"Hello, Good-Bye" Submission #17

Their drinking only grew worse and the alcoholism of my mom and step-dad began to have some far-reaching effects on our lives.

One of the cool things about moving back to Iowa was getting to know a number of family members with whom I had experienced little or no contact while living in California virtually my entire 10 years of life.

Christmas of 1969 was our first holiday season in Iowa and predated Mom’s marriage to Jack. We were invited over to Uncle Pete and Aunt Donna’s house for dinner and a gift exchange. They lived in Boone, about 15 miles north of Madrid.

Uncle Pete was mom's brother and I guess they were inseparable as children. Mom says that everyone called him "Pete" and her "Re-Pete."

The house was full with aunts, uncles and cousins. My cousin, Kent, entertained me with his uncanny imitation of Flipper, the dolphin. The extended family was genuinely happy to welcome us back to our home state. The sound of many conversations with intermittent bursts of laughter saturated the air. We had a great time and vowed to do it again next year... to make it a tradition.

Of course… our family had grown by that next year with mom’s marriage and our newly blended family. But the invitation was still on. The more the merrier!

Christmas fell on a Friday in 1970 and it was decided that our get together would be the next day, Saturday. I woke up that Saturday morning about as excited as an 11-year-old boy could be! The clock ran in slow motion all day as I tried and failed to occupy myself with time consuming activity.

About four o’clock, mom and Jack downed sixth or seventh beer of the day and stood up as if to leave.

“Are we going now?” I halfway shouted with obvious anticipation.

“No,” they told me. “The invitation said it started at six. We have to run to the bar and take care of a couple things.”

My head whipped toward the clock as I did the quick math.

“But you’ll be back in time to go, right?”

They answered in the affirmative… giving comfort to my soul.

By five o’clock, I had taken a bath, washed my hair and suited up in my finest bell bottomed pants… un-coached.  I was ready to get this party started.

I was sure we would be on the road by 5:30 PM… 5:45 PM at the latest.

Even as a child… I was preoccupied with promptness. I get teased to this day about my literal obsession with being early to all events. Nothing frustrates me more than to see people walking into a theater AFTER the previews begin to roll. What could they possibly be thinking?

We had a small, closed in front porch and I wandered out there at about 5:15 PM, certain I’d see the Buick’s headlights in my eyes as they headed west on 21^st Street. Nose pressed against the cold window, the glass steaming up all around me.

Every few minutes, I’d dash back into the living room and look at the gaudy, star-burst clock that occupied a large space on the wall… above the television set. And as the clock hands continued to move, I was more anxious and depressed as the time deadlines in my head came and went.

5:30, 5:45, 6:00 PM… all passed. But I still had hope. So we would be fashionably late… I could live with that… barely.

6:30, 7:00, 8:00 PM… in the books. We ain’t going. I cannot tell you how heartbroken I felt.

Sometime after eight o’clock… Mom and Jack came stumbling through the front door… obviously and extremely intoxicated. With a large lump in my throat and tear stained eyes, I opened my mouth to lodge my complaint when mom beat me to the punch.

“Cmon… lessss go!”

At that point… my emotions were thoroughly mixed. I wanted to go so bad but surely the party was over at that point and I doubted Jack was in any shape to drive. But… we went.

My mom knocked loudly on my aunt and uncle’s front door.

“Hellllloooo! An buddy home?”

It was 9 PM.

Uncle Pete opened the front door and as I peaked around him, the only body I saw was Aunt Donna, picking up some paper plates from the coffee table. Everyone was gone. The party was over. I was sick to my stomach.

I honestly do not remember exactly what started it but an argument erupted shortly after we stepped inside the front door. I think the intoxicated instigators took offense that they dared start the party prior to our arrival. Yes… they should have waited for three hours to allow the drunks to arrive.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Mom yelled over her shoulder as she staggered out the door, “We aren't ever coming back!”

Apparently they took her seriously because we were never invited back. I never saw my Uncle Pete again as he died of cancer some years later. His two kids, my first cousins, Kent and Judy, lived 15 miles away from me as we grew up… and we had no contact.

It wasn’t until 30 years later that I finally had some contact with my cousins. I saw Kent and his wife Mandy at a high school basketball game where one of my daughters was playing. It was great to get caught up. And then some 15 years after that, Mandy and I have become “Facebook friends” and communicate via social media.

I had a chance to catch up with Judy and her husband, Dave, at a family reunion some years back. It was exciting to hear about their son, Nick Collison, who was a basketball star at the University of Kansas at that time. Nick was drafted in 2003 by the Seattle Supersonics of the NBA, who later moved their franchise to Oklahoma City. Nick is one of the few players to stay his entire career with the same team. I saw a few weeks ago where he signed another 2-year contract with the Thunder.

Unfortunately, I have never had the pleasure of meeting my cousin, Nick Collison.

Surely things would have been much different had not Mom and Jack decided to celebrate the birth of Christ 45 years ago by drinking themselves into oblivion.