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

It's a Bitch

It was so hot you
could have fried an
egg on the pavement!

I use the word as it might relate to the dog days of summer, as that season has officially arrived. And today was hotter than one of those - 108-degrees on the blacktop when I arrived at AA at nearly 5:00 p.m. I'd been somewhat asleep at the wheel, only vaguely registering its imminent arrival, when my Tao Daily Meditation hit me between the eyes and said, "Hey, solstice is here!" Oh, yeah! Thanks, Tao. The "fun" time of year, though difficult to love in the Mojave Desert. And I'd like to be on record as one who rarely uses that "b" word about another person.

So, a brief quotation from Tao Meditation No. 172 and how it resonates with what I've currently got going on, which is also a bitch. By the way, I do not claim to be a practiced Taoist. When I am that good, I will claim to be so. I read Tao and try to harmonize its teachings with other daily devotionals that are important to me. The best days are the ones when each of my three testaments expresses the same (or a similar) idea in a different voice.  It happens, randomly, on more days than one might expect. In one language or another, sometimes my simple mind can comprehend and integrate more complex truths.

When the true light appears,
The entire planet turns to face it.

The summer solstice is the time of greatest light. It is a day of enormous power . . .

This great culmination is not static or permanent. Indeed, solstice as a time of culmination is only a barely perceptible point. The sun appears to stand still. Its diurnal motions seems to nearly cease. Yesterday it was still reaching this point; tomorrow, it will begin a new phase of its cycle.

Those who follow Tao celebrate this day to remind themselves of the cycles of existence . . . left and right, up and down, zenith and nadir . . . All of life is cycles. All of life is balance.

Ah, OK then, a powerful zenith in the sun's strongest light, maybe all the world pulled up to a visible projection just briefly, and a reminder to seek balance, to recognize nothing will be permanent, that ebb and flow are the only certain things. A message to alcoholics and other addicts: this constant motion thing is OK. It's the way of the world. In our language, this is "accepting life on life's terms."

I've been a member of AA for quite awhile now. I am encouraged to lead meetings and when the right person feels I am a woman who talks the talk and walks the walk and we agree I should be her sponsor, then that will happen. I own and voraciously read many of the recommended books, attempting to incorporate certain principles into my little life. I am progressing through my 12-steps at a slower pace than some because I have to argue about everything. I am made that way. It is not a footrace, luckily for me. But after I've argued something to death, if I ultimately accept it, I am a true believer because I've tried to deflate it and found it can't be mitigated. For myself only. I don't try to tell anyone else what is and isn't right for them. I'm not that good. By every benchmark, I should have bombed out by now for my first time. Those are the odds. That information and $1 will get you a cup of coffee at a really cheap place.

It's that balance thing that threatens my happy summer sunshine, that accepting life on life's terms and making my way forward. I am a person knows how to learn, and once I learn something, I have confidence in it and myself. Why can't I learn this balance deal? Am I an alcoholic because I lack balance or do I lack balance because I am an alcoholic? Regardless, it is the hardest thing I have ever struggled to reach. Most of "us" have a lot of human wreckage to repair once we become sober. I am no different and it is daunting. We are not obliged to undertake this in any particular way. We must not attempt to make direct amends to someone if to do so would further harm them. We are even allowed to not make direct amends to someone if to do so would be harmful to our own sobriety. That is a powerful freedom that must be tempered with "at what point does that become a cop-out?" If necessary, we are even encouraged to write a letter of amends we never intend to mail or send a letter to a dead man or to conduct a ritual of our own design. We may make an amends looking into and speaking to a mirror or a doorknob or we may make a "living amends" which means to let our present and future behavior say all there is to be said. In every case, we must somehow make amends to those we have harmed or whom we have lost in some way, expecting nothing from the other person, but only sweeping our own side of the street. Now we are sober, we hope we are so approachable we may reach some form of resolution with those who have harmed us, even though we may not owe them amends and we have no ability to design any detente. Yow. It is a tall order. But until we do this step properly and thoroughly, we will not have completed our 12 steps or know peace. And we must design our current and future behaviors to minimize resentments which are what cause our alcoholic breakdowns in human relationships. Ugh. Balance. Assertion in place of passivity or aggression. Responsibility for self and no one else and being OK with whatever happens. Wait a minute! It's my inability to do that which got me into trouble in the first place. No, I am not being funny.

Recently my friend and I discussed how we each were so misaligned that, as children, we failed to scream "pervert" in real personal crises, for fear of appearing impolite. Really. I have a long history of failing to holler for the CIA, the SSA, the FBI, a parent, someone's parole officer or a policeman on my own behalf when at least that needed to occur. On the other hand, I have some history of committing reprehensible, unfathomable, aggressive human crimes, of holding grudges, of being very difficult to love or forgive. Yes, I do want to find the sweet spot between the extremes. I think I see it, right there on the razor's edge. Without the assistance of alcohol, here are some things I've been working on. I think I'm doing halfway all right, though in some cases I am not making others very happy. And that's OK, too. I was in the people-pleasing business much too long.

So, would I really expose the shortcomings of an upstanding-looking blighter by publishing essays and badly written poetry (it exists, a suitcase full of it)? Unlikely. How does harming another person help me? Good logic, eh? Or write a letter to one parent on each coast of the U.S. to apologize for being such a difficult, colicky infant? Not going to happen. To my dear friend for whom I always pay and my friend who never, ever thinks of inviting me first: you may expect different behavior from me. Regarding the man who pressed his luck when I said, "I've told you this repeatedly for years." and he replied, "Well, you know, sometimes you don't pay attention to someone.": I was not loud, profane or difficult to understand. It was recommended I send official anger notification to those who "assisted" me in nearly killing myself with booze: already done. "You treated me terribly." Now I can begin my amends to each of them for I certainly have responsibility, too. [This should not be misconstrued as me saying ____ made me drink. This only refers to undeserved bad treatment by others. I dealt with it by choosing to drink.] Can I tell my friend and business associate I can't support the program as it stands? Done, well received and discussion to ensue. And for the friend who tells me what to do with my life before saying hello: get ready, dear!

