"did" and "said" are the only two important things in your past

Have you ever thought that of all your life and years ... the two things that really matter... the only two things that are of any importance in your past are  "did" and "said" ?

Now, you may think that  "thoughts" is one of them too.  But!  Thoughts are things said to yourself.  Besides, thoughts usually become "dids" or "saids" eventually.

Case -in-point...my mom did and said a lot right before she died.   That's what I remember most about her.  The last things she did ...and...the last things she said.  Especially the last things she said.  I made a point to memorize those "said" things, because I knew those last words really mattered to her.  And I helped her complete all her "did" things.   I've held onto those words and actions.  I play them over in my mind. 

You can see what I'm saying and doing right now, can't you?   Whatever we do and say is what people remember about us.   It doesn't matter what we look like, what we wear, what we own, or what we learn.  It only matters what we "did" or "said".  Words and actions...those two explain it better, at least you may think so.   But I like  "did" and "said".   Why ?   Because they stick with me. 
And think about it, everything is past tense.   Seriously.   It's not what you are going to say.   It's not what you are going to do.  None of that really matters at all.   None of those so-called promises matter a-hill-of-beans (whatever that means).   Only things that matter are what you've physically or verbally put out there in space, tangible stuff, what others hear and observe of you.
My alcoholic dad promised us a lot.  And that meant nothing to us.  We always had the attitude that we'd believe it when we saw it.  Well, yeah, when we were young, we hung on his every word.  But ,we soon got over that.  
So, if you want to break it all down, if you want to know what is the most important things in your life that matters, what you really need to focus on...focus on these two things..."did" ...and... "said".  If you can get those two things right, you'll be remembered kindly and with much love..see

What??? A forgotten memory ???

Why is it that when one begins to wake-up...just coming out of sleep...a long forgotten memory surfaces?  How is that possible?  How 'do' our minds work?  I wasn't even awake, but my mind showed me a mental picture of another dear ol' dad memory.
So I'm just beginning to wake-up, as I just said, and I see, in my mind's eye, this sheet that is covering a wing-backed chair, with steam coming up and out through it, in the living room of my parents' house.  And as I come to myself, I think,  "I remember that!"
Yeah.  My alcoholic dad was such a kidder.  Made me a little afraid of him at times, though.  He liked to play pranks on people...mostly his naive children or irritated wife.  Yeah.   You'd probably refer to those as being punked nowadays.   He liked to do the oddest things to surprise us, and to laugh at us, and generally get a really good kick-out-of-it...for his own pleasure. 
He was a witty man, very witty.  Almost like Archie Bunker, when it came to mom, and like the bully on the Little Rascals when it came to us.  But, I can say he kept our life interesting.   And he could tell stories that made your hair stand-up on your skin...all over your body! 
But, I was remembering that chair with that sheet and that steam, wasn't I?  So, my sister had fallen asleep in 'his' chair.  And, since she hadn't gone-off to bed like a good little girl, and had inconvenienced him, he decided to teach her a lesson and have some fun at the same time.
He took the old vaporizer, and a sheet and pulled it over the wing-back chair.  Then, we all sat back and watched as the steam engulfed that chair, and sheet, and my sister.  I really don't remember what "scent or odor" that dad put on that cotton ball, in the little cup that was used for mentholatum to easy a child's breathing.  But, knowing dad it must have been bordering on cruel.
So, there we sat.  And one thing dad hadn't counted on was that, my sister couldn't be awakened for anything, once she had fallen sleep.  I knew  that for sure.  Nights that I was afraid of 'whatever'...I'd try to wake her --- to no avail.   And so, we all just sat there waiting for her to get spooked, I guess, but the only thing she did was to move her arm and pull that sheet down, foiling dad's little scheme.
Funny, I had thought I remembered all there was to remember, when writing in my journals, and eventually in my books.  But here I am this morning, awakened to a memory that I had totally forgotten.  Just goes to show  ya' --- there's more in one's memory bank than initially meets the mind's eye...see

