at the notion my surgery would break us apart, the marriage collapsed in 13 months. I know that not everyone is happy for a person who finds her way out of a terrible trap. Mostly people want things to remain the same. For most of us, profound change is too difficult to contemplate.  Good old Les. She changed everything in one fell swoop.

On the Glorious 4th, A Story of Some Americans

I moved to Las Vegas 35 years ago today. My god. Oh, certainly, I went away for about 22 years between that first residency and the current one, but it can't be denied that I have a long history here. I don't care for the place much. Not the first time and not now. Yet, recently, when a friend commented that I have the luxury of portable income and would I consider relocating somewhere that more suited me, I pondered that and said, "No, I don't think so. Not now."

Last evening I went to a birthday gathering at a local restaurant. I was not enthusiastic about any part of this enterprise. Unlike my old, drinking self, however, I worked out my resentments ahead of time and was able to arrive with a smile, a gift in hand, an appetite and a readiness to enjoy whatever came my way. I was seated so that I could see out through the broad expanse of plate glass windows, looking south. Earlier this week, running errands on various days, I noticed cloud formations that made me realize the monsoon will soon be upon us, that cloudy, humid stretch that mingles with the 100+-degree days just to make summer fairly insufferable. Yes, the storms do ease the humidity for a few minutes. Oh, we get booming thunderstorms with remarkable shows of lightning and sometimes serious flooding in the streets. Our valley is shaped like a large bowl lying on its side. I live on the downside where all liquid ends up when too much of it is applied to the desert floor. Sitting at the table in the diner, I saw the clouds finally form something serious after teasing us all day. I'd been hit with 7 or so raindrops on my windshield earlier - just enough to annoy. The winds kicked up and a few splats hit the windows. "Storm coming," everyone muttered. And then it began in earnest.

Leaving the eatery, running through actual rain now, I grinned at my friend, "You don't want to see me in a rainstorm, Girlie. All that crap I use to give my hair that just-rolled-out-of-the-sack look starts running down my forehead and neck. It's pretty bad!" We laughed, leaped gratefully into our chariot and I drove us into the mouth of hell. The storm got worse by the minute, the road and the sky taking on the same color, water hammering us. The gutters and storm drains were immediately overtaxed, deep water snaking across all lanes of the boulevard. The windshield wipers did little to improve conditions and I observed, "I can't see shit." "I noticed that," Jenn replied. I toyed with the notion of pulling over, but I feared we would be washed downstream. "Keep moving, slowly, with lights," is the advice I've always been given. We became awfully quiet for a duo as communicative as we usually are together and I finally deposited her in her driveway, watching her run up the hill with her go-box from the party and her Bath & Body Works haul we'd made earlier. "Text me when you get home. I don't mean to sound like your mother!," she hollered. "Will do!"

"Well, driving uphill ought to be better," I foolishly surmised. "And it's only 3 miles." Yow. I have never maneuvered a car or anything else through such conditions. The sidespray, when I finally thought "screw it" and drove right down the middle of the road, shot high above the roof of the car. Chunks of tree limbs washed up onto the hood, the wipers yelped "Uncle!" and I was pretty concerned about the evident strain of the monster mobile to work uphill against the torrent. As I passed through intersections, the screaming wind T-boned me, actually causing the car to sway. Had I been in my Nissan, I may have ended up in a ditch. I remembered that July of 1976, which was also tremendously stormy. It had taken Ex about a week to make friends to join in the bars at night, so I was home alone quite a lot. Once, at 2:00 a.m., I called my mother to come and collect me, terrified at the thunderstorm that shook the timbers of our home. I was 23. The memories washed over me now. With my most recent progress in AA, the continual working of my program, I have had some pleasant and poignant recollections about him and I've even managed some forgiveness for Ex.

In connection with a project I've recently embraced, I have been doing some research. The general subject is acceptance of racial and ethnic diversity which leads, often, to stories about past discrimination and bad treatment of some classes of human beings.This is material that draws me, deeply. I was appalled to learn that I am nearly completely ignorant about the struggles of some of the world's populace. Oh, I grew up in that O'Farrell clan hearing about the oppression of the Irish by the British and I certainly didn't miss any of the U.S. Civil Rights movement that played out right under my nose during my teens and early adulthood. Beyond our borders, though, I am unschooled. But there is a group of indigenous people I have learned about - just a little.

