"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.

"My Refuge and my Strength" Submission #16

Grandma Munson became my Sunday night refuge. She was my dad’s mom. Vetah Janes was her name… the “Janes” coming from her second marriage. Regardless of her current, legal last name, we still called her “Grandma Munson.”

Grandma had a constant tick. Sort of like Tourette’s Syndrome. Every few seconds, her head would twitch and she would let out a quick, guttural sound. It took a little getting used to but eventually, I quit noticing it.

Grandma’s husband, Earl Janes, was “Grandpa Earl.” He wasn't a blood relative but he was the only grandpa I ever knew. What a great guy! I loved the man. Every time I saw him and he heard my voice, he’d get a big smile on his face and say with a touch of gusto, “Well hello Brother Bart!”

I say when “he heard my voice,” because Grandpa Earl was as blind as a bat. He couldn’t really see me. He wore thick, coke bottle glasses but I think he could only see blurry shapes or shadowy outlines.

For years, people in Madrid would bring their lawn mowers to Grandpa Earl to repair. He was a wizard at repairing these machines. Even when he all but lost his eye sight, he’d still fix lawn

mowers. He could tear a mower apart and put it back together by touch. An amazing talent.

I’m ashamed to admit that I used to play a cruel trick on him as he toiled away on the workbench in his garage. I would creep into his work area… undetected. He would be standing at his bench, his back to me, disassembling a motor. As he would lay a tool down, I would pick it up. Seconds later, he’d reach for the tool… his hand feeling along the area where he was sure he’d just laid it.

“What the hell?” He’d mumble, out loud, certain that it should be there. Then his fingers would probe the other side of the bench, at which time I would place the tool back where it was originally. Eventually, he’d feel along the original path and what do you know, there it was.

He would let out a little husky laugh and shake his head as he muttered, “I don’t know…” his voice trailing off.

Grandpa Earl had a leg amputated. Diabetes, I think. But that didn't stop him from hobbling to the garage to fix his mowers. Eventually, he had the other leg amputated and that pretty much did him in. He became wheelchair bound and his health seemed to deteriorate from there.

I remember seeing him, sitting in his wheelchair, head bowed, as though he was praying. He would frequently experience “phantom pain" in the lower legs… that weren't there. Both of his stubs would

twitch as he would attempt to muffle his cries of pain.

“Oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh!” He would he would cry out… embarrassed.

When the pain would subside for a few minutes, he’d finally raise up his head, smile at me and say, “My legs sure are acting up tonight, Brother Bart!”

“I know.” I’d say. “I hope they feel better soon, Grandpa.” I didn't really know what to say.

Grandma Munson and Grandpa Earl lived in a tiny, two-bedroom home on Main Street, directly across the street from the Madrid water tower. The old school, built in 1915, was just two blocks

south from their house. At that time, these school buildings housed Kindergarten through 12th grade. Some years later, they built a new high school out on Highway 17, just north of town. Eventually, the junior high students moved out there too.

My Sundays became very predictable. Mom and Jack would start tossing them back shortly after wiping the sleep from their swollen, blood-shot eyes and the alcohol consumption would continue until they could find something to argue about.

By mid-afternoon, invariably, one of them would fire a shot over the bow of the other one and it was on! This was my cue. I’d head over to Grandma’s house. I just didn't want to see them fight. It scared me something fierce. You never knew when the verbal barrage would escalate to physical blows. It often did and mom always came out on the short end of the stick.

Sunday after Sunday, with a rolled up change of clothes under my arm, I would jog the entire way to Grandma’s house, cutting through yards to shorten my trip. People in Madrid didn't build fences.

As I jogged, I would quietly sing gospel hymns to the rhythm of my footsteps. I remembered these songs from my childhood, attending church in California.

“Just a closer walk with thee,

Grant it Jesus is my plea,

Daily walking close to thee,

Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.”

Then I’d sing:

“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine,

Oh what a foretaste of glory divine.

Heir of salvation, purchase of God,

Born of his spirit, washed in his blood.

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my savior, all the day long!

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my savior all the day long.”

The words to these songs would comfort my troubled and frightened soul.

Grandma Munson would cook me dinner every Sunday night and it was always the exact same meal. Meat loaf, fried potatoes and cream corn. I loved it! It is still my favorite meal.

Grandma’s bedroom was right off the living room, on the north side and Grandpa Earl’s bedroom was also off the living room on the south side. My bedroom? I slept on a scruffy, old love seat in the living room. My head was on one armrest and my feet hung over the other armrest. It was far more comfortable than being home… the war zone.

It occurred to me, years later, that mom never asked me about where I was going those Sunday nights. Heck, I don’t think she had a clue that I was even gone. As I stated in a previous submission, she totally lost track of me, as she surrendered her parental duty.

Grandma Munson never asked me why I came over and spent the night… especially when I had school the next day. I suppose she might have known.

