A former co-worker once asked me if I believed in miracles. It was during the Easter season and we were in a department store filled with pastel eggs, colorful baskets, and lovely spring fashions. I told her that I did believe in miracles; her question took me back to a time when God's power transformed my family from chaos to peace.
My childhood was in constant turmoil. All holidays and most weekends were filled with fear and anxiety because my father was a raging alcoholic. When dad was intoxicated he called Mom names that I had never heard before. I would ask my mother what those words meant and she would sadly shake her head, telling me that I should never repeat those words to anyone. On most weekends dad would carouse with his drinking buddies, then stagger through the door barely making it to his favorite chair beside the stove where he would drink whiskey straight out of the bottle and hurl insults at my mother while she hid in the next room. My older sisters stood guard to be sure that he did not burn the house down while nodding off to sleep with a lit cigarette in his hand. Sometimes he stuffed the stove so full of wood that we felt sure our house would catch fire. Because of this we often slept in our clothes, including our shoes and socks, so that we could get out of the house in a hurry if we had to.
Back then 911 did not exist, so my older sisters would run over to a neighbor's house and call our aunt and uncle when dad became extra loud. No matter what time of day or night, our aunt and uncle would immediately pick us up. Mom would pack paper bags with a clean change of clothing and toothbrushes and then we would all sneak out the back door and walk down the road to wait for their pretty blue car.
My aunt and uncle were angels, whisking us away to grandmother's house where it was safe. She always had our beds ready and a hot meal waiting for us. I always longed to stay at my grandmother's house because it was so serene. Sometimes after a drunken binge dad would appear on the porch with a bag of candy or a jar of honey as a peace offering. Without fail, my grandmother welcomed him warmly and insisted that he sit down for coffee and home-baked cookies or cake. She would sit with him and chat as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. I realize now that she did this to soothe my dad and keep the peace because she understood the intense shame that he felt. Once I overheard her telling my mother that if dad could stay away from whiskey, he would be the nicest human being who ever lived. But all I wanted was for him to go away and leave us in peace.
Almost every Friday after dad received his paycheck he would come home in a drunken stupor. Friday was our day to go to the grocery store, but often we had to wait until Monday when he was sober. Sometimes he would announce he would quit drinking, but he was never able to do so. Until the Easter Season of 1963--when he was diagnosed with chronic leukemia. Dad had to be hospitalized and the doctor sternly cautioned that he would have to stop drinking for the cancer treatments to be effective. With willpower dad shook the doctor's hand on Easter Sunday and promised that he would never touch another drop of alcohol.
Continued on page 2: 'My father suddenly transformed into a totally different man...' »
