"Three Against One" Submission #21

Meanwhile, on the home front, things grew worse. Not only was my step-father a full-blown alcoholic, my mom, who had never really imbibed much alcohol prior to this, was now matching her husband drink for drink. To ever see them sober was a rarity indeed.

To make matters worse, my step-siblings, Jackie and Phillip and my cousin, Bruce, were definitely not a part of the “Bart Munson Fan Club.” Frankly, they couldn’t stand me. They began a united campaign to make my life miserable (more so than it already was), and it worked. They would berate me, exclude me from any plans and insult me in their “private” conversations… knowing that I was within earshot.

I remember one time, I was sitting on my bed with my feet on the floor when Jackie burst into my room and with great force, slammed the bedroom door into my knees. It hurt… badly! I yelled out in pain as she looked at me with a smirk on her face as I heard Phillip and Bruce laughing from the living-room. Mission accomplished, she returned to the living-room and gleefully joined in the laughter.

Another time, I remember drinking a can of pop that tasted very odd and yet, I took several drinks thinking that my taste buds were playing tricks on me. When I finally voiced my complaint about a horrible tasting Coke, Bruce proudly proclaimed that he had urinated in it when I had briefly left the room. I immediately rushed into the bathroom and made myself vomit.

Although I would never, ever recommend this sort of treatment for anyone for any reason… I was not blameless. I needed to be humbled. I was acting out with displays of arrogance, rudeness and disrespect. I don’t know why. Maybe it had something to do with the trauma that was ripping through my life from the point of my father’s death through the present set of tragic, familial circumstances.

By the end of my 7^th grade year, I felt a large shift in my interpersonal relationships. I already outlined my experience with my family but even my friends at school seemed to be pulling away from me.

A school year that had started out so promising for me, was ending in disaster. My parents were totally detached from me, the sober wing of my family hated me, my “friends” at school began to ignore me, Joni had broken up with me and I was miserable. The walls were caving in on me and I had no clue how to deal with it.

Beyond these years, I never had a relationship with Jackie and Bruce. Once we parted ways, any sort of relationship was completely severed.

Barb, me, Butch and Phil

It was different with Phillip. I never felt that he was a real willing participant in all of this crazy activity directed at me. I think he was sucked into it by “sibling pressure” more than anything. If you know Phil, you know that he has a great heart and it is hard to fathom that he would ever desire to hurt anyone. I have enjoyed numerous occasions of visiting with him over the years and I love him as a brother.

I didn’t see God in all of this but He was there… working, molding, drawing me to Himself. But in my frail, childlike mind… I couldn’t comprehend what was happening to me; why it was happening to me. I had no viable recourse. I had no power. I had no faith. All I had was pain and misery.

"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.

"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?