"Was He Talking to Me?" - Submission #40

Getting stoned out of my mind that night in June of 1975... the first day of my California vacation... well, that seemed to set the tone for that summer. Day one was the template for day two, and day three and so on... as long as I was staying with Bob and Ginny.

Sleeping until noon, eating like a king, rocking out to Bob’s amazing collection of 70’s rock albums and then smoking weed until we crashed in the early morning hours. Every day... 

It seems that every night, at least one of Bob’s friends would stop by for a late night of smoking and drinking. Bob kept his stash in a Tupperware container in his coffee table. Once he pulled it out, the party was on. My goal was to keep up with the big boys... hit for hit, drink for drink... and before long, I did just that.

For me, this wasn’t so much about entertainment. It wasn’t so much about having a “good time.” This was self-medication... plain and simple. This was an exercise... an activity... a substance to help me to forget about my life back home. And it worked... at least for periods of my days but reality would set in at some point and the feelings of depression and dread would once again consume me.

This pattern really helps me to understand how some people become drug addicts or alcoholics. So often, addiction stems from some sort of trauma in one’s life... a death, physical abuse, sexual abuse, a broken relationship. Looking back... addiction seemed to be my eventual destination. I was laying that foundation and didn’t even realize it.

The plan was to split my time between my three brothers. That didn’t really happen. By far, I spent most of my time with Bob. I spent some time with Butch. I spent very little time with Bill.

My first day with Bill happened to be a Sunday. Of course, that meant we’d be going to church. Not my idea of a good time.

Bill was the assistant pastor of Baptist Community Bible Church. I rode a bus to this church when I was in elementary school... prior to dad’s death and our move to Iowa. Back then, it was called Community Bible Church. Somewhere along the way, they added “Baptist” to the name.

I hadn’t attended this church... I hadn’t attended any church for more than six years. Bill, on the other hand, had grown up in this church... since the early 1960’s. After high

Janet and Bill shortly after they were married.

school, he graduated from Bible College and along the way, married the Pastor’s daughter and joined the staff of the church.

I sat in the back row and just soaked in the experience. I remember seeing a good group of teens sitting together on the left side of the sanctuary. They seemed to be enjoying themselves... talking, laughing... and plugged into the church service, once it started.

Actual photo of the congregation of Community Bible Church

I couldn’t be more different than these kids. They were clean cut, seemed happy and were engaged in worship. I had long hair, hated life, wreaked of pot smoke and was totally confused about matters of faith.

Pastor RG Osborne

Pastor RG Osborne, Bill’s father-in-law, delivered the message that morning. He preached about Jesus. He told us that we could be forgiven, saved from our sins and delivered from our sinful lifestyle.

Was he talking to me? Did Bill tip him off that I would be in attendance? Did this preacher craft his sermon exclusively for the rebellious, long haired 16 year-old in the back row? It certainly seemed to be the case.

That church service had an effect on me. I was intrigued by what I saw and the the words that I heard but I wasn’t sure how to process it... how to interpret it. Was all that stuff true? Could Jesus make something positive out of my life? Doubtful. I was too far gone.

After the service, Bill asked me how I liked the it.

“Fine.” Standard answer. Conversation stopper. I didn’t want to tip my hand. I didn’t want him to know that the service had given me a bit of a jolt. 

That Sunday night, I went back to Bob’s. We smoked a joint and drank a few beers. I went to bed with a buzz and yet, my mind was racing about the church service I had attended.... the teens, the preacher and his message.

I saw Bill only one more time and I made sure that it wasn’t a Sunday. I didn’t want to risk another disruption to my heart and mind with the stuff that went on at that church.

Instead of church, this time we went to Disneyland. We had a great time. We stayed until it closed. Rode the rides and laughed all night long. I didn’t realize that religious people could have this much fun. 

The month in California flew by. The date of my departure was rapidly approaching and I was anxious and depressed. The thought of school... the thought of that blue Nova... the thoughts overwhelmed me.

School was still six weeks away, why couldn’t I stay longer? I called my mom on a Saturday night... strategically... I knew she’d be drunk. I told her I was staying another month. She agreed and I stayed with Bob the rest of the time.

But it simply prolonged the inevitable. I spent the next month under the influence a good part of the time. I was desperate to push thoughts of going home out of my mind with only limited success.

Despite my best efforts to make time stand still... the day of my departure arrived. School was starting in a couple weeks and I had to get back. I think I cried. I'm sure of it.

I said my good byes and got on the big bird at LAX.

Downtown Madrid, IA

My mom and step-dad, Jack, picked me up at the Des Moines Airport. Not surprisingly, they had gotten there early and spent an hour in the airport bar. Both were inebriated. Nothing new. I cannot believe how often Jack drove while highly intoxicated. 

We made it back safely to Madrid. 216 East 2nd Street... on the main drag of town. I lugged my large suitcase up to my front door and turned to see a car driving by very slowly. It was the blue Nova and I got sick to my stomach.