a hard day's work

Never does a body feel more alive than when its been put through a hard day's work.   One thing my alcoholic dad taught us was to work hard.   He also taught us several other things as well.   Have a firm handshake, look people straight in the eye, if you want to have a friend--- be a friend first, courtesy is the only way to be,  respect all your elders---especially your boss, honesty brings about trust.  
All those things would have had a better impact, if my alcoholic dad had lived that in his own life.  But, sadly, he fell short in all those areas.  He just couldn't rise to the level of his own philosophies.
There was one piece of wisdom that allowed him this lack of follow-through in those areas of decent moral behavior.  His most famous line to us, his four children was; "Do as I say.  Not as I do."
Yeah, it worked (for him) every time...see  

Off and Running !!!

Off to a Writers' Conference Today .....much to do and much to anticipate !!! 
Always hope...always hope....always hope...never let that hope dissipate. 
Hope is what keeps us alive, shares our goals, and makes us get up every morning...God's mercies are renewed every morning...and thank God for that !

winging it today...sort of a holiday story

It's one thing to just look in my journal, and pull-out notes from another memory by way of this reliable source.  It's quite another to just wing it.  So, here I go. 
My sister and brothers say they don't hold the same memories that I have.  But, they also say they can't remember much of anything, of what happened when they were younger.   My husband is the same way.   His younger memories are very vague and foggy.  That has always amazed me.  Not that they do not remember their past childhoods...but that I do. 
Hundreds of childhood memories are forever etched in my brain.  For good or bad, my childhood memories just keep playing over and over.  A smell of some scent...a brownie...a certain item...like an aluminum clad, silver christmas tree complete with that circular, tri-colored, rotating light...things like these automatically trigger my memories.  Yeah, that's what my mom liked...she thought it was very modern and visible from the road...which so doesn't explain another memory of her reaction to an ultra-modern plastic black, orange, and yellow pole lamp that dad bought her for a gift. 
Actually, truth-be-told, dad wanted it located by 'his' chair... so he could get a better look at those girlie pictures.  But, he made it out to be a present for mom...so she'd accept it and put it in her living room.  Did not go over well.  She said she would have to take it back and get something in an early American style.   That was when dad blew-up.  We kids knew it.  All of us were cringing in our seats...hoping against hope that our mom would smile and lie, and say she really really liked it.  But no, mom had this way of pushing dad's buttons.
So, that gift ended up in about a zillion pieces, as dad vented and took it out on that poor lamp.  I wasn't too disappointed that time.  That was one ugly lamp.  Mom later told me that honesty is always best no matter the outcome.  And then she added, she just couldn't stand the thought of having to look at that hideous lamp in her living room. 
She had picked her battle, and had decided that whatever flack she got from dad was going to be worth it, not to have to live with that lamp...but we all had to put up with that stupid silver aluminum tree year after year... see

that stupid stick horse and that stupid door !

Like I was saying, my dad hated for us to go to the doctor.  Grin and bear it...be a big man...don't be a sissy and cry...just deal with it...get over it...yeah those were his favorite lines.  Guess his dad never let him go to the doc either.  
But one day, when all of us were there.  It was the holidays...and dad had come home...and meager toys were given us by our parents, whom we thought to be santa claus.  And, there were those two stick ponies that my brothers got for gifts.
I was happy for them.  As thrilled as they were, you would have thought they were real, live ponies.  So, the day started with them riding their ponies through the house.  Dad told them to take their fun outdoors.  And since our storm door had a broken latch that 'never' latched...my brothers went all the way down the hall, galloping through the living room to get to the porch by way of that door. 
As luck or fate that stupid door would not allow my youngest brother to pass!  And wouldn't you know it!  My dad had actually changed the screen with the winter glass replacement pane!  And wouldn't you know it...my dear little baby brother had smashed through that glass door pane and proceeded on through it.  Well, fact was, only his arm did.  And blood was gushing everywhere!  He nearly fainted, as we got him into the bathroom. 
Then my dad did three things that I'll never forget.  First, he used the line.."be a big man and don't cry"...on my baby brother, the one I always took such good care of!   Second, dad said to mom that in no way was he going to take my baby brother to the hospital.  Third, he took down the Merthiolate and poured it all over my baby brother's arm, as blood and red medicine ran down the drain, until I thought I was going to pass-out !
I don't know if dad had had alcohol that morning.  He was at home that weekend, and that usually meant lots of bottles lying around.  But my poor baby brother was in so much pain.  Mom gave him some baby aspirins and bandaged his right arm.  And that was the end of that holiday. 
Not a great story, but a true one...see