Grandma Munson and Grandpa Earl will always hold a very special place in my heart. I don’t think they even realized how much of a comfort they were to a frightened and confused young boy. They were my refuge and my strength. May they rest in peace.

"The Fog of Perpetual Intoxication" Submission #15

"If you're going to be my wife," Mom claimed Jack said, "you're going to drink with me!"

If that's how it went down, mom apparently didn't put up much of a fuss. In fact, she seemed to thoroughly enjoy drinking. I never figured out how Jack had a power over her that Dad never did. All I know is that mom's alcohol consumption went from zero to sixty in a very short period of time. The booze flowed like a river.

It started with beer and transitioned to vodka and orange juice and finally to vodka and water. If someone is pounding vodka and water from morning until night, they ain't doing it because it is a wonderful experience for their taste buds... it is a means to an end... it was a pathway to being black-out drunk.

Mom and Jack drank every single day, without fail. They maintained somewhat of a limit on the weekdays because they tended bar at night. Jack also worked the swing shift at Firestone in Des Moines but for some reason, he seemed to frequently be off of work for long periods of time. Union strike?  Disability? I don't recall but he was off more than he was on.

But even that moderation fell by the wayside eventually.

The weekends, particularly Sundays, when the bar was closed, Mom and Jack would get utterly blitzed. Mixed drinks for breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks in between. The drinking ceased when they finally passed out. Not before.

One Sunday afternoon, I walked into the house after playing some touch football in the neighborhood. As I got to the door, the first thing I noticed was that Jack's Buick Electra was not in its regular spot on the North side of the house, along 21st Street.. Odd.

"They must be gone." I thought.

I walked into the darkened living room, shades all pulled down. I found my mom on the couch... crying. I turned on the light and looked at her. She looked a mess. Her hair was noticeably disheveled but worse was the very swollen, bleeding lip.

"What happened to you?" I asked, my voice shaking. I was pretty sure I knew the answer and Mom confirmed it.

"He didn't mean it. He didn't mean to hurt me." She cried, her speech slurred from injury and extreme intoxication.

She continued. "It was my fault. I should have just kept my mouth shut and this wouldn't have happened."

Well, there was no doubt... my mom was expert at pushing people's buttons and egging them on. However, there was and is no excuse for a man to strike a woman... ever!

Thinking now about that first time that I saw my mom, wounded from physical abuse, it makes me angry. In fact I seethe as I type this. But rage was not the primary emotion I felt at that moment. As a 12-year-old, insecure, misguided preteen... I was scared... shaking.

Apparently, I lacked the machismo to seek retaliation for beating up my mom. I just didn't want him to do it ever again. Remember... from the moment my real father died, I feared my mom would die too and this event just gave me yet another way in which that might come to pass.

I hoped that my mom was right... that he "didn't mean it." Unfortunately, this was only the first physical beating of many. In one of their fights at the bar, Jack hit her so hard that she flew off the bar-stool, unconscious on the floor, near the jukebox. Stitches and an ambulance ride were Mom's prizes for that little scuffle.

The beat-down was witnessed by all the regulars. Did they just stand by as this all happened? I don't know the answer to that question but I do know that as time went on, Jack's bar lost most of their regular clientele. Who could blame them?

Their passion was on display every day... their passionate love one day, their passionate violence the next day. An odd cocktail of unbridled affection followed by violent aggression.

It was at this point in time that I began literally hating my life in Iowa. Until then, things hadn't been so bad since our big move but that all changed about six months into Mom and Jack's marriage.

I began to absolutely dread weekends. When my friends would rejoice at the final school bell on Fridays, I would start to feel that dread in my stomach and a trembling in my legs. I wanted to go to school seven days a week... not for love of school but for fear of the events that I knew would take place... like clock-work... at home.

Can you imagine a kid hating the weekends? It's just not right.

Let me park here for a minute.

This was the start to the darkest period in my life. Worse than the death of my own father, which was horrible enough. I'm not being dramatic; I'm being real.

I was 12 years old. I was not equipped to process what I saw and experienced. No child should EVER be put through this.


Not only did the alcoholism of my mom and step-dad result in weekly, horrible arguments, not to mention regular hand to hand combat... the fog of perpetual intoxication rendered them clueless to what was happening in my life. They didn't know where I was or what I was doing... ever. They didn't know what I was feeling. They never attended my sporting events. They never attended parent/teacher conferences. My mom never washed my clothes, let alone buy me new clothes. They lost total track of me and utterly surrendered their obligation to parent their minor children.

This was the ruination of my childhood. This was the cause of unspeakable anger, hurt and bitterness. It changed me... and not for the better.

But God is the giver of grace.


"Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the LORD upholdeth him with his hand."
Psalm 37:24

Where would I go? Whom would I seek?