"Alone Again, Naturally" - Submission #37

The summer after my freshman year offered me the solace of baseball. I loved baseball. It was my happy place. Many of my earliest memories of life included baseball. I spent countless hours throwing a rubber ball against a wall to field ground balls or tossing a ball as high as I could to see if I could track it down and catch it. I’d lay on my back in my bedroom and repeatedly toss a ball up with my right hand and catch it with my left. Often, I would just take a baseball bat and work on the mechanics of my swing. In my mind, each swing was preceded with the fantasy that I was up in a crucial situation in the World Series. And every swing represented me swatting the game winning hit… while my adoring fans roared.

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I’d like to think that I was a pretty decent player. I pitched and played shortstop. Two coveted positions on the diamond.

There were two teams that represented Madrid for our age group of the Senior League in the region. My team was the Sox and our evil, cross-town rival was the Dodgers. It was actually a pretty fun competition and we were the top two teams in our league.

Lovell Gordon was our coach and his son, Terry (we called him ‘Bubbles’) was our catcher. Kevin Gibbons and I rotated on the mound.

We did well that year. I think we won the league. I had made the All-Star team the year before as one of the younger players in the league and so I had every confidence that I would make it again as one of the older ones. Plus, I had a good season.

Coach Gordon was assigned the task of picking two players to represent the Sox on the All-Star team. I was confident that Kevin and I would be chosen. I was half right. Kevin was chosen… deservedly so... and Bubbles was the second choice.

I was devastated.

I’m still bitter about that.

As it would turn out, I would never play organized baseball again.

I don’t remember a whole lot about my sophomore year of high school. I certainly never dreamed it would be my final school year in Madrid. But as it turned out… it was.

Most of that year was shrouded in loneliness, fear, uncertainty and emotional pain. I was just surviving… trying to make it through each day. My family situation and social life continued on its downward trajectory.

The only semi-bright spot was basketball season. Again… sports to the rescue.

I played on the JV team and started every game. We only had six players on the squad, so being a “starter” wasn’t all that impressive. But I do remember the six players… Don Friedmeyer, Kevin Gibbons, Rod Isolini, John Horton, Randy Norton and yours truly.

My singular highlight was scoring 21 points in our very first game. I was as hot as a pistol. I never scored in double figures again.

I have a number of odd, random memories from that basketball season. One of them was a game, in our home gym. We were locked in a heated battle with only a couple seconds left to go in regulation. The score was tied and Kevin Gibbons was at the free throw line. He had a chance to win it for us. I was at half court, bent over, hands on my knees… begging God to let us win the game. I despised the very thought of losing! I tried to make a deal with the

Almighty… “God, if you allow Kevin to make this free throw, I will quit smoking. Yes… I will quit smoking cigarettes and pot. I promise!”

Don’t judge. You’ve made similar “deals” with God, right?

Kevin sunk the free throw and we won. God held up His end of the bargain… but I didn’t. I broke my promise later that night… in my bedroom. A celebratory cigarette… in the dark… alone again, naturally.

Randy Norton threw a party for the team when the season ended. The party included the essential elements... booze and chicks.

Randy had one of those “cool dads” who left us alone to party with a “You boys behave!” admonition as he winked and drove away. Yeah right. We’ll “behave” alright.

That night quickly became somewhat of a blur for me as I became quite the mixologist. I combined various liquids as though I were playing with a chemistry set. They tasted horrible at first but it didn’t take long before the taste became a nonissue. My mantra became pour and consume.

Apparently there was another party, with similar refreshments being served across town because about an hour into our shindig, a couple guys delivered one of their partiers to Randy’s house. It was a girl named Lynnette, whose older sister was with us.

I think the guys that dropped her off… did so because they were scared. They had to carry her to the house. We were drunk but Lynnette was blackout drunk. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t function. She was only 14.

I felt sorry for her. I sat on the floor by the couch where they laid her and tried to brush the hair away

from her face. Somebody had brought a bucket and set it down next to me. It was great timing because within seconds she began heaving. I grabbed the bucket with one hand and held her head up with the other as she heaved and vomited.

When she was through, I grabbed a box of tissues from the end table and began wiping around her mouth. She would occasionally open her eyes and then close them quickly as she tried to form words but her ability to speak coherently failed.

Eventually Lynnette passed out… completely.

Looking back, she really should have been taken to the hospital but we didn’t have common sense enough to make that judgment. I assume that she had never really drank before and didn’t know her limits. Painful lesson, I’m certain.

I thought about her the next day as I was working through my own hangover. I called her house to see how she was doing. She answered the phone. I had never really talked to her before and because she had zero recollection of the events from the previous night, she was awfully confused as to ‘why’ Bart Munson was calling her.

I explained… in detail. She was confused and embarrassed. I just laughed it off and told her that she had a great story to tell people in the years to come. I expressed my relief at how much better she sounded compared to the last time I’d seen her.

We ended up talking on the phone for a couple hours. So I called her again the next day and talked for a long time again.

After that, we became an item. She was the only girl that I ever gave my class ring to. She was the last girlfriend that I had in Iowa.

But what an odd start to that relationship.

The end of basketball marked the final stretch of the school year. Events would unfold that would push me to my limit and would be confronted with life changing... or ending... decisions.