don't EMBARRASS ME please!

My dad had so many complexities to his personality.  If he was happy, he certainly wasn't drinking.  But sometimes, if he was stern, he wasn't drinking either.  When dad was drinking he was always belligerent, and insulting, and ridiculing, and nasty, could be very nasty or potty-mouthed.   But with his many moods, he could be just cold-hearted with his words, even when sober. 
One day in a seemingly happy mood, he took his four children to the zoo.  We didn't care where  we went with our dad.  The stinkin' country was so boring ...nothing to do there.  And dad worked out of town a lot, for various reasons.  I'll eventually get into all the reasons why that was the case.  So, being with dad was a treat for us.  Mom used to say that he was no more than like a visiting uncle, who'd take us places and buy us things (cheap things, very cheap things) and have fun with us.  He hated disciplining us, because he saw us so rarely.
So there we were, at the zoo!  Now it wasn't very expensive to get into the zoo, not back then...a dime a piece.  Dad could handle that, as it didn't dip into his personal funds all that much.  Well, I mentioned in passing that, I had some fears and phobias.  One of those was my fear of going blind....and there's a very good reason for me fearing that malady, too.  But, that's another story, for another day.
Now that zoo park had the entrance right at the bottom of a very steep hill.  Well, unknown to my dad, I had challenged myself to keep my eyes closed all the way up to the top of that long, steep hill...just to see what it was like to walk as a blind person.  I thought I was being really courageous to do that, since I had that certain fear, you know. 
Dad didn't think so.  As we ascended that hill, I had strayed from my family, because it's very difficult to go straight when blind, and so, I was way behind them and to the right of them as well..  They had climbed that hill, and was watching the antics of a massive gorilla in the first outdoor observation cage.  I heard everyone laughing and  screaming.   But, I was determined to meet my goal and 'not' open my eyes, not until I felt the ground  beneath my feet level-out.  That's one thing about a hill, you can tell that you are walking at an incline even with your eyes closed.
Well, unknown to me was that, that creepy gorilla was doing his job, and was investigating it as he did so, by placing his hand on his behind.  My dad turned to see where his little girl was, just as that gorilla decided to throw his job out towards the zoo visitors!   
And then and there, with all those other people around us, dad screamed at me. "Why are you being so stupid and walking with your eyes closed?  Sara Jane! ...Look out !"
No really, he only screamed out that, I should look-out for what was coming my way.  But his tone of voice came through loud and clear, and that's what 'I' heard.   That's what I thought the other people heard too, that tone in his voice.   Dad did pull me over and ask why I was walking with my eyes closed, saying that it was stupid thing to be doing.  But, how could I know that gorilla poop was going to miss me by only a mere inch!
There I was proud as could be at my accomplishment, and it was not at all received well by my dad...the one person I so wanted to please.  And that's a memory of yet another story of mine.  Enough for today, or these other stories will go on and on...see

My Own Mother was wild as the Indians!