Those things and similar ones can, did and could make me drink. That's not how I choose to do it today. What do you think? Progress? Old dogs/new tricks? In May and in June I attempted amends, expecting nothing. In both cases that is precisely what I got. These were not the giant roaring monsters like parents or ex-spouses. In one case, I do not believe I harmed the person directly, but I apologized if I had done that and said I'd love to have him/her in my life. In the other case, I had harmed the person but felt our bond had been deep enough for us to find some common ground. I did not get what I hoped for. I did not drink.

Something that charmed me:  It charmed me just now to type "I did not drink". It charmed me to find Ms. Janis singing "Summertime". It charms me to go out 4 feet from the French doors and slide into the pool nekkid under the moon. It charms me that tomorrow is expected to be 110-degrees. It charms me to keep trying as hard as I can try, apologizing when I have been clumsy. I wish everyone a joyful summer.

This does not charm me: I'm invited to a BBQ, a big bing-bang bash hosted by a friend of a friend. "What can I bring?," is always my first utterance. I love to make melon ball baskets and really good potato salad by the bathtubfull and 80 dozen deviled eggs, or whatever the host wants. "Oh, how about a big old bottle of tequila?" Really! "Um, that would be really difficult for me. Terribly difficult, actually. I can maintain balance with all of you and your tequila shots game like you played at Christmas, but I don't know about buying it, supplying it." This brought a smartassed comment which caused further conversation during which I gave no ground. She seems to have kind of dug her feet in. I've used no profanity, nor loud tone of voice. I'm surely not going to drink over it. But it's a bitch, you know?

Cartwheels

I cannot turn a cartwheel. Yes, I know any child can execute a beautiful cartwheel, but I could not do it as a child and I cannot do it now. I can perform other acrobatic stunts considered more difficult, including a flip (or at least I could in 1967), but the cartwheel eludes me. I can hula hoop until hell won't have me any more. Funny, because I cartwheel across that imaginary plane of free association so effortlessly. Want to come along? OK, join me.

I just looked it up. The comedienne Rita Rudner is almost precisely one year younger than I. That makes her 57. A Virgo, like me, she would be meticulous, diligent, a perfectionist, if one puts any stock in astrology. I see billboards for her Las Vegas show whenever I take the Desert Inn Road flyover to avoid the traffic at the Strip when bisecting the town east to west or vice-versa. What the hell is Rita thinking with that splits thing at her age? Yeah, I know she is a trained dancer. But those splits! I wonder if she has to be assisted to rise from the floor after the photo shoot. I wonder if her good-looking trousers withstand the strain without giving way and whether the photographer's assistants have to artfully drape the legs of those trousers so she looks more . . . natural. Natural?? I've never seen her show. She is really good looking and when I have heard her interviewed on local radio or TV, she seems like a regular, good citizen who drives her kid to school and worries about some of the same things that bother me. She seems to be an older mom, as I was/am . . . but those splits!
Readers must tire of Las Vegans continually bitching about the wind, and I promise that I sicken myself in that respect, too. However, I'm not sure I recall anything like last weekend, just when we'd been enjoying promises of warm, relatively calm days. Those who are more tightly wound than I in a literal sense may pick this to death, but I read the Severe Weather Alert. We had an airport watch in effect, with winds sustained at 34 knots and gusts to 47 knots. It was damnably windy. On Saturday, my hair was nearly torn from my scalp as I went in to an AA meeting. Coming out of the Wynn casino at 2:30 Sunday morning, I observed, "Well, we've been in there for 10 hours. Maybe the wind . . " With that, the skirt of my dress was tossed over my face and the rest of my comment was garbled. Throughout the day, the screaming blow only amped up, rendering the air a dull brown with flying dust and grit. I have experienced stronger winds, once in the desert, camped in a gale we later learned was likely 75 mph, for a shorter, overnight duration. It scared me. I was not scared this time in the house, listening to things - some of them remarkably heavy - being tossed around and into the pool. But I am driven nearly insane by it. If it were possible to die from allergies, I might just do that, eyes and nose streaming, lips and tongue adhering to my teeth from too many antihistamines. I am reminded of an Anais Nin essay I once read wherein the characters were driven nearly psychotic because of the scirocco. I comprehend that. The essay was not really about the wind, but she depicted it as a vivid character, an important part of her story. And though I am seated in the wrong part of the world for a real scirocco, I deeply felt the sense of madness approaching. The windchimes created a hellish din, and I remembered that a Scirocco is also a Volkswagen . .

An AA acquaintance has been grounded by the courts for a short time and I have been providing rides. AA places great emphasis on the many benefits of alcoholics helping other alcoholics, considering even the simple act of making the coffee for a meeting a "service". From my perspective, giving rides to someone who lives halfway between my home and AA is easy. It is my pleasure to help where I can, and I am grateful that my fat is not in the fire for once, driver's license revoked and possible jail time in the future. We make our way along some of the older, more congested and always-under-more-road-construction thoroughfares of the city, along the Boulder Strip. People get fidgety in the gridlock, and so do I. "You handle it pretty well," observed my companion. "I'd like to just start flipping them all off." My gut clenched, I broke into a sweat and began to babble, "No, no. No. Don't do that, please. No." I drew a pretty strange look as I sat, miserable in the driver's seat, recalling the last time I flipped anyone off except in jest in the privacy of my own home. July, 1976.

