The alarm bade me "face another day, George, God isn't through with you yet."
The coffee was reviving me as I looked out of my study window.
The landscape was completely white, save for six brave pickup trucks parked at the Uptown Cafe, wearing a thin, defiant coat of snow artfully done as by a paint artisan in an auto body shop. Thin, cold snow clung to the windows of the cafe.
Snow that clings and squeaks as vehicles roll over it suggests sub-zero cold. My computer display said minus 5 degrees, wind from the North at 10 miles per hour with gusts up to thirty. The chill factor is minus twenty-five to minus thirty-five below zero.
I went to the basement to light a fire in the wood furnace, being thankful for my wood supply. Last year the cold was so severe and unrelenting that I had run out of wood by mid-January, keeping only an emergency supply for power outages.
Back upstairs to my study I climbed, sat down at the computer and observed foolhardy folks running from their car to the cafe, clad only in thin jackets, wearing no hats, gloves or boots. Their jackets weren't even zipped up! I did that when I was young, but age and arthritis makes me bundle up in an Air Force survival parka with white fur bordering my hood. The rest of my body is covered with thick, warm boots over heavy socks, elk skin choppers on my hands with double woolen liners and a pair of snowmobile bibs. I am thankful that I live in a (personal) era in which I don't give a hoot what others wear or of their furtive glances at my survival gear.
I wonder at the thinly clad natives which are not young people but many of them in middle-age. Why this display of bravado? Is it an expression of indomitable defiance, toughness, resourcefulness or Sisu, in Finnish?
I recall an instance in my youth. I worked for Haven North Lodging in the capacity of maintenance. I went from unit to unit answering calls where there was no (electrical) heat, ( circuit breaker or thermostat setting.) Some couldn't get their fireplaces to draft. It helps if you open the damper. One unit had drained a keg of beer- on the floor and it leaked through the floor and soaked the basement carpeting and furniture. The unit was unoccupied, since the people were asked to leave. Hours with a shop-vac would ensue, but not this day.
Emergency calls precluded the picayune. One unit couldn't get their sliding patio doors to close. they had been left open all night in the arctic cold and were blocked with snow that had turned to ice. The occupants were in a hung-over state, explaining the situation. They had tried to force the door closed, taking it off the tracks. I had the urge to kill.
I went from unit to unit wearing an unlined wool jacket, hoodie underneath and Sorel boots. I was crowned with a genuine, Milwauke- made Kromer Cap, the kind that grandpa Axel wore as he walked to the Geneva Mine I defied the northwest wind and the monstrous wind chills. I was the hero as I jump-started someone's car with my Chevy Monte Carlo.
I had the illusion of toughness and I defied winter for several years until age crept in and I began to feel the cold with a keenness experienced as never before. Arthritis reminded me of how frail the human body is, and made me wonder if I could have avoided the arthritis by bundling up in my younger years.
No one could have forced me to bundle up. I was clad as the Uptown patrons of this morning. Bundling up was for sissies. For some reason people, both genders, will continue to defy the potentially lethal wind chills. For some reason setting up an image of a 'yooper' James Dean trumps common sense.
I was as guilty as anyone else of putting image before practicality.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Monday, December 29, 2014
A Thousand Reasons to Hate Winter
The title speaks in hyperbole but I can dwell on the many reasons why I hate winter, the flare-up of my seasonal affected disorder, atopic dermatitis, painful arthritis in my hands and hips, the chilly discomfort, static electricity, brutal wind-chill values, snow and ice removal after the city plow deposits a mountain of heavy detritus; shortened daylight hours and a faltering pulse as Lois announces our energy bill total.
I could go on but it would be a pernicious exercise so I'll consider something positive.
In my AA meetings I often hear the phrase "attitude of gratitude" and then I forget it when the rubber meets the road. Thanklessness is an affront to my Lord who rescued me from near-death alcoholism in 1989 which doctors dismiss as a medical anomaly. They haven't experienced this same miracle. To go from craving a drink so badly that I would crawl on the floor for a drink because my legs failed, to having no desire for booze at all. Zero craving! The experience repaired my belief in God, from a divine practical joker or an indifferent detached God to a personal God.
I have another blessing in Lois, my beloved wife who suffered so intensely during the last few months of my drinking. She didn't bail out, but helped me with my recovery after I graduated from treatment. She is a diamond! Women like her ain't available for a dime a dozen. I'm lucky enough to have a jewel in my life.
Another blessing: a beagle and a corgy/Scottish terrier. Their antics frustrate us and amuse us. They give us unconditional love, same as God does, and yes I see a parallel in relations, as my antics must also frustrate and gratify God.