Another humorous story to be told...my sister and I spent one week every summer with our wealthy city cousins. That's where we learned to ride 'their' bikes, and where we were 'privileged' to ride in those rumble-seats of those Model-T Fords that their dad, our uncle, renovated for his hobby.  And, where we ate pretty darn well, too, I might add.  When our aunt went to the store she bought what her children wanted.  None of that; maybe there will be enough grocery money for that next week, kind of stuff.
So, sadly, it was time for our mom to come and pick us up from our week long, city-time fun.  We didn't want to leave.  Oh!... how we didn't want to leave !  Life was like heaven there.  Ice cream trucks every night came right to your door!   Street lights shined all night long....no silent, still darkness of nothingness, not at all like in the country.    (Another phobia of mine...fear of the darkness.)
We have so much fun sharing toys, and especially bikes, with our city cousins.  They were the cousins that always got  toys from grandma and grandpa.  We had to get pj's or socks and underwear, or gloves and hats.  Always the stuff we so needed that winter and didn't have already.  They got the toys...pretty darn nifty toys too.  I always calculated in my mind that those toys must have cost way more than our socks and underwear did.  But, what did I know?  I was just a kid and knew nothing of the high price that Sears put on their all cotton under garments.
 I had never heard of the country mouse and the city mouse...but we were the country mice,for sure.  But, now for the Indian part of my story.  You see, my sister and I had long hair...really long hair.  Mom hated to wash and comb and braid our long hair.  We were even in a contest once, where the longest braids won something, (I don't remember what.) if theirs were the longest braids in our city contest.  We even got our pictures posted in the newspaper and the length of our braids were noted.  Some stupid girl that hadn't cut her hair all her life won.  She was probably a pentecostal kid.  Which, by-the-way, my dad's mother was one,and didn't want our dad to get our hair cut---ever!---either.
Anyhow, that certain aunt was a beautician.  She loved playing with our long hair...so she said.  She told us she wanted us to look very nice and groomed for when our mom came to pick us up.  We nearly cried that that was the last day there with that rich family.  But, at the least, we were going to enjoy a final meal together.  Not knowing it would be our hairs' final meal, too!
So, we all sat down to eat.  Mom had arrived to take us home.  The mothers absolutely insisted that the boys sit in the back at the wall on the bench, and the girls were to sit on the outside of the table, in the chairs.   No big deal,right?  We had steaming hot, hot dogs, root beers, and potato chips in front of us...and all was good!
Next thing we knew!  We heard those deafening, awful sounds of scissors cutting, and felt the awful tug of our long braids, as simultaneously, our mom 'and' our aunt sniped-off all four braids --- to the very nap or our necks!!!  We were in shook!  Both of us lost our appetites in and instant!  We immediately ran to find a mirror, of  course!   Into two of the bedrooms we flew.  To our horror, our chopped hair was flopping around our ears!
Mom and my aunt laughed heartily at their sneaky, horrific plan going so well, as they watched us flee our last meal in terror.  I'll never forget the sound of those scissors.  I'll never forget their callous laughs.  But mostly, I'll never forget how my own mother got such pleasure out of offending my grandmother and my dad...by scalping us.  And she didn't even drink alcohol!!!
We kept our braids in a small paper bag, way up high in our closet...almost like a dead loved one in an urn.  Every once in  awhile we'd take them down and just hold them, remembering how it was to have beautiful long hair for which our father told us we were so beautiful.  Never again did either or us have such long flowing locks.  And I won't even go there...where mom, dad, and grandma had it out over our short hair.
So, another memory...but not at the expense of any grievances for my dad...see