My Volkswagen was not a Scirocco, if those even existed at the time. Mine was the ubiquitous Beetle of the proletariat, 1972 model, yellow, with not the tiny or the huge tail lights of the earlier or later models but the mid-sized ones, regular old, beloved stick shift, not that silly Automatic Stick Shift thing Volkswagen offered at the time. That bug and I were well-suited to one another and I'd had many an adventure behind its wheel. Flying - oh, yes, way too fast - around the curve of one of the cloverleaf configurations of the LA freeways, I once came quickly upon an overturned truck that had deposited many dead cows in the roadway. Although quite distressed, I downshifted my little chariot, got onto the brakes and neatly, but narrowly avoided any cow collision. My timing was less fortuitous the time I got behind the semi-truck full of oranges that had spilled onto the Golden State Freeway, but oranges are less deadly than cows in a collision. I squeezed fresh OJ for about 10 minutes and went on my way. The VW had moved Ex and me, four kittens and all our worldly possessions to Las Vegas only a couple of weeks earlier. To my disappointment, it took Ex only about 14 seconds to find people to drink and play pool with. I was on my own in the evenings a lot.

It was monsoon season, something I'd never experienced. Hell for hot and humid enough to make it rain indoors. I drove to the 7-11 nearby and got an obscenely huge cold drink - it would have been the fully sugared stuff in the day, lots of ice. On the way out of the store, a man made a remark to me that I didn't care for. Given that this became such a life-altering event, one would expect me to remember the exact words, but I do not. It had to do with my appearance, in words I instinctively knew he thought were complimentary, but which I did not appreciate. Without giving the notion sufficient forethought, I flipped him off. Oh, it was a gentle flipping off, not truly intended to call the man out. If I'd chosen words instead of gestures, they would not have been the words typically associated with flipping off. The man ignited. He set his jaw and started to walk across the parking lot in a resolute way. Scared, I jumped into my car, started it and went out onto the street. He was on me in a minute, Barney Fife in the patrol car, chasing down a perpetrator. All he lacked was a siren. I knew how to handle my car and exhibited some fancy moves, spurting forward, dashing between other cars. He never missed a beat. I took parking lots at a fast diagonal following sharp, last-minute turn-ins. He was right there with me. Pouring sweat now, I was 23, shaken, didn't know the streets and we'd been at this for 20 minutes or more. There would be no cell phones for decades.

Appearances count for much in Las Vegas. We don't like to scare the tourists away. One of Metro's finest pulled me over on the Strip, probably for driving unbecoming a local or some such infraction. The angry man stopped and waited for me to get my ticket, apparently so that we could take up our chase again afterwards. Mortified, I told the officer my story. He went and had words with the angry man who finally moved on. "Are you new to Las Vegas?" I said I was. "From California?" What, was it stamped on me or something? I already had Nevada plates on the car. "Come on, honey. I'll see you home. I'd advise you not to flip people off in Las Vegas. They don't care for it." I've never done it again. It's the last time I felt kindly toward a traffic cop.

Something that charmed me: My fragile, ancient VHS videotape of "Enchanted April" has played as white noise and flashing gray/black/white/soft color distraction for days on the equally ancient 19" TV retained for the very purpose of playing those old tapes I'm not ready to toss. Enchanted April is . . narrow, I suppose. It doesn't appeal to hordes of people, but it is a firm favorite of mine. Ex tolerated it a few times a week and Amber became as dedicated a fan as I. Once a man who loved me agreed to sit by my side and try to watch it. Within 10 minutes, his book was open on his lap, but he stayed beside, hand occasionally patting my thigh, remaining together despite Enchanted April.

Anyway, the opening scenes take place in an impossible-to-fully-describe sodden, gray morning in London just after World War I. As Lottie rides in the bus, crushed in with disabled veterans and heavy clouds of cigarette smoke, one can feel the damp chill, smell the wet wool uniforms, lunches carried in baskets, shopping items perched on laps, some passengers standing in the aisles. The rain pounds on from a solid gray sky. Lottie sees an advertisement in The Times on the back of the newspaper being read by a man seated across from her. She dreams of "letting" (leasing) the vaunted villa on the Mediterranean just to escape London in April . . . The first 2-3 minutes of the video bring my words to life. Skip through the opening credits, if you must. And, yep, the first strains of the lead-in music are like nails scraping a blackboard. It's still worth that visual of 1916 London in April.

I didn't intend to do an Enchanted April snippet until a quote grabbed me: "It's easy to understand why the most beautiful poems about England in the spring were written by poets living in Italy at the time." [Philip Dunne, 1908-1992, American screenwriter]

And now, I shall cartwheel myself to a hot bath followed by sleep if I am lucky tonight, for tomorrow is to be busy and I need to be on my game. I surely do thank the reader for company during my mini-vacation for which I only had to travel as far as the confines of my own head. Have I mentioned I am pretty easily entertained?

