by Edward Fays
I’ll never forget the day I caught my reflection in the midst of a binge. A weak man with gimlet eyes, hands trembling, mouth puffy and glossy with wetness, lips twisted under the rim of the bottle. I clenched my eyes, unable to look at myself, and tilted my head back until I drained the final drop.
“Please, you have to stop this! It’s tearing us apart,” my wife wailed on numerous occasions. “There are plenty of support groups and you know I’m behind you every step of the way.”
“I’ve tried quitting a hundred times!” I shouted, but stopping drinking is tantamount to pushing a boulder up the side of a mountain. I just didn’t have the strength. We’d gotten in a heated argument the night before I picked up my son. The feud ended abruptly when I locked myself in the basement, breaking the seal on a fresh bottle. The alcohol was my crutch. Without it I felt like a man zigzagging across a stream of slick, moss-covered stones. Little did I know that the sip I had before rounding the corner to pick up Matthew that morning would be the last time liquor would ever touch my lips.
The road leading from the university to Matthew’s house was four lanes, two in either direction, no buffer between the road and the curb. Heading downhill doing about forty-five, the booze I consumed that morning went to work.
“Dad, are you all right?” Matthew asked, after I made a sudden swerve left, away from the curb.
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” I said, shrugging it off, convincing myself I was okay and we only had a few miles to go anyway.
About a hundred yards ahead the road curved slightly to the left, but I didn’t. My senses were shot and my eyelids felt heavy, like someone was tugging them closed with tiny strings. My focus was on staying awake, leaving little attention for the course of the road.
“Dad, look out!” Matthew screamed, a second before impact.
The right tire hit first, tossing us like corks as the car trampled over the curb, the impact from the other tires adding to the mayhem. I didn’t even slam on the brakes; I felt like I was in a dream I couldn’t control. The brush scraping the undercarriage of the car and the tree limbs skidding along the sides slowed us down before the trunk of a giant oak halted us dead in our tracks.
Dazed, I rubbed my eyes and shook my head, wondering what had happened. I saw Matthew’s head lying on the dashboard, the windshield splintered. I sobered up immediately. “Matthew!” I screamed, “Matthew!” I nudged his shoulder trying to wake him up. No movement. Within seconds the police and ambulance arrived, rushing us both to the hospital.
He had sustained a concussion and gash to his forehead requiring twelve stitches. I emerged from the accident physically unharmed but dealing with suffering of a different kind.
The police notified my wife and daughter-in-law, who arrived while Matthew was being treated. Erica didn’t know about my drinking, but my wife knew and demanded an answer.
“Yes,” I said, answering to a spot on the floor. Ashamed, unable to look her in the eyes, my hands were stuffed deep into my pockets like a child who’d misbehaved. She slapped me full force right in front of the nursing station. The side of my face ignited with pain.
The investigating police officer marched down the hallway asking for a word. “A bottle of alcohol was retrieved from under the passenger seat of the car. You can give me a straight answer or I can give you a test,” he said. “Were you drinking this morning?” I answered the policeman’s question, sharing with him as many details as my warped memory of the incident afforded me. It marked the first time in my life I was fully honest about my problem, but it took a desperate situation to force me to the edge—to be truthful. That’s the thing about drinking and denial—the places we fear to tread are where most people live their daily lives. Honestly, safely, not trying to cover up bad habits. For a drinker, however, honesty is the edge, because our biggest fear is being fully exposed, having to face the truth and the wrath of our family or—even worse—their love and sympathy. It’s salt in the wound to have loved ones come to your rescue after spending years being dishonest to them. It amplified the guilt I was already feeling, cutting through me like a frigid wind. Alerting me to the suffering I had caused. But facing my weaknesses and overcoming them was the only way I could reclaim my life. I sat there in the hallway weeping, grateful that my son would be okay, disgusted with myself for putting him and his family at risk.
Matthew recovered. The stitches were removed a few weeks later, but he lives with a small scar on the right side of his forehead. I see it every time I look at him, a reminder of my mistakes, the fears I let control me for so long.