not in the mood

Yeah, I'm just not in the mood today for going backwards in time with bad memories.  Maybe it's the cold gray day, maybe it's the quietness and calm in the house, or the hope of newness coming with the new year just ahead.  I don't know.  I just feel like sharing something fun and humorous.  I did tell you that I can laugh about the past now,didn't I and with God's help I have gotten past those hateful, hurtful feelings. 
It's a different thing, forgiving---from---forgetting.  Forgetting may mean someone hasn't dealt with it at all,but merely suppressed it...it being too difficult to think about.  Forgiving means that your emotions can't be roused to affect you any longer in adverse ways, though you may be able to remember the incidents exactly as they happened, as if it were yesterday. 
I have loads of cool memories, as well.  And one of those is what I want to share today.  I remember when, (Will not start out that way very often,I promise.)  my brothers and sisters and I wanted to go outside to play in the snow.  We were too poor to own the proper snow gear for children.  So, we improvised.  We used dad's long socks for leggings, and two sets of mittens and/or gloves to cover over the holes in the fingers of the other set.  And to make our shoes stay nice and warm, we took plastic bread bags and rubber bands for our boots.  They worked really well for sliding on the ice ! 
On one of those rare snow-days from school, we bundled-up and took out the front door.  To our surprise, the snow had drifted all the way up to the porch ,which was five feet  high above the front yard.  All of us went running off the porch, jumping into the huge mass of that cold, white pillow of snow.  Soon, a snowman was constructed, as well as a fort.  And shortly after that, snowballs were flying everywhere.
There was a strange thing about our front yard.  It was tiered. A stair-step system had been cut into the hill that we lived on, to prevent erosion.  So, with all the deep snow that had come down the night before, the snow literally eliminated that gap.  Looking out across the front yard, all we could see was the level, snowy landscape; the hill's drop-off wasn't visible in the least.
My sister decided that it was firmly packed snow that had spread over the front.  She yelled that she was going to run out to the end of the hill.  We turned to see what fun she was having in the snow, but all of us gasped, as we watched our elder sister disappear from view, right before our eyes!  The snow had swallowed her up in an instant!
We ran to what we thought was the end of the hill, and saw nothing.  No coat, no scarf, no head, no hat, nothing!  Being the hypochondriac that I was, I immediately started screaming that she must be 'suffocating' underneath all that snow.  It was as if my sister had caused an avalanche to cave-in all around her.
The next thing we did was to yell for our dad.  Dad to the rescue!  It had snowed so much that not many got out on the roads that day, and so neither had our dad.  But , dad used any excuse not to work, but to hang-out and drink.
We were all breathless, after running through the deep snow to the house.   Trying to tell him all at once that our older sister had disappeared in the snow, through gasps and shivers wasn't accomplished much.  But by the fear in our eyes, he got the gist of what we were explaining. 
Dad immediately ran outside, with coat still in hand.  I remember watching him putting on his coat, as he went half-running, half-jumping through the snow.   He hollered at us to show him where she went over the edge, and we did our best to point out the area, though there was no sign of footprints or anything.   Just like it was water in pond, dad dove into the snowy bank, not fearful for himself at all.   It was like watching a snow plow, as he tore-up that hill of snow trying to find his daughter. 
After a short while , that seemed like 'forever' to me, he had hold of her coat and hurriedly found her head and brushed the snow from her face.  She seemed like she was asleep, but looked up at dad and smiled.  Later , she said that everything was dark, and soon she felt warm and just asleep. She thought she was dreaming ,she said.
Mom had hot chocolate waiting for us, and we all warmed-up before going out again that very day.  Snow was a precious toy that came around only at certain times, and we couldn't waste it's good use.  I hated winter , but the fun we could have in the snow almost made it all worth the stinging pain of fingers and toes.
We'll never know if my sister had passed-out from lack of air, or if she had hit her head on the cold hard ground, or if she had nearly frozen to death.  The first seems more likely to me.
It's amazing how a terrifying event can be so quickly shaken-off and one resume normal activities, especially when you're a kid and snow is all around you....see