I Don't Cry Any More

I am a lifelong cryer. I cry over things painful and joyous. I have never seen an event of childbirth on TLC or Discovery Health that failed to force me to tears and I weep when listening to anyone's story of pain and abandonment. I keen from frustration of all manner and I sob over my feelings of inadequacy. I call the act of blubbering a steam relief valve. For me, I am certain, it is a release of chaotic energy that helps me regain balance. I'm sorry if it makes others uncomfortable and I warn people - usually - when I suspect it is about to happen. I generally apologize afterward. But I know that if I don't let off some of the pressure, I would have long ago exploded and chunks of me would require being scraped off the the walls and ceiling. Once a(n important) man asked me - do not read this "accused", he "asked" - if I used weeping as a tool. Because of his tone, I kept my own very level: "Use it? As in call upon it as needed? No, I don't think so. Rather, it has its own puissance. It must escape, like perspiration from the pores, urine from the body. It is impossible to hold it in when it is determined to come out. Consider it a protective mechanism. This prevents me from flying into the universe in pieces." He always seemed to accept this aspect of my self after we'd had the discussion. He even learned to anticipate when it would happen, or what was likely to trigger it.

The other day, I took my 6-month "chip" at AA, marking half a year of sobriety. Yes, it is an accomplishment. One I was unsure I could achieve when I set out to find a new way in life. I'd mentioned my special date just quietly during sharing at a meeting, resulting in a few head snaps and startled looks. "What? Are you sure?" Um, I was sure. One would know such things. There began a quiet chattering, discouraged except in cross-talk meetings, and this was not one. We spoke of a man in our home meeting who tells us when he achieves 4 months and 3 days, 1 week and 57 hours. He was there. We weren't talking about him without his knowledge. He tells us about each of his milestones and we cheer for him - he lets us know that is what he needs, and we give it happily. Our highest goal in AA is to help other alcoholics. But it is different for me. I am task- and goal-oriented. I want to take stuff on and finish it and move on to whatever next intrigues me. I could easily land on 6 months or 6 years and have my alcoholic brain decide, "Well, I completed that and don't have to do it any more." Wrong. Alcoholism doesn't go away. Our program has to get us through our lifetime. In the literal sense, ours is a journey without a defined destination. The more frequently I fill balloons with helium and obtain party noise-makers, the more opportunities I have to say, "There - done!" Not good. But I will continue to announce every year, perhaps every half year, because accolades are an excellent fillip to complacency.

I came out of my second meeting of the day (I'd had a challenging day) and gathered with the other AAs in the patio. "The patio" is a great watering hole - oops, bad choice of words! For here, "the meeting" continues, without restriction or rules. Here is where alliances are formed, peace and serenity expanded. For elemental to AA is that one drunk's story may hold the answers for another drunk. When one is new to the culture, hanging in the patio is excruciating. One doesn't even want people driving by in the streets to see them in that patio, much less hang out there yacking. It's different for me now. I belong there, even though it's a funny kind of place for me. On a huge club campus where sometimes hundreds of people mill about, there seems to be only one non-smoker. Literally. Me. So I remain on foot and gauge which way the wind is blowing. I can bunny-hop 360-degrees around a patio table and never lose the thread of the conversation. "Sit down, Les!" "No can do. Keep talking. I'm right there with you." I still reek of smoke when I get home, but that's the price for admission to the theatre where I need to watch the play.

"Want to pop over to the library?" I asked. She said she did, so we bought Starbucks again and headed out on the 3-block journey. My friend likes her Venti Java Chip Frap. I grin to watch her consume it. I'd do as well to just plaster the containers of that good stuff to my butt, so I sip at my freshly ground, freshly brewed Pike Place. Our reading tastes are somewhat similar, so we often point out good choices to one another, but there is also the lovely freedom of making our own way among the rows of books, knowing there is not someone toe-tapping as if one is wasting his time. (Read this: "a husband", folks. Sorry, guys!) When we encountered our first fellow AA member, we smiled. Stumbling upon the second, we grinned like loons. Number three elicited a guffaw. By the time six of us had gathered, the noise level rose and the library staff shot us evil glances. It was good to see where so many of us ran after our meeting!

An impromptu meeting began in the library grounds, numerous lightings of cigarettes and me looking for a flag to show the direction of the wind. Everyone chattered, asking questions about what everyone else took from the library. I got high marks and raised eyebrows for borrowing 11 books at one time. "Oh, she'll go right through them," said my friend. "We'll be back here in a matter of days." "So what is Bukowski?" a man asked. Oh, I was ready for that! For you see, I have a little Bukowski experience, having once located and bought for a friend a 40-year-old out-of-print-edition with colored illustrations and I'm able to recite at least a decent rendition of some of the man's works with appropriate inflection. I did just that. The drunks surrounding me get Love is a Dog From Hell. "Can I see the book after you, Les?" "Sure, homes, but I'd suggest you start with some of the volumes that are still in the library." I'd never before seen the volume now resting in my arms. Copyrighted 2009, it is called The Continual Condition and is touted as "a never-before-collected poems from America's most imitated and influential poet". I've now flipped through it several times and read a few of the poems closely. I have an opinion about these poems individually and collectively, but I will keep those to myself in case the reader is moved to examine the book.

The next day had become difficult by lunch time. I was painfully reminded of two apparently disparate things. The first is that I cannot safely and sanely juggle as many balls as I could once. I suffered a (professional) disappointment that was going off in my face like a string of firecrackers, one explosion after another. The second is that too much isolation is too much for me. I couldn't get the attention of anyone else affected by this series of explosions and I felt my back and shoulders starting to buckle in my solitary misery. I have at least the intellectual wherewithal to know instant relief is not always at hand and I needed to help myself for at least awhile. Said quite humbly: I tried everything ever recommended. I didn't pull myself too far out of the panic bucket. When I picked up my sponsor for AA, I said, "Well, I'm as close as I've come so far to thinking that a few drinks might be the answer." She was startled. "No, I'm not going to stop at the liquor store on the way home. It's more that when I looked at an array of possibilities for self-soothing, drinking was in the mix. I decided against it. I surely need this meeting." My sponsor was scheduled to lead the meeting and it got a little quiet at times, no one volunteering to share. When that happens, which is rare, the leader sometimes calls on AAs to speak. I'm usually pretty reliable for jump-starting discussion, but I shot her a look that said, "Uh-uh. Not today."

