A Hard Road Home
Grievous Angel
Thread Starter
Join Date: Mar 2011
Location: The Old Line State
Posts: 53
A Hard Road Home
I was a child when my father, a police officer, was killed by a drunken suspect during an arrest. My mother was the youngest of 7 children, and the only girl. She was small and fair, in contrast to my uncles, who were tall and dark, and so closely resembled each other they were constantly being mistaken for twins. They were well-favored men, athletic and broad shouldered, with strong capable hands. They were talented, between them they possessed all the skills needed to build a house, repair a car or fix anything mechanical. They were intelligent, wise-cracking and a heap of fun. After my father's death they moved us into my grandmother's house, and took me fishing, taught me to hit a ball, shoot baskets, hammer nails. I loved them as a child loves a parent. The were kind, generous and almost always there when I needed them
They were also ungodly stubborn and self-destructive. Any of them could have had an athletic scholarship to a decent school, only one even finished college, and that was in his 30's.
They drank almost continuously, all day, every day. They coupled drinking with smoking; I have always loved the smell of cigarettes because they remind me of my uncles. It astonishes me to this day that none of them suffered cirrhosis, diabetes or any of the other maladies that accompany drinking. Despite what must have been galloping hangovers every morning, they never missed work; this usually meant leaving early in the morning, 16 oz beer in hand. The oldest, Uncle Lloyd, once told me that a 16 Budweiser was the only thing for a hangover.
Even though they were close, they were obtuse and given to feuds. I do not believe there was ever a time when all of them were on good terms with each other. But, in times of crises, they rallied together. When I was desperate to go to Europe with my high school French class, something that was far beyond my mother's means, Lloyd shook down his brothers until he had enough money for my ticket. I remember the day he took us to the airport: it was before dawn, and he was uncharacteristically sober. His normally tanned face looked sallow, hungover. As my mother went to check my ticket, he pressed a wad of cash into my hand. "Buy whatever you like. Don't tell your mother." I learned some time later this was money left over from selling his Harley. They were often thoughtful and generous.
They were also vicious. When my best friend Carmela and I made a terrible miscalculation at a drunken football team party with older buys, a situation that, in a normal family, or a normal town, would have been dealt with by the police, therapy and hospital instead saw the the two uncles who happened to be at home when I arrived blaze forth into the night in a rage in search of our attackers, who arrogantly and unwisely did not make themselves hard to find. Despite the distinct difference in size, and age and numbers, my uncles administered beating so horrific that one boy lost the sight in one eye, and another would never return to school. The others ran.
Neither uncle ever realized that even though these students had inflicted upon me the worst thing thing in my life, to even feel tangentially responsible for this violence added to my pain. I was not mature enough, nor even old enough to know what I had suffered was not my fault. That I had somehow invoked this bloodbath haunted me.
My Uncle Lloyd died first. The strength left his body slowly. Even though he could barely walk near the end, his hands and arms were still powerful, I remember handing him jars to open as I cooked. He could no longer manage a cigarette, but would sip a beer, and his goodnight kiss trailed the scent of beer as I made my way to bed.
-GA
They were also ungodly stubborn and self-destructive. Any of them could have had an athletic scholarship to a decent school, only one even finished college, and that was in his 30's.
They drank almost continuously, all day, every day. They coupled drinking with smoking; I have always loved the smell of cigarettes because they remind me of my uncles. It astonishes me to this day that none of them suffered cirrhosis, diabetes or any of the other maladies that accompany drinking. Despite what must have been galloping hangovers every morning, they never missed work; this usually meant leaving early in the morning, 16 oz beer in hand. The oldest, Uncle Lloyd, once told me that a 16 Budweiser was the only thing for a hangover.
Even though they were close, they were obtuse and given to feuds. I do not believe there was ever a time when all of them were on good terms with each other. But, in times of crises, they rallied together. When I was desperate to go to Europe with my high school French class, something that was far beyond my mother's means, Lloyd shook down his brothers until he had enough money for my ticket. I remember the day he took us to the airport: it was before dawn, and he was uncharacteristically sober. His normally tanned face looked sallow, hungover. As my mother went to check my ticket, he pressed a wad of cash into my hand. "Buy whatever you like. Don't tell your mother." I learned some time later this was money left over from selling his Harley. They were often thoughtful and generous.
They were also vicious. When my best friend Carmela and I made a terrible miscalculation at a drunken football team party with older buys, a situation that, in a normal family, or a normal town, would have been dealt with by the police, therapy and hospital instead saw the the two uncles who happened to be at home when I arrived blaze forth into the night in a rage in search of our attackers, who arrogantly and unwisely did not make themselves hard to find. Despite the distinct difference in size, and age and numbers, my uncles administered beating so horrific that one boy lost the sight in one eye, and another would never return to school. The others ran.
Neither uncle ever realized that even though these students had inflicted upon me the worst thing thing in my life, to even feel tangentially responsible for this violence added to my pain. I was not mature enough, nor even old enough to know what I had suffered was not my fault. That I had somehow invoked this bloodbath haunted me.
My Uncle Lloyd died first. The strength left his body slowly. Even though he could barely walk near the end, his hands and arms were still powerful, I remember handing him jars to open as I cooked. He could no longer manage a cigarette, but would sip a beer, and his goodnight kiss trailed the scent of beer as I made my way to bed.
-GA
Grievous Angel
Thread Starter
Join Date: Mar 2011
Location: The Old Line State
Posts: 53
I added a bit more if you are interested.
Originally Posted by ChikkaB 
You got the gift of write, bro. That was sad and beautiful.
in newcomers-recovery/221970-how-other-half-drinks.html
-GA
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