Another blessing: seasonal affected disorder along with a disturbing dream sank me into depression. Depression isn't just a sad feeling or feeling sorry for one's self. It's deep and dark and painful. It paralyzes, incapacitates, and last Monday the 22nd it had me staring into space with internal darkness and despair and free-floating anxiety. I hid it. I'm good at hiding depression, although I did finally tell Lois. It's hard to tell that to somebody.
When I was working the night shift I was lugging this sack of heavy depression. It was difficult to think, to focus. I checked in guests with a plastic smile and I just wanted to be alone. I came to the limit of toleration and prayed out loud (in solitude) for the Lord to take away this horrible darkness, to chase away the demons that were telling me I was worthless, that bad things would happen to me because I had committed so many sins.
Within minutes the depression was gone. My tiredness replaced with energy and joy, I zipped through the shift and praised God for helping His child. I was like Scrooge after his encounters. A wonderful, quiet and simple Christmas week ensued, including Christmas eve service at Woodland Church as well as the community Christmas Day dinner, also at Woodland.
Another blessing: an elderly couple moved into the rental next door in November and I just continued to remove the snow from their garage and the front of their house as I had done for the previous tenants. The woman poked her nose out the front door as I was chopping ice and thanked me profusely with a charming Finnish brogue. "How can ve repay?" Seri lamented.
"Just do something nice for somebody else. I don't want any money, won't take any money!"
The husband, Tim left a full can of gas next to my snowblower during the night.
They will be wonderful neighbors. Little do they know that I'll also cut their lawn this coming summer.
God is good!
I could go on but it would be a pernicious exercise so I'll consider something positive.
In my AA meetings I often hear the phrase "attitude of gratitude" and then I forget it when the rubber meets the road. Thanklessness is an affront to my Lord who rescued me from near-death alcoholism in 1989 which doctors dismiss as a medical anomaly. They haven't experienced this same miracle. To go from craving a drink so badly that I would crawl on the floor for a drink because my legs failed, to having no desire for booze at all. Zero craving! The experience repaired my belief in God, from a divine practical joker or an indifferent detached God to a personal God.
I have another blessing in Lois, my beloved wife who suffered so intensely during the last few months of my drinking. She didn't bail out, but helped me with my recovery after I graduated from treatment. She is a diamond! Women like her ain't available for a dime a dozen. I'm lucky enough to have a jewel in my life.
Another blessing: a beagle and a corgy/Scottish terrier. Their antics frustrate us and amuse us. They give us unconditional love, same as God does, and yes I see a parallel in relations, as my antics must also frustrate and gratify God.
Another blessing: seasonal affected disorder along with a disturbing dream sank me into depression. Depression isn't just a sad feeling or feeling sorry for one's self. It's deep and dark and painful. It paralyzes, incapacitates, and last Monday the 22nd it had me staring into space with internal darkness and despair and free-floating anxiety. I hid it. I'm good at hiding depression, although I did finally tell Lois. It's hard to tell that to somebody.
When I was working the night shift I was lugging this sack of heavy depression. It was difficult to think, to focus. I checked in guests with a plastic smile and I just wanted to be alone. I came to the limit of toleration and prayed out loud (in solitude) for the Lord to take away this horrible darkness, to chase away the demons that were telling me I was worthless, that bad things would happen to me because I had committed so many sins.
Within minutes the depression was gone. My tiredness replaced with energy and joy, I zipped through the shift and praised God for helping His child. I was like Scrooge after his encounters. A wonderful, quiet and simple Christmas week ensued, including Christmas eve service at Woodland Church as well as the community Christmas Day dinner, also at Woodland.
Another blessing: an elderly couple moved into the rental next door in November and I just continued to remove the snow from their garage and the front of their house as I had done for the previous tenants. The woman poked her nose out the front door as I was chopping ice and thanked me profusely with a charming Finnish brogue. "How can ve repay?" Seri lamented.
"Just do something nice for somebody else. I don't want any money, won't take any money!"
The husband, Tim left a full can of gas next to my snowblower during the night.
They will be wonderful neighbors. Little do they know that I'll also cut their lawn this coming summer.
God is good!
Saturday, December 20, 2014
The (not so) Scary No-Man's Land of Math II
I was a scared and confused kid in the tenth grade. I asked the kid behind me in Mrs. Ventrucci's homeroom a question and a booming voice far above the homeroom din shook me, "Turn around and shut up."
I did exactly what Mr. Lugviel, our Career Dayl counselor told us. I stared at Mr. Lugviel incredulously. He was burning me with laser-angry eyes, "Yeah, you! The stupid-looking kid in the glasses." A twitter of laughter arose and the giggles of the pretty girls stung as my face and ears got red-hot. I never heard a word Mr. Lugviel said during Fourth Period English that day, Carreer Day be damned.