My grinning surprises came after the meeting. First, a woman who only attends our group occasionally accosted me. I suspect the perfect human metabolism in life would be the midpoint between hers and my own, as I am barely alive and she is maximum voltage. "Hey! Did you get lots of chips?" Unsure if she was speaking to me, and making no connection with her words, I looked over my shoulder. No one else was in the room. "You mentioned you were coming up on 6 months and I came back the next night, but you weren't here. I wanted to give you my 6 month chip." (The giving and sharing of chips, tokens, books and more is a generous part of the AA culture. I carry a sobriety key ring David gave me after carrying it for more than a decade.) She dug in a purse as big as a steamer truck, pulling out (I'm not making this up for comedic value) condoms, a diaper, full make-up kit, a vintage cell phone, Walkman, half a sandwich and a can of Monster. Finally, she landed on that blue 6-month chip, pressed it into my hand, yanked me into a bone-crushing embrace, and bellowed, "God love you, honey, I knew you were a keeper the first time I saw you." Well! OK. I stepped outside, bemused, and showed the chip to my sponsor who grinned.

There weren't many of us in the patio and there was no wind to speak of. I sat on a bench and half listened to a man talking to another man. The first man is a Las Vegas taxi driver and he has some tales to tell - no wonder he is an alcoholic. We are not his home group, but he comes to ours about once a week, which may have something to do with work schedule. He is well-spoken and deeply reflective. I like to hear what he has to say. When my sponsor finished her cigarette, I groaned my way up from the low bench and stood to walk away. I was immediately attacked from the rear! Oh, not in a threatening way. More like a Labrador puppy landing on a Pomeranian. The taxi driver was the Lab. "You didn't talk today. I love to hear you talk. When you share, I think 'Yes, that's how it was for me' and 'We should all be paying attention to this woman'." Oh? I know I blushed. "Well, um, thank you. The line of those who come to hear me speak is short, so you won't have long to wait for the next occurrence." We grinned at each other.

I really gave no thought of stopping on the way home, even though I passed right by Lee's Discount Liquor. When I arrived an e-mail awaited me that assured me I was not the solitary target in the professional shit-fight I've mentioned. This morning will be the difficult meeting where I can choose to be a bitch and say, "I told you so," or I can be as humble as I need to be and say, "These are the things I was concerned about and mentioned to you early on. Let's make an alternative plan now." I got over a rough patch by using new things I've learned. I didn't cry and I didn't drink. What do you know!

Something that charmed me: In the winter, they're called "Christmas Cactus", a politically incorrect appellation in my opinion, but OK. I buy them because they are a splash of color in a dark time of year. Now, Mother's Day approaches and they are called "Spring Cactus". OK, I don't care, even though I know they are exactly the same species of plant. They also cost just about twice as much in the spring as they do in the winter. Huh? I got one anyway. No crying over spilled garden soil here.

When My Silence is Your Comfort

My friend and I were adding to a long and lively stream of e-mails between us, landing on any and every topic that crosses the mind of one or the other and solving the world's problems in general. She mentioned an event from her young childhood that hasn't left her though decades have passed. A man exposed himself to her and her girlfriend, not overtly with noise and fanfare, but in a rather sneaky way that may have allowed him a narrow opportunity to say that his nakedness was unintentional. My friend remembers that she knew this was "wrong" and "bad", but she also remembers that she felt compelled to be "polite". One feels it would have been far beyond her ability to have said, "Hey, beat it, you freak!" or to have screamed out, "Pervert here, bothering little girls!" No, the lily wagger got by with it, perhaps to live on and show his business again the next day in the park. The innocent young girl grew into a woman who isn't precisely traumatized by the event, but hasn't forgotten it and muses upon her reaction to it.

My personal violations are not exactly the same. No stranger exposed himself to me in the park in my tenderest years. The similarity between my friend's experience and many of my own is this: some of us are so willing to be "polite", not blow the whistle, not make any waves, we will do that even to our own detriment, safety and peace of mind. Did we once possess that little bit of attitude, that disregard for the niceties, that willingness to call a spade exactly that? Was it beaten out of us in one way or another? Or were we convinced very young that we just shouldn't say things outright, perhaps that no one was interested enough to listen or pay attention and our best hope in life was just to be polite?

It happens I appreciate people who just say what they're thinking. Oh, sometimes they make one a bit uncomfortable, but little is left to the imagination. No fantasies, good or bad, need be constructed. No bullshit among the straightforward, right? I am still not completely forthcoming with exactly what I think in every single situation. Age and menopause have brought me a little closer to outspokenness. The courage of my convictions and an appreciation of the things I know well has bucked me up, somewhat. But I am still rather accommodating to those I encounter who may prefer not to hear my actual reaction to their words or behavior.