wasted intelligence

Dad was an inventor...and a great one.  He insisted that he invented the vibrating bed before anyone else.  He sure didn't like it when he heard someone in Japan had invented it, about three years after he had.  Actually, that old saying--- 'Necessity is the mother of invention'---that's what spurred my dad on.  His dad was deaf you see.  He worked at a factory and had been injured by something there.  In those days, not much compensation was allowed for work-related injuries.  So, grandpa still went of to that factory job everyday.
Only problem was...he couldn't hear the alarm any longer to wake him at 4:30 in the morning.  My grandmother complained that she had become his alarm clock, and didn't like that new role one bit.  So my dad invented a motorized box-springs that shook his whole bed, whenever the alarm clock went-off. 
Only problem was---dad overdid it!  Grandpa would bounce off that bed and onto the floor, the second the alarm went-off.  So, dad tamed it down some, and everybody was happy.  Until the day that dad heard a Japanese man made millions selling that idea to hotels...for other considerations than getting 'out of  bed'! 
It's so sad that my dad had all these nifty ideas, and never did anything with them.  Like the time he invented a gas dryer for my mom.  She always had two babies in diapers, at the same time.  In the winter that was a hassle.  (We are now so blessed!  I don't know 'how' they got along in the pioneer days.)
So, since dad had dug a basement under our little 600 sq. ft. home to install the new furnace, he then cut a larger hole in the kitchen floor, made a huge hamster-like encased chicken-wire pen, and then he took-off from his motorized  vibrating bed idea, attaching a pulley system to turn that giant hamster cage.  The diapers went in there, and every time the furnace turned-on, the pulley also turned the cage, the diapers flipped and flopped...and soon mom had more freshly dried diapers for her  babies bottoms.
Dad also invented tools for his trade.  He was a mechanic, by trade, worked on cars and trucks, and he was an auto body man.  Dad loved cars, everything about them.   He invented tools to make the jobs easier.  Yet, dad never took it to the next level of patenting any of them.  Dad was our own Thomas Edison.  Only problem was---he never aspired to bettering himself or his family.  The bottle was his main objective, main goal, and first love.    So enough reminiscing for one day...see

not going to the amusement park

Another day...another memory.  Dad didn't like doctors.  Dad just didn't like spending the money on them.  Money was a preciously coveted commodity with my dad.  He wanted it all for himself.   Could say more, but that would be off-topic right now.
 Anyway, enough with that.  Consequently, he didn't like taking us, his four children, to the doctor.  But, mom was getting harassed by the school, and told him we simply had to get caught-up on our shots.  And since he hadn't let us go to a doc in a very long time, each of us had many shots to get caught-up on.  
So, off we went, after dad got in 'his' 'shots' for his own special moral support.  We didn't have that chemical support system available to us, though.  We had to simply sit back and accept them driving us to our appointment with terror. 
As the four of us whined and shivered in fear, in the huge back seat of that old Cadillac, dad began to make his promises once again.  Only I noticed that stern glance that mom gave his way, as he proclaimed the fun-time we'd all have at the amusement park, after and only after we marched in that doc's office, like little soldiers and take it like big brave men.
Yeah, he knew just what to bait us with, and that was all the incentive we needed.   We did march in there as brave as could be.  Stood there and took three shots each, as brave soldiers, mostly to please our dad...keep dad on your good side...well...and for the reward of that fun-filled amusement park, which we had passed-by so many times...and because it cost money...never got to swing into that place and enjoy what it had to offer.  But, those shots would all be worth it in the end.  No pun intended.
So, it was about ten miles from that doc's office to that amusement park.  And, as dad had calculated correctly, it only took about ten miles for those horrid shots to kick-in.  Mom knew this of course.  We were so ill and so feverish, aching all over, we all just cried all the more, as dad  passed-up that little amusement park, so he could get us on home because we felt so awful. 
His sneaky laugh was worse than that amusement park disappointment, though.  And mom's continued stern looks at him were enough to show me that, he had planned to dupe us from the start of that little adventure.  It's like that with an alcoholic parent, though.  The kids try to not say anything to set-off that parent on one of his tangents.  They will lie for and to that parent, and make-believe that they are so happy and everything is okay.  So long s dad is okay, it's okay enough for everyone else.  Doesn't matter if it's really okay with you.  Just keep good ol' dad happy and calm.
That's the way to play the game, you see.  Don't rile the alcoholic parent.  Find out what his/her weakness is for blowing-off and blowing-up.    It's not a matter of keeping him 'from' drinking.  That'll never happen. It's a matter of keeping everything quiet and still while they 'are' drinking.   That's the game...avoiding blow-ups...a twisted extreme to winning their approval.  
But then, another issue arises, which is a new and surprising cause for contention.  And the one that brought it on gets yelled at and ridiculed by the others in the house.  And all that one can say is that; "It never caused him to be upset before!---and I just didn't know!"  How could they have known?   It wasn't fair.  He never did 'that' before, when that one had said or did that certain thing before.   Hard to follow along with me on this, I know.  And that's the way it was with an alcoholic parent...very hard to follow...very hard to keep-up on his/her hair-triggers. 
Keeping account of everything that could provoke an alcoholic parent, keeping those hair-triggers in one's mind was exhausting.  No wonder we didn't do so well in elementary school.  Too much to think about.  People say don't burden your mind by bringing work home with you...but children of alcoholic parents bring the burden of home on their minds to school with them.
 So enough for today.  Anyone relating here?...see