When Ex and I were very young and had just set up housekeeping, I began - at his request - weekly letter-writing with his grandmother on the reservation in Sacaton, Arizona. Ex's parents were young and modern-minded Pima Indians who worked hard to get off the reservation, and though their life was not good in the mean streets of L.A., at least they were "off". Those of us who are not natives and are not induced to live on a reservation, even if no longer forced, may not understand the drive to "get off". Ex and his siblings had never visited Arizona and knew little about their culture. They did know they were full-blooded Indians and that made them rare, if not "special". They'd all grown up being mistaken for Mexican, very common in southern California, and saying to people, apologetically, "Sorry, I don't speak Spanish." I learned from the encyclopedia and shared with Ex that his people were the Akimel O'odham, "river people", who subsisted by farming, hunting and gathering, though they are largely know for their expertise in textiles and for the production of intricately beautiful hand-woven baskets and woven cloth. It is thought the name "Pima" came from the natives' frequent invocation "pi mac" to European settlers. "Pi mac" means "I don't know". They didn't understand the language of the "visitors".

Ex knew that, though tiny, his tribe had a hero to brag about - one Ira Hayes. Hayes was born in Sacaton in 1923 and was said to be a shy, sensitive and quiet young man - almost "distant" - who read at a very young age and easily mastered the English language that escaped many of the Pima. After Pearl Harbor was bombed in 1941, Ira set his sights on becoming a United States Marine. After the War, the much-decorated corporal was often portrayed in art and film, for he became an American icon on Iwo Jima when he and 5 other Marines planted the U.S. flag atop Mt. Suribachi on February 23, 1945. His return to civilian life, though he was revered and much-celebrated, was troubled.  Asked by a reporter how he liked the pomp and circumstance after President Eisenhower declared Hayes a hero, he hung his head and said, "I don't." Attempting to return to a normal civilian life, Hayes racked up 52 arrests for public drunkenness and spoke often of his "good buddies who were better men and wouldn't be returning". He  was found dead, choked on his own blood and vomit in January, 1955. He had just turned 32, and died of alcoholism and exposure.









I knew a bit about the Ira Hayes story, and had seen pictures of him, but researching last week, I saw a photo that took my breath away. It would seem to be the type of picture taken when a recruit graduates from boot camp. I'd never seen this photo before. It looks so much like Ex at a similar age that I burst into tears and they slid slowly down my face for a long, long time. Ira lacks only the long braids worn by the young man in 1971. Ex wanted to enter the Marines like his tribal and American hero. I was a war protester and convinced him otherwise. Today, just for today, I am rethinking that. Maybe . . . Despite their physical resemblance, Ex was not related to Ira Hayes, as far as we know. If the family had any claim to those bragging rights, I'm sure we would have heard it at some time. Nevertheless, in a population so tiny that six degrees of separation is likely reduced to two degrees, I am reflecting today on some of the tragedy and pathos that befell these two men who tried to assimilate and never completely succeeded, despite their mighty efforts.

I asked Ex early in our time together why his last name (which would also become mine) was so English-sounding. He had been taught that if one's name looked something like this "daghim 'o 'ab wu:sañhim"   and you were the census taker on the newly established reservation, you might also say, "Yep, sounds like Smith to me."  Would the reader join me in a tip of the hat to some Americans who may not seem so very American?

In my ears right now and I'd be pleased if it was in your ears, too:



Blog post dedicated to the memory of Anthony Curtis Goodwin

Learn From Yesterday

I'm dreamy-like. Kind of moony. In my head a lot. I am focused more on the past, both good and bad, than present. Perhaps this is because I've been actively working on "what's next" in my life. Having the past to retreat to is soft and gentle, or at least familiar, when I need that. I don't feel completely capable of moving myself along.

Apropos of absolutely nothing:

"You aren't very demanding. You don't ask for much."

She didn't reveal she'd given that up in vain long ago.

Last night we went out for Chinese food, a treat because I've had no one with which to share that particular cuisine in awhile. It was good food and I loaded up my plate like a greedy pig. I can only plead, "Yeah, but this will feed me four meals for the cost of one moderately priced dinner." We sat as far as possible across the restaurant from the family with the, ummm . . . , energetic young children, none of whom will have to worry about being heard if they ever have to holler for help in an emergency. As we sat dining, I got rather dreamy, viewing snippets from a past life, and I'm not sure what triggered that. The tastes?  The smells? What, doesn't everyone go into a reverie with the fragrance of Beijing Beef?