If you are one who takes comfort from the silence of certain others, here are some things to consider:

• Though some of you think we are dumb, we're not necessarily. Our failure to bark in your face does not mean we believe what you've just said. Nor do we forget it. One doesn't want to think s/he has put one over on us.
• When you say, every time we see one another, "Girl, I'm going to call you next week for lunch - it's been too long!", we don't hold our breath any more.
• When you say "Just because _____, doesn't mean _____," we know that's exactly what it means.
• When you say the same thing to us over and over and over again, but your words aren't followed by any action to support them, you can stop telling us whatever it is. We don't believe you any more.
• When you tell us in vivid detail about your latest exploit that most people would find shocking, do not mistake our silence for approval. Maybe we're simply not up to screaming "Slut!" or "Bastard!" at you.
• When you take an unpopular stand on something in a group, do not misconstrue our quietude for solidarity. Perhaps we're simply embarrassed we brought you along and don't wish to call attention to ourselves or you.
• Sitting at lunch together, when you say, "Don't think _____. That's not how it is.", be warned: we know that's just precisely how it is.

If you are one who takes comfort from the silence of certain others, here are some other things to consider: perhaps you seek out those you know will be silent because you are unwilling to face your own nonsense. They won't force you to do that, either. Maybe you pontificate to the quiet ones because it makes you feel pretty good about yourself. You might blow smoke up the butts of such people, because you can and no one challenges you. There is a chance you do these things to avoid relating with other human beings in any real way. My friend coined a most beautiful phrase: "Such people are addicted to deception. They thrive on misrepresentation undisputed."

Although I have come a way down the road, I doubt I'll hang my head out of the car window tomorrow and say "Damn, that's an ugly hat, old lady!" I probably won't immediately start in on everyone I know with "Stop spinning it, I'm not buying it." At least not in every situation. At AA, when someone yammers on until I want to scream, I'm unlikely to say, "Hey, I think you're drunk now!" But I feel I could manage, in honor of my friend, "Hey, Mister, your dick is out and I'm not appreciating it. Put it away before I call a cop," if such a situation presented itself. Sometimes we take on the bigger tasks first and fill in the blanks later with the little stuff.

The Architect

What if your friend became an architect,
but failed to tell you that
and you sent no gift, no card, no flowers
for matriculation?
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

And what if your friend decided the
ancient edifice that was your relationship
needed renovation – oh, immediately, extensively -
but failed to tell you that?

What if you entered the home place you shared with your friend
and found she had applied skills she possessed
but had failed to tell you that?
What if you asked, “Friend, what is all this?”
And your friend replied, guilelessly, “What? Nothing's different.”

What if, upon your next visit, it could no longer be denied?
She had reassigned weight-bearing walls, reduced the size of
certain rooms and built an escape hatch as would be used in
the Underground Railroad, but failed to tell you that.

“Friend, I can and will live with anything between us,
my only requirement being truth.”
And what if your friend began to build such a
structure of lies that you could feel life, love
and esteem, as you knew them for her, slipping away?
But you failed to tell her that. Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend progressed from lies to silence, used interchangeably,
choosing the subjects about which she would or would not say anything at all?
“Friend, I am losing respect and admiration for you. I have been plain
about what I need. You have nothing to lose by being honest with me.
I will not abandon you.”
“Nothing has changed between us.”
What if you left the building having made a hard decision,
but you failed to tell her that? Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend asked for a favor and explained
she needed you to lie?
She needed your lie to cover a lie she'd told another friend.
In fact, “Heh, heh,” she'd already misused your name and
a false premise to fool a perfectly innocent person for
whom you felt no enmity.
Used your name, or lack thereof, and your artistic property,
your own history, without permission or discussion.
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

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.

Word Play - Simply For Love of Language

Created by self and other bloggers, thank you so much!

You are the cheese to my macaroni
You are the horizon to my sky
You are the bacon to my eggs
You are the laces to my sneakers
You are the jelly to my peanut butter
You are the Iams to my cat's dish
You are the muriatic acid to my pool
You are the smile to my face
You are the gravy to my mashed potatoes
You are the bubbles to my bath
You are the milk to my cookie
You are the ink to my pen
You are the ketchup to my French fries
You are the water to my ocean
You are the icing on my cupcake
You are the beans to my wiener
You are the comment to my blog post
You are the thread to my needle
You are the donut to my 7-11 case
You are the litter to my cat's box
You are the jewel to my piercing
You are the bookmark to my tome
You are the Garmin to my torturous trek
You are the sense in my sentence
You are the lens to my perception
You are the punchline to my joke
You are the mirror to my reflection
You are the phoenix to my hope
You are the cake to my ice cream
You are the hot fudge to my sundae
You are the sprinkles to my donut
You are the branches to my snowfall
You are the I to my loneliness
You are the island to my I
You are the spaces between the trees of my forest
You are the loveliness to my buttons
You are the underwiring to my bra
You are the canvas to my acrylic
You are the paper to my thought
You are the light to my shining
You are the glasses to my opera
ou're the Budweiser commercial to my Super Bowl
You're the Cinderella's castle to my Disneyland
You're the A-1 sauce to my steak
You're the iambic pentameter to my poem
You are the mouse to my pad
You are the Wite-Out to my typo (ask your grandparents about that one, kids)
You are the Texas Schoolbook Depository Building to my Lee Harvey Oswald
You are the Leo the lion to my Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
You are the George Martin to my Beatles
You are the neuroses to my Woody Allen
You are the bus to my another stranger
You are the shadow to my doubt

You are the sunshine of my life,
that's why I'll always be around

You're the tops
You're the colosseum
You're the top
You're the Louvre museum

What would you add, bloggers?

Created by self and paid $300 to send to relief efforts for Japan. (Below, a very early, primitive attempt at poetry. How's that, Rachel? I TOLD you it was modest and only a fan of me, personally, would pay for it!)
Some of you good ones have already e-mailed to ask what it is about, etc.
Please feel free to contact me in that way.