my ridiculously absurd life with my alcoholic father

So today I feel it's necessary to begin with some precursors, and a prelude of sorts, concerning my style of writing.  First, this blog is meant for those 18 and older.  Second, I haven't bothered to pretend to be politically correct, because life is not always lived-out properly.   It happens one day at a time, with all the good and bad emotions in the mix...and not many think of the resulting consequences of their actions that will come back on them, to be explained or repented of, at some later date.  Third, you will notice that I use dots...dashes--- and "ditto marks" as I write.  Fourth, everything I write in this blog will be non-fiction...or at the least..the truth as I see it. 
Too, this blog will reveal my life... but hopefully, elements of yours as well.   So, dig-in-deep and search your inner soul for any evidence of lingering regrets, remorse, or otherwise revengeful memories.
It seems that alcoholism and gambling and other women/men just go together.  That translates into irresponsibility and lost paychecks that disappear with far less effort than it took to earn them.  The ironic thing is that for some unknown reason, catholics approve of all of this...minus the other women or men part.  But, then too, there is the confessional for that indiscretion.  Too, that lifestyle...or lack thereof...produces much insecurity,nightmares and daytime fears. 
With my dad, there were always those big, sad, blue eyes that could make me do just about anything.  Manipulation was his thing and he knew how to use it.  Take for instance fishing.  Yeah, fishing.  Dad had this thing about fishing.  No one else he knew did.  But, he didn't like to go alone.  So he'd flash those big baby blues at me...and for some reason everyone else could tell him "thanks-but-no-thanks for an offer to go fishing with him...but!...not me...wasn't even a question...last choice but always he could count on me. 
So off we'd go, drunk or not, mostly yes, drunk dad driving !  And we'd stay until we couldn't see each other across that lake any longer.  The sun would set with us waving and smiling from across the water to each other.  No words, no real connection at all.  Oh dad thought so.  But that's more of a man thing than a drunken thing. 
And we would not mind that we didn't catch anything.  Actually, I hated all the stuff that went along with fishing.   The tall grass that snakes could hide and slither in, the stick-tights that hurt my fingers as I tried to remove them from my pants, the worms that pleaded for life as I popped the hook through their little bodies two or three times, depending on their length, and the slimy fish that demanded to be released from that menacing hook in their mouths.  But dad had given me tha look.  And that's all it took.
More tomorrow folks...see

life, not fun with an alcoholic dad

Whoever reads this, it is my hope that it may be of some help, if you've experienced childhood with an alcoholic, sanguine personality for a father.   When promises were made only to be systematically broken. When dreams were formed from a father's lips who insisted he be believed, only to forget his own words at the first sip of his favorite vodka.  Don't be dismayed.  After fifty plus years, I am now able to laugh at the absurdity of it all.    Able to discuss that horrid childhood, with only a passing sigh, no longer a seething hate.  And able to view the gross fallibility of a weak-willed parent as a stepping stone to a more stable life for me and mine.   Many reminiscent posts will follow in the days to come, which you may or may not find humorous.  However, these will be meant to encourage all that... there 'is' life after alcoholism....see