Amber was 2 1/2 that summer. We'd learned in the previous February that Ex had ruined himself with drink. He wasn't expected to live until Christmas. He lived, dying, for 18 more years.  There weren't very many pleasant moments during that time for him. I had the job that defied every description - time commitment, stress, pay, health benefits, travel, fulfillment of every sort. Now I was afraid to go to that job. What if Ex fell ill while driving Amber to daycare or passed out while taking care of her at home?  I sometimes left at 5:00 a.m. and didn't get home until midnight. Who would know if they were in trouble?

The finest case of employee representation I ever delivered was spent in getting Ex removed from his job as a union organizer. Oh, I wasn't fighting cruel monsters, even though labor unions can be notoriously evil employers. No, I was still going to work there, and we were valued. They weren't out to cut him off at the knees. When he became so ill he couldn't walk to the car any more, I basically had to quit for him. He couldn't throw in the towel himself, verbally. He was 90 days from being vested in his pension.  The union kept him on the books for 91 days, paying him all salary and benefits, giving us time to apply for state and social security disability. And get him to doctors for tests and medication and heart monitors. He was 38 years old.

I'd always been convinced Ex would ruin us by killing someone in a drunk driving incident or in a round of fisticuffs over the pool table at the bar or that he'd cripple himself and I'd be required to push him around in a wheelchair. Because I'd given up hoping for a child in our lives, I'd never contemplated him getting ill and leaving me alone with that child. In all of my life, through everything, I have never before or since been as sad and frightened as I was that summer. Amber deserved to have 2 parents. I was not capable of taking proper care of her, giving her a good life, taking care of Ex and being the breadwinner. I had other burdens, as well, not yet written about for publication, but soon to come. I began therapy, Ex took his medications, both of us deeply depressed.

Surprise! This post is not going to go down the path of what a great savior I was. I "god-damned" Ex so many times each day, he may have thought that was his name. I was terrified and hugely angry at him. "I told you Budweiser was going to take us down."  "And now we have this beautiful baby who needs every good thing we can give her and I don't have everything it takes to give her by myself." It didn't take me long to lose a little of my edge on the job. I had an enormous early mobile phone that rarely had signal and I listened with one ear constantly for it to ring with the bad news. I was as harsh and unkind as a person can be toward another person. He mostly was not harsh or unkind. It took him 7 years to learn to do something with his time and little stores of energy.  For that first 7, he sat a lot. Watched TV. Visited doctors. Once he got up from the recliner, he was fairly admirable for awhile, taking our little dogs to visit shut-ins, volunteering for sedentary activities.

That summer I allowed something to happen many times over that shames me still. I allowed Amber to get a little bit lost in the shuffle. I hope to god I never said, "Leave Mommy alone." I don't believe I did. But when she fell in love with The Jungle Book video, I just let her go with it. Though she'd never been one to sit for hours in front of the TV, now she did, Mowgli and Baloo and Bagheera and Kaa playing over and over again. She'd nap and snack and call me over to see the best parts, which I tried to do with great cheer. No, she didn't miss bathing or meals. I just couldn't push hard enough to get myself and her up from the damned Jungle Book. It is painful and one of my lowest sins, to have diverted my attention from her or to have allowed Disney to care for her for great blocks of time.

I turned 40 that August. After Labor Day, I bought winter clothes for all of us and my work schedule picked back up because school had started and all my union members were back at work. Ex had fallen into a slow, quiet, predictable daily schedule and wasn't exhibiting any signs of imminent death. It wasn't too soon to start shopping for Christmas gifts. One day, I snapped off The Jungle Book and Little Black Eyes looked at me. "No more, Mommy?"  "Uh-uh. Let's go find something to do.  Maybe Daddy would like to take a ride with us."

So why is this gray little slice of life popping up now? Because I am undertaking change again. I do not care for change, even good change. I do not feel strong or capable in many ways. I think I am reviewing times when I had to take difficult steps, about which I did not feel secure. Oh, in a life as long as mine, there are plenty of face-plant episodes, but there are some glowing successes, too. The little child was not ruined by her summer of The Jungle Book. It gave me time to regroup and devise a new "normal". And then I went on.