STEWARD OF THE HEART LAND

No more free right
of ingress and egress for you.
A toll booth was constructed,
your picture taped to the glass,
so you will be recognized
if you attempt to encroach.

You said you loved the landscape
but you plundered
irreplaceable artifacts,
smuggled out in your backpack and pouches.
Sand drifted from a hole in your pocket,
a sinuous trail like the track of a sidewinder.

You took brochures and attended lectures,
learning small things you could do
to help safeguard a precious resource.

The face is like a topo map,
revealing what there is to know.
Brow furrowed in apportioned concern,
yours inspires confidence and
hints at shared passion. You mislead.

You grasped the things that one can do,
for conservation and preservation,
citing by rote the steps you'd never take.
You are glib, though the sincere did not know
that for you to be spurred to
conserve or preserve, the words
must be preceded by "self".

Technical Difficulties and Yet One More Thing I Didn't Know How to Do

An esteemed sister blogger inspired me to write a post on a topic that pleases me. Oh, I had no difficulty finding the words and sharing the experiences. It was the illustrations that kicked up some trouble. I'm having an extremely difficult time capturing a decent replication of certain images, sort of like when I tried to take pictures of the extremely black cat, Virginia Woolf, and got only silvery glare with each exposure. No, there is no earthly substitute for what I am trying to photograph. Yes, I've tweaked lighting, exposure, distance from subject and more. So am I angry? I worked awhile at writing my piece, to no immediate avail. No, probably not angry this time. A little short-term disappointment. I can seek out advice. It will happen. Probably not worth derailing today over this. Sister Blogger, you will see that post, and soon!

Among the very long list of things I didn't know how to deal with was anger. Oh, the reader may believe that by the age of 3 or 4, I was utterly filled with it, but I'd witnessed few expressions of such an emotion, likely none of them very healthy. My parents finally separated for the final time when I was 13 years old. They divorced when I was 15. Theirs was a tragicomic pairing that included some of the deepest lows a married couple might suffer. I don't think either of them had any tools in their personal makeup to handle their troubles effectively. I don't know if either of them would admit to any highs in their relationship. It probably depends on when we asked them that.

For decades, we have referred to my father as Donald Duck because he sputters and spits, snarls and snaps about anything that pisses him off right now. Inconsiderate drivers, basketball games that seem to be favorably tipped toward the Celtics instead of the Lakers, people who laugh at other people who slip on the ice, mean people who take advantage of others ~ oh, my dad can go off. He spews for a short time, takes steps to remedy what made him angry if that's in his power, and moves on. He'd verbally spar with a much-larger neighbor - hey, he'd been a boxer, he'd be OK in a dust-up if one ensued. He had no trouble picking off the nun who whacked my hand with a ruler because I couldn't manage that pesky Palmer Method of handwriting. "If the Morgan kid needs to be whacked, you call us and we'll whack her, but don't you ever think of whacking her again!" I don't think he is a person with a huge well of anger left unapproached.

About my mother's anger, I'll have to use a bandolier full of educated guesses. I don't think I'll be far off the target. Otherwise, we'd have to ask her, and we're not going to do that. She was really bright and was not only her family's first high school graduate, she managed a scholarship to a good Catholic womens college. Before she could start there, she became pregnant. With me. Much high drama ensued - this was in 1951, for crying out loud - and it seems every member of that huge extended family had something to say. Granny wanted to adopt the baby (me) and raise it. Grandpa felt they were too old (aged 50 and 52). Grandpa thought one of his other daughters might know how to pursue a Mexican abortion and said so, thereby infuriating both daughters. Ruth didn't know how to obtain an abortion anywhere and my mother hadn't asked for one. My father's parents screamed from the midwest, "It couldn't be him. He had a terrible fall on a tricycle when he was 3 and can't father children." My parents wanted to marry and have their child. They did so. Later, my mother would suffer terribly after the birth of my profoundly retarded brother, and other assaults she wasn't prepared to endure. I believe my mother's fall from grace at age 17 broke her. I don't believe she has ever looked at my face without seeing missed opportunity, though she is well-evolved enough to now feel some guilt for that. I don't think she was ever fully whole again, and I know life continued to chip away small pieces from her. She morphed as addicts do. Anger, self-pity, codependency, resentments. The tiny lioness did not audibly roar for many, many years, but when she did, it was remarkable and terrifying. She is, today, an admirable recovering alcoholic of more than 25 years. I am not violating her anonymity with that statement. She announces it to anyone who will listen to her.

Through all of their tribulations, I never saw or heard my parents express anger at one another verbally. Never a shout, a curse, even a mildly angry statement. Neither of them nightowls, I imagine they only stayed up a few hours after I retired each night. Never once was my slumber disturbed by sounds of a wrangle. I have rarely heard either of them express a negative statement about the other. In 58 years. I know and understand both personalities - I possess some qualities taken from each of those personalities - and I just don't understand it. They had to have made one another insane! Not annoying. Crazy! Batshit. What did they do with it?

In the group of 40 cousins, and now their offspring so much time later, are wrapped up some of the angriest children I've ever known about. I can't say the aunts and uncles ever impressed me as angry. Granny henpecked (it's the perfect word) Grandpa, her voiced raised and her statements punctuated by a plume of Pall Mall smoke tossed over her shoulder. Gramps always, but always responded with a "Yes, Mary," and did whatever it was that she wanted. Fight over. No real anger exhibited. But then there were Uncle John's kids who tore into each other daily, drawing blood and not actually seeming to make up once the altercation was over. If we happened to be visiting when a fight began, I'd fade to wherever my father was located. I understand about young Sean who had multiple surgeries as an infant and was required to have his elbows splinted so he couldn't use his hands to disturb the surgical site. Yes, that would make someone angry, even a baby. But there was no one like Bill.