The judge thought my time would best be served teaching others from my mistakes. I was sentenced to community service—talking candidly about my experience, how I eventually kicked the habit, and what I learned. My son and his wife had a second child, a boy, and I always tell people about my grandchildren. Standing before a room full of students, a bunch of adults at an AA meeting, or writing a column for a community newsletter, I speak from the heart …
I wish I could tell you that at some point you’d outgrow making mistakes. When people learn that I’m a grandfather, they often assume I should “know it all” or at least “have known better.” Unfortunately, I’ll never know it all, none of us will. As for having known better, I did, but I couldn’t help myself and that’s what makes the memory of that day and that period of my life so painful. All of us will make decisions we know are wrong but we’ll do it anyway. Usually it’s for the gratification of the moment and the expectation that nothing bad will come of it. I tell my story not with pride that I have finally faced my addiction, but with embarrassment and regret for the suffering I caused and the weak judgment I displayed for so many years.
I speak humbly, painfully aware of my mistakes and the challenges facing the people sitting before me. For a long time I felt like my life had lost meaning, even though I was blessed with a loving family and a career I enjoyed. Now I’m in the unique position of having gone through the darkest part of the storm, and although everyone’s situation is different, I am helping to guide people who are out there completely lost and desperately wanting to find their way home. After sharing my story, people ask how my life is different now that I am recovering. They ask it from an anxious standpoint, unsure how they can survive in a world without alcohol. The answer is simple. I say, “Life is best enjoyed when our emotions are at their peak. Drinking dulls the senses, causing us to linger in a dismal clouded state, like living our lives inside a steam room.”
My wife, Helena, and I work together, helping couples heal the wounds in their relationship and within their family. She shares her unique perspective, and every time I sit there listening to her, I feel ashamed at what I put her through and grateful that she stuck with me. Together we have helped save a few marriages.
I have learned that there are no secrets in life, just making decisions and dealing with the outcomes. The best any of us can do is make the right choices; when the selection is a tough one, step back and evaluate, don’t act hastily, get some guidance. Everyone makes wrong decisions from time to time, and unfortunately some of those will hurt the people we love. But if we learn something and share that knowledge with others, we can enhance lives as well. Life is a winding road, and it’s important to tell the people traveling behind us what to look out for so they can avoid the pitfalls we fell into. Teaching others helps heal the pain of past mistakes and, in my experience, has led to a very satisfying life.
Inspired by MICHAEL ROBERTSON
CHAPTER SEVEN
PURITY AND INNOCENCE
Seeing the world through childlike eyes simplifies life’s complexities by combining the wisdom of age with the clarity of youth
The child’s heart and mind are like a blank canvas, unscribbled with the observations of the world. As adults, our opinions frequently force us to make hasty decisions, which we later wish could be undone. We often dismiss the remarks of children as naive and immature. The things children say are indeed sometimes immature,
and therein lies their wisdom and purity. Grandparents are wise enough to recognize this and listen, enabling them to have patience and notice the good in all things. Through sprightly illustrations of children and grandparents, we can all learn to do the same.
Assigned Seats in Heaven
One day a little boy asked his mom and dad if they could drive him to the cemetery where his grandpa was buried. The family had recently moved, and now visiting Grandpa was just a short drive away.
When they arrived the boy asked his parents to wait in the car. “I want to talk with Grandpa alone,” he said, solemnly. His parents smiled and watched as he scampered down the hill and canvassed the area before stumbling upon his grandpa’s final resting place.
Kneeling down, his knees sinking into the spongy turf, he carefully read the inscription and date. Grandpa has been gone for two years, he pondered, sadly. He reached out and lightly fingered the inscription on the headstone: IN LOVING MEMORY. His eyes prickled with tears as he remembered the fun times they had shared together and how much he missed his grandpa.
“I’m at a new school now, Grandpa,” he said aloud. “I was assigned a seat next to a boy in my class and now we’re friends.” Somberly, he added, “I wish you could meet him.”