We went to a different library branch, larger and farther away. I've pretty much read my local branch dry, at least the books that interest me. I don't love the Library of Congress Cataloging System, mostly because each branch puts up a poster describing it, but one can't find the books in the right places from one location to the next. Finally, I hit a treasure trove, spinning me from a Virginia Woolf study on the effect of her sexual abuse on her writing, to a Tennessee Williams bio, a Violet Trefusis study and Nigel Nicolson's autobiography "Long Life". Not sleeping more than an hour or two, I am holed up with books, dreaming and doing little else. My version of The Jungle Book for just a little while so I can think things through.

For Kirk, By Request (Or At Least Upon Suggestion)

Blogging friend Kirk appreciates the beauty of a vintage neon sign against a dark sky and I knew that. I just didn't happen to be thinking about it when I last posted. I was daydreaming along Fremont Street in the car, fantasizing about the Lucky Cuss Motel in the sunshine. Kirk didn't complain. He simply commented that the sign would probably be amazing against the night sky. He was right! So here is the Lucky Cuss as it would be seen by some lucky cuss after dinner, drinks and a spin of the roulette wheel.
And, as added sprinkles on the top, these are Miss Vickie Vegas, the cowgirl (though I think she should be dubbed the Lovely Leslie Las Vegas - hey, I've got the boots and I can kick pretty high), and a view of the Neon Museum displays lit up at night.

I do not typically rely on pictures as the bulk of my posts, but my alcohol paragraphs run a little long this time. So I'll let the pictures tell a story and continue on with my real life one.

NO photo credits: Leslie Morgan (She couldn't do as well.)

April Alliteration - Alcohol

My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey

Happy ending ~ 100% possible

Installment 3

As a teenager, I consumed some alcohol, although pot and other substances were preferred by young people of the time. I am small, I share the genetic makeup, and I am foolishly mulish. The instant someone says "You'd better not drink any more," I'm off and running. Sometimes men who were not old but who were old enough to buy alcohol and who were certainly too old for me would ply me with liquor and, apparently, enjoy the "wind her up and watch her go" game. On my 18th birthday, an attentive young man bought me a pint of Southern Comfort, Janis Joplin fan that I was. I drank it very quickly and I was very ill for a great number of days. It was the last alcohol I would touch for a very, very long time. By 18, I'd had more than plenty to drink, and never anything CLOSE to "Let's have A drink." The memory of the Southern Comfort served me for decades. I attest: Janis must have had an iron gut.

Ex was full blooded Native American, of the Pima tribe from the Salt River Reservation in Arizona. The struggles of native peoples with alcohol is well-documented. I don't have to beat that drum. His parents and others of a similar age wanted to get off the reservation - considered a sign of progress and good fortune. They did get away. Right into the mean streets of Skid Row L.A. where they produced 5 children together, and she eventually produced 10 before dying of cirrhosis at the age of 32. After meeting Ex in my late teens, I heard and witnessed the most sorrowful and horrific stories imaginable, all related in some way to too much alcohol. I cried when I first heard the stories. The same stories and the ones that followed make me cry today.

I got Ex when he was 17 years old and already an entrenched alcoholic. In retrospect, it is shocking how quickly I fit into the mold of enabler and codependent. I was perfectly suited. If only I did ABC, then Ex wouldn't drink any more. Uh-huh. I believed that for more than 20 years. In our extremely young years, there were events I could relate in a humorous way. Except that right now I can't work up a cackle. Rare for me. I can usually work up a donkey laugh about most things - the more painful, the heartier the laugh. There was the time he went out in the rain to buy more beer before the stores stopped selling at 2:00 a.m. When he didn't appear after a couple of hours, I figured he was in jail and went to bed to read and wait for the bad news. I was startled when he burst through the front door, soaked. He'd stranded our only car in the mud on the train tracks and had spent awhile trying to push it to safe ground. When he finally had to give it up - that car was good and truly stuck - he came home. He had not failed to get into the store in time to buy beer and then return to the car on the tracks.

I am not blessed with a deep well of patience. While I continued to try to do things that would divert him from drinking - keep a perfect house, cook wonderfully - my tongue sharpened very quickly. I am quick with a quip, and was then, but it didn't do a lot of good things. He learned to turn off my volume a little sooner in an altercation. I became an embittered young woman. When I grew sturdy enough to snap, "Go sleep it off awhile before you go out again!", he sometimes didn't argue. Once he took matters into his own hands. Rather than have me follow him, bitching, to the door, he opened the kitchen window in our second floor apartment and leapt out. I blinked a few times and rushed to the open window when I heard a loud yelp from below. Had he broken a leg, cut himself? No. He had landed on the back of the landlord's very large dog, Chunky. Chunky was not hurt, but was very, very surprised to have a dark young man with waist-length braids fly out of a window and land on his back. "Shut up, Chunky, " I heard the landlord snap out of his own kitchen window. Ex got up, dusted himself off, jumped the fence of Chunky's dog run and went off to find some fun. One of his ankles remained fragile for the remainder of his life.