My cousin Bill's photo could have been used in a dictionary to depict "average, adorable, 1950s American boy". Blue eyes, red-blond hair, freckles by the bushel, and attitude. He was born scowling, I am sure. At the age of about 18 months, he was given a tiny pair of red leather cowboy boots by Granny and Grandpa. They were a struggle to put on him, but once he was placed upright, faster than a rattlesnake, he proceeded to kick Grandpa up and down the shins until Gramps bled. He once bit a (reasonable) dog and the dog bit Bill back before running off. The entire family collected to scour the neighborhood for this dog so it could be tested for rabies. Bill was so young that he gave positive identification to every dog encountered, from Chihuahua to German Shepherd. He had to be given the series of rabies shots which were apparently extremely unpleasant. But my favorite Bill story co-stars me. Their family was visiting at my home and Bill had been told repeatedly to leave the piano alone. He'd finally had enough and decided to take action, apparently. He flung himself to the floor where I was sitting, bit me on the rear end, and - my father swears this is literally true - came up spitting corduroy from my trousers. So you see, I saw plenty of anger from a short distance. I just wasn't sure how it applied to me. I didn't know to acknowledge I felt any of it, though I did. I had no siblings with whom to wrestle and fight. I surely wasn't about to bite dogs or humans. I kept stuffing my anger (which I hadn't yet named "anger") into my secret keeper compartment - rather emotional Tupperware. It was building up quite a head of steam by the time I was 8.

I was well attuned to sensing the emotional climate as soon as I awoke each morning so I could put on whichever self I was going to be for the day. By 8, I was figuring out anger between the parents, despite their quiet presentation. Or maybe because of it. Deadly quiet and no conversation was a pretty good indicator that I'd leave my bedroom and walk into rooms thick with palpable tension. I knew to lay low, not attract any negative attention, plan to play quietly. If the stereo played Ella Fitzgerald or Harry Belafonte and I could hear them speaking to one another, or hear Dad singing, I could let down my guard just a little. The first time it happened, I was 8. I woke up one morning. No Ella. No Harry. My mother seemed a little sniffly and red-eyed. My father was gone. Had the Merry Maids come in, they couldn't have eradicated his presence any more thoroughly. Not a sign of him, his possessions or that he'd ever existed. Between the hours of 8:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. Damned quietly, too!

My mother said that Dad had gone to stay somewhere else. That's it. I must have been some embryonic form of interviewer, because all manner of questions popped into my head: "Where did he go?" "With whom?" "For how long?" "When will I see him?" "Can I call him?" "Why didn't he take me?" "How long will I have to stay here with you at the wheel alone?" I asked not one question. Her face let me know I shouldn't ask. It would be many, many years before I'd learn to ask questions in the face of any terror, thereby gaining some secure footing for myself. It is the first time I remember feeling abject trepidation, as in "What's going to happen now?" Very soon that was refined to "What's going to happen to me now?" It is the first incident I can recall wherein the fear overruled the delusion that things were OK. Things weren't OK. And I knew forever after I wasn't crazy to fear terrible, terrible events. After all, I'd lived through one. It happened.

He wasn't gone very long the first time. He called daily. He visited and took me out on weekends. A month later, he was suddenly home, just as quietly in the night as when he left. When I woke up for school, I heard Harry on the stereo. "Day-o, da-a-ay-o." No word of explanation about what had just happened here. Never. Future separations became longer and sometimes more difficult. There were many of them. Once he took me out of school for 2 weeks and we traveled together to visit his family in the midwest. It was a good, healthy, fun outing for us. During one of the last separations, I'd become a little shopworn. My hair was falling out at an alarming rate from the front of my head. To the extent my mother had to drag bangs from the crown of my head to cover my baldness. "Stress; nervousness," said the doctor who cared for all of our extended family. "You two need to start doing something differently," screamed the relatives. They would, but not for awhile, and not to an immediate positive result.

Guess what? I'm still not all that adept at navigating the world. Sometimes I feel the need to apologize for myself and sometimes I don't. Today I do. I do not expect or wish for sympathy of any color for anything that has ever happened in my life. I have enjoyed many of the good things offered to the good, when I wasn't even particularly good. I haven't written as much about my heady, high spots, though there are many. But I feel compelled to tell the other stories first. When I write about what happened, it forms a clearer picture for me. I can see the seeds, germination and growth of all the maladaption and misery. If I can see the sprouts, I can pull them like weeds, or skirt them or spray them with some positive herbicide-like stuff. So I ask the reader's indulgence today. I'm not wallowing. I'm looking back upon the road to here.

If you smell something really malodorous and hear its grunting and roaring, it's that bear I've been wrestling. It has grown larger and stinkier as I've tried to ignore it, and it won't go away, so I'm going to have to look under the bed and in all the corners to stare it down, tame it, get engaged or feed it. I rather fibbed on e-mail to Girlfriend when I told her I was wrestling something I hadn't named yet. Well, almost fibbed. I was close to naming it. And now I can. It's anger. Again. Still making me feel lost and uncomfortable. No longer scaring me nearly catatonic.

Something that charmed me: It's chilly and rainy and I need to go out for awhile. I tend to be a shivery little old lady, so I'll bundle up. Spotted in my closet, and to be worn with a tip o' the hat to Cousin Bill ~ my red, leather Mae West cowgirl boots. And I intend to kick no one.