Then the boy noticed the new headstone next to his grandpa’s. “I’ll be right back, Grandpa,” he whispered. He took a few steps over, knelt down, and introduced himself to the man. “From the date I can see that you’re new here,” he said. “I know how you feel. I just started at a new school.” He paused, pointed to his grandpa’s grave, and stated, “My grandpa has been here a while. He’s right next to you. Maybe since you have assigned spaces next to each other here, you have them up in heaven, too. Well, I just wanted to say hi in case you and my grandpa become friends. It was nice talking to you.”
The little boy returned to say good-bye to his grandpa. Kneeling down with his hands placed firmly together and his head bowed slightly, he whispered, “I love you, Grandpa, and I think about you every day. I’ve got to go now, because Mom and Dad are waiting for me. ’Bye, Grandpa.” He smiled and hurried up the hill.
As he slid into the backseat of the car, his mom turned to him and asked, “Why were you standing in front of the headstone next to Grandpa’s?”
Smiling, but with a hint of sadness, the little boy replied, “I saw that the man was new and thought he might need a friend, so I told him Grandpa was next to him. I thought they might like each other.” He paused, reflecting for a moment, and softly said, “It’s always nice to make at least one new friend in a strange place where you feel all alone.”
Inspired by CATHERINE BUCKLEY
Froot Loops and Frosted Flakes
It was early Saturday morning when I heard the jig of little footsteps tapping on the ceiling. It sounded like a chorus of tiny feet, but unless my two grandchildren had had a few friends over for the night, there were only four feet up there. Then suddenly, the pitter-patter of pint-size foot flops came galloping down the stairs.
“Good morning, Grandpa!”
“Good morning, Grandpa!”
“Why, good morning, Timmy. Good morning, Tommy. How are you boys this morning?” I asked, despite their gleeful attitude.
“Good!” said Timmy.
“Yeah, we’re good! Where’s Grandma?” asked Tommy.
“She’s outside talking with the neighbors. Do you boys want some breakfast?”
“That sounds great, Grandpa,” declared Tommy.
“Yeah, that’s great,” added Timmy.
“Do you have any Froot Loops?” inquired Timmy
“Hmmm, Fruit Loops. Let’s check the kitchen cabinet, see what your grandma bought at the store.”
“How about Frosted Flakes?” asked Tommy.
“I think we have Frosted Flakes,” I said. “Yep. Sure do. And look at this, we have Fruit Loops too. Oh, they spell fruit F-r-o-o-t.
“How about we plan our day while you boys eat your cereal?”
“Okay, Grandpa,” declared Tommy.
“Can I pour the milk for you, Timmy?” I asked, anxious to avoid a mess on the kitchen floor.
“No thanks, Grandpa,” he replied, as drops of milk splattered on the floor. “I do it all the time.”
“Are you sure that spoon isn’t too big to fit into your mouth, Tommy?”
“I can make it fit, Grandpa,” he said with supreme confidence. “The bigger the spoon, the more cereal I can scoop at once. That way I eat all the cereal before it gets soggy in milk.”
Hmmm, good thinking, I thought to myself.
“Tommy! You’re spilling milk all over your shirt,” I blurted in surprise.
“I know, Grandpa,” he said calmly. “I have to turn the spoon so it fits in my mouth. My shirt always gets a little milk on it. That’s why Mom cleans it so much.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Do you boys want some orange juice or toast?” As the words leaped from my mouth I had visions of orange juice splashing onto the floor, a sticky mess.
“No thanks, Grandpa,” responded Timmy. “This is good. Two bowls of cereal usually fills us up.”
“You sure are pouring a lot of cereal into that bowl, Timmy. When you pour the milk, how do you know when to stop if you can’t see the rim?” I asked, envisioning milk flooding all over the table and onto the floor.
“I usually can tell but sometimes milk spills on the table and then I know it’s time to stop,” he said, obviously satisfied with his method and unaware of the little river of Froot Loops trickling over the other end of his bowl.
“Watching you boys eat breakfast is very interesting.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” Tommy replied. “Want some?” he asked, holding out his spoon, a trail of milk dripping onto the table.
“No. It looks delicious but I already ate.”
“Can we give some to Sundance?” asked Tommy.