In my ears right now: Very poor quality video and sound take nothing away from Natalie Merchant for me. Scritchy scratchy is OK enough. Just for today.

Something that charmed me: This morning I got a double-yolked egg - the first one I've ever seen, I believe. I don't get away from home much, I guess.

Send Les - Despite Her Protestations, She Likes It

I'm already on record about hating to waste precious time performing stupid tasks. I don't want to run errands such as the dry cleaner, the pharmacy, grocery shopping (my own and the cats'), or picking up the certified letter at the post office when I was home, inside the house, when the letter carrier went by with it. Fiddling around pisses me off, and - mostly, I am truly sorry to say - I am further pissed off by many people who "help" me as I perform these tasks. I am nearly as crabby assed as my father and Donald Duck, particularly about poor service in a place where I am spending my money. On the other hand, more sensitive readers, I spend time writing notecards, sending e-mails or delivering homemade cookies when I've been served in a manner that exceeds expectations. I'm just not called upon to do that very frequently.

For most of my adult life, I have been the champion of all errand runners, especially considering that I detest it so. Oh, I could take a route of 7 establishments, carrying a written list for each, take the shortest, straightest route to each, get the bargains and return home having completed each list. I could even incorporate a little "picking up" for my mother or the elderly woman next door. I watched the stores year around for holiday gifts and birthday gifts to be purchased and I had an eagle eye for new products on the shelves. My erranding prowess was a source of contention between Ex and me. I am sorry to say, in retrospect, that I turned it into a competition for which he felt no passion. No bright red letters marked next Tuesday in Ex's DayPlanner as "Errands" day. Others have been heartily appreciative of me. It's a mixed bag of stuff, like everything else. Yes, that bright red streak in the parking lot was me!

Life changes, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I divorced and was no longer responsible for being the errander for 3 full-time. My holiday and birthday lists were whittled down to manageable. However, I remained efficient and thorough. It should be noted that I miss nothing as I drive through the streets. New store over there to be checked out! Oh, no, another Fresh & Easy location boarded up. My god, the Sahara corridor is like a ghost town with all the businesses and car lots shutting down. That branch of Borders is closing its doors - like I didn't see that coming. A new Ross Dress for Less ~ let's see, is it Geezer Day so I'll get my discount? Oh, bite me - now there is an 89-Cents store, apparently set to vie with all the 99-Cents emporia. I notice when buildings are painted a different color and I recall the storefronts that existed when I lived here years ago. Sometimes I can even recollect what sort of business was housed there in the 1970s. No, nothing on the land escapes me, and sometimes I spin around the block just to make sure I saw what I think I saw, losing no time on my route. Add to all of this the fact that I have a memory like an elephant. Oh, a mind that is a veritable index system of pretty much trivial data to anyone except myself. Welcome to my head.

After my alcoholic meltdown, I found I had misplaced a number of things I'd called upon for many years, if not an entire lifetime. I found I could not rely upon my head 100% of the time. This frightened me. My heretofore admirable stamina had evaporated. I was not physically capable of prolonged activity of any kind. Isolation being a strong element of alcoholism, I'd become fairly agoraphobic. Lists seemed a good idea. Perhaps they would help ground me. But I couldn't think of anything to write on the lists, or why I was writing one. I never lost the imprinting of the sights on the streets, but I didn't file them away with a snort or a giggle or a reminder to "take a picture of that and write something". Please note that those statements are written in past tense. I am in a program and a state of recovery. Recovery is a fluid thing, not static. I am not the exact same person I was in any other frame of the film that is me. I like the present one best, so far. And I arrange my errands across a wider span of time and a shorter space of distance now.