“How are you going to feed the dog cereal?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Just drop a couple of spoonfuls on the floor,” declared Tommy. “Sundance will lick it all right up. You’ll never even know it was there.”
“No, let’s leave Sundance upstairs. I fed him this morning anyway.”
“That was good,” said Timmy, gulping down a spoonful of Froot Loops. “I’m done with those. Tommy, can I have some of your Frosted Flakes?”
“Only if I can have some of your Froot Loops.”
I watched as the two boys reached over, plunging their spoons into each other’s bowls, a trail of milk and cereal crisscrossing the table as it sloshed from their spoons before they gulped it down.
“Now I’m done,” said Timmy, a few colorful Froot Loops clinging to his white shirt.
“Yeah, me too,” said Tommy, dropping his giant spoon back into the bowl. A splash of milk landed on my unread newspaper.
“We’ll change so we can go out with you and Grandma,” said Tommy as he pushed against the table, causing the legs of his chair to skid backward over the freshly buffed wooden floor.
Ouch! “Okay, boys. I’ll see you in a few minutes.
“It looks like I get stuck cleaning the dishes—and the floor—and the table,” I said, after my charming grandsons scurried upstairs. “Oh, hi, honey. Finished talking with the neighbors already?”
“What happened?” my wife asked. “Why is there milk and cereal all over the floor?”
“Timmy and Tommy ate breakfast,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“Did they eat the cereal or throw it at each other?”
“No, they ate it,” I said, chuckling. “But maybe I should have given them Pop-Tarts instead. Less mess.”
While spinning a few sheets from the roll of paper towels my wife said, “I guess a little spilled milk is a small price to pay for spending time with our grandkids. Where are the little monsters of mayhem now, anyway?”
“Upstairs getting dressed. Is that rushing water I hear?”
“Grandpa! Timmy overflowed the toilet.”
“Well, dear,” my wife said jokingly, “it looks like you finally taught your grandkids something. I’ll stay here and clean up the kitchen. The other mess is all yours.”
“Thanks, honey,” I said. But how could they have clogged up the toilet so quickly? I thought to myself. And then I saw it. Along with a continuous gush of water surging onto the floor were Timmy, Tommy, and their dog Sundance. All three of them trying not to get their feet wet. They looked so pitiful standing there I couldn’t help but laugh. And then Tommy said, “We were just trying to give Sundance a haircut and threw his fur in there,” while pointing to the toilet bowl.
Timmy decided to state the obvious and, with the pair of fur-covered scissors dangling from his right hand, said, “Grandpa, it was a bad idea.”
So my wife cleaned the kitchen, my grandsons and I cleaned the bathroom, and Sundance went outside to roll in the grass. Within an hour the place was sparkling—that is, until lunch. But I’ll save that story for another time.
Inspired by JACK STEPHENS
Grandfather for Hire
My wife, Sarah, and I lived in our neighborhood for more than thirty-five years. We’d seen a lot of people come and go—new families moving in, and older ones whose children had grown, moving out. Many headed to Florida— “God’s waiting room,” as some call it. Sarah and I had raised our kids and spoiled our grandkids in the home I live in now. The lines on the wall marking my children’s growth spurts are still there; I look at them and fondly smile. I’ve now started a new set of lines for my grandchildren. The stains on the carpet and the scuff marks on the wall, which once annoyed me, are pleasant reminders of the memories this house holds. I could never leave.
Sarah has been gone for a few years now, and the chores around the house recently became a little too much for me to handle. I could still wheel the garbage can to the curb for the Tuesday-morning predawn pickup, but the lawn mowing and weed pulling took their toll on me. Shoveling snow in the wintertime was literally too much for me to handle.
The new families in town meant that there were always some kids eager to make a few extra bucks. Over the last couple of years, I started hiring a boy from the neighborhood to mow the lawn and shovel the driveway. During winter we would share hot chocolate and gooey chocolate chip cookies together. In summer I always served a pitcher of sweet iced tea. The kids jabbered on about school and friends while gobbling up a handful of cookies or gulping down a tall glass of chilled tea. None of them ever kept the job too long. I guess they got bored and wanted to spend more time with their friends.