The weather had turned from wintry on the weekend to hot by Thursday and Friday. I reminded myself to take it slow, perhaps make some outings in the dusk or first thing in the morning. The first heat slam takes a lot out of everyone. All the stores and public buildings engage their air conditioning systems for the first time of the year, rendering the ambient air temperature about 20-degrees, it seems. Note to self: take spray water bottle for cooling off and sweater to wear indoors. I had a destination only about 6 miles from home, driving on streets and through areas of Las Vegas I'd never seen before. The eastern side of the valley was settled long ago, some communities and commerce arising shortly after the arrival of the WPA workers who came to build the Hoover Dam in the 1930s. There exists the "Boulder Strip" of casinos and resorts, which caters to a different clientele than those who prefer the Strip. Interspersed with some of the "big houses" are shabby little relics of bygone days, here a lush, shamefully water-wasting garden oasis, there a dirt patch that never supported any form of life. There are many pedestrians, but they are not exercisers. Walking appears to be their only mode of transportation, their worldly possessions upon their backs.

I am clumsy about people who stand at stoplight intersections with cardboard signs requesting money. I have never failed to have a heart plunge about such persons, not knowing whether their situation was as they present it or not, but definitely feeling sorrowful. I was rejected when I attempted to assist once. I'd seen a very young woman at an intersection I passed through each day. She looked physically worse by the day, it was hellish high July, and I was distraught. I gathered clothing I could spare, bought underwear new so she could see the package and know they'd never been worn, put together some toiletries, got a few fast food gift cards. I provided bottled water and I'd put much thought into keeping it all compact - her backpack wasn't huge. She told me loudly on that corner, attracting much attention, exactly where I could put my handouts. She wanted money. But I digress . . . .

The man at the intersection was of the bold variety, not only brandishing his sign, but walking up and down between the stopped cars, bumping against the fenders and doors. Look, I don't have any money. But if I did, and had I been inclined to part with some, he'd lost me with that car bumping. I may want to give money, but one may not demand it of me by bumping. I immediately got very busy eyeballing the attractions alongside the road. Even the panhandler could not have mistaken my intense concentration. He still bumped, but it no longer bothered me. For I'd landed upon the sight of the Lucky Cuss Motel and it pleased me. I am going to guess that the Lucky Cuss is about my age, circa early 1950s. It shows its age, but it has been well maintained with a fresh coat of paint. (Please, may that be my fate, as well.) I grinned to think of hipsters pulling into the Lucky Cuss parking lot when it was a happening place. In the parking lot I spotted a car that would be appropriate to the era in my head. Hmmmm . . . . imprinting the sights and making up stories. Well!

April Alliteration - Alcohol

My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey

Happy ending (at least for me) 100% possible

Installment 2

I do not recall ever hearing one word about alcohol relating to my Morgan relatives (my father's family). He comes from a sizable brood, with 7 siblings plus Grandma and Grandpa. I take this lack of comment, lack of anecdotes, to mean alcohol is not an issue for the Morgans. My father says he has never been drunk. "What, Dad, not even in the Air Force with buddies?" He says, "No. I was always in training for boxing." In addition, my father is unwilling to surrender his self-control sufficiently to become drunk. On the few occasions he has "tried it", he has not cared for the taste, nor felt a need to repeat the experience. Once, at a fine French restaurant, I saw him order a glass of non-alcoholic wine, to the server's clear disdain. He has a particular contempt for "drunks", my father. "What the hell is the matter with people? Just don't drink it!"

My beloved Granny and Grandpa O'Farrell, my mother's parents, did not have problems with alcohol. Each and every one of their 12 children is/was an alcoholic. 100%, ranging from one who had only moderate difficulty functioning in the world to the one who died in a spew of blood from cirrhosis of the liver while seated on the toilet. Then there was the handsomest, most loved of the brothers who died at age 24 having made and consumed home brew created from wood alcohol while onboard ship in the Navy. In my generation of the 40 cousins, I'd be hard pressed to say how many of us has struggled with alcohol and/or drugs. Let's say "many". Let's say "most". Let's say my favored cousin, John, was dead from all of it by age 45. Some of us, from both generations, have found the way out.

During my childhood, my parents always kept a bottle of something available for visitors who might want a drink. In my junior high years, a group of school-ditching kids descended upon my house and the kids razzed me because of the paucity of booze. No one sneaked a nip from this bottle, ever. My mother's alcoholism (her assessment of her problem, not mine) wouldn't show itself for many years. I can recall a time or two when my parents went to the holiday party given by the bank where my mother worked. My mother must have had a drink or three, because on the following day, my father was silent and disapproving. It is not my impression, even today, that she did anything as outrageous as swinging, partially clad, from the chandelier. She was just so well-positioned for embarrassment and disaster if she took even one drink.