I must have thought of at least fifty ways of brutally killing Mr. Lugviel since I was not the only kid talking before class began. Why pick on me? A hot steam iron applied to his face occurred to me.
Mrs. Pavlovich assured me of my intelligence the year before but I didn't feel intelligent. I took failing grades rather than get up in front of the class and give an oral book report. I was disappointed with sub-average work in algebra as a sophomore among freshmen. Mr. Kettula exiled me to the back corner of his World History class for the entire year because I whispered something to Dave across the aisle. I sat next to Tom Yunker, a senior in sixth period study hall. The desks were in pairs and Tom liked to talk. Whenever I responded (whispering) Mr. Hocking made me sit on the raised platform in front of the study hall. He never humiliated Tom.
At home I couldn't do anything right. Girls at school acted as if I were invisible. I was confused, scared, angry. My world was upside down and I increased my smoking of unfiltered Camels to a pace of three packs a week.
Algebra was the biggest disappointment. I got a C for the first marking period, a C-minus the second and a D for the third period at the end of the first semester.
"You better bring up those grades, mister," said Dad, as my grades slipped to a D in world History also, as did my English grade. Mom agreed. No mention that I was doing solid B work in biology. Then Mom jumped in.
"You won't get good grades hanging out at Khoury's and shooting pool and smoking cigarettes. Do the honor roll kids hang around there. No! They're at home, studying. They're not down in Khoury's hole (below street- level.),"
I was thoroughly shamed and more angry. I was also afraid that I was upsetting Dad and that could set off a fatal heart attack.
Everyone else was so happy at school, engaged in sports or extra-curricular activites. I tried that also- joined the ROTC drill team. After one practice session the PMS (Professor of Military Science ) disbanded the team because the team was too small.
Now I didn't feel a part of Ironwood High School, disconnected academically and socially. I was fifteen and a failure already. The friends of the last two years drifted away as David and Jon had girl friends and school activities. In the fall I spent much time in the caves (woods) smoking and brooding. In the cold months Khoury's was my home away from home with the click of pool balls and the cacophony of pinball machines.
Christmas recess descended upon L.L.Wright High School with an accompanying gloom. Final exams loomed the week after New Year's Day.
It was a Christmas gloom that was to become a lifelong personal tradition. I felt like a prisoner on death row.
John Hagstrom called me and asked if I would join him at the Christmas party sponsored by the choir, since he was a choir member and one of the guys I used to hang out with.. I thought that anything would be better than staying home and assembling my model of a '62 Chrysler Imperial.
As the day of the party approached apprehension arose. What would I say? There would be girls there, some of the prettiest in the school. I didn't want the disgrace of chickening out but I prayed that God would make me catch the flu before the party. I always caught the flu at some point in the school year. To have it now would be a blessing.
My prayer wasn't answered so I was stuck with attending a social event. That was something like getting in front of the English class and giving a book report. What was I thinking? I worried and brooded until Mom asked, "What the hell are you brooding about? You look like an old hound dog. Snap out of it!"
What I needed was liquid courage, some of Dad's whiskey that his boss gave him for Christmas. I checked it out but there was a little notch in the label coinciding with the whiskey level. Damn it! A little hooch before the party would perk me up and maybe I would even muster some conversation with those pretty girls. Wait a minute. Check the refrigerator. There it is, a quart of kosher wine that a fellow employee had given Dad. If I break the seal and only take a third of the wine Dad won't notice.
I needed a container for the wine but there was nothing available except an unused goldfish bowl in the storage room upstairs. I poured the wine into the bowl. Maybe I need more. Half the bottle should suffice. I hid the goldfish bowl, filled with wine and put it in an old empty Victrola cabinet and covered it with a book to arrest the fumes. There it would stay until needed.
The party was not formidable, filtered through a goldfish bowl of kosher wine. I talked to a girl and she just giggled. Tried another girl and she walked away. Then I saw Gail. I knew her, a sidekick with Jenny . Gail frowned and walked away. I followed her and from then on I was in a black-out.
I came to lying in the deep snow, shivering violently. I was in the caves and my (bare) hands and feet were freezing . I zipped up my short jacket. Somehow I found my way home. Mom hit the ceiling when I vomited and made me clean it up. I didn't admit to drunkenness but to the side-effect of Copenhagen snuff. Dad noticed the wine he received was somewhat depleted and he asked me if I took any. I confessed and was grounded for two weeks. Dad was also not happy that I didn't admit to being drunk when confronted by Mom.
When school resumed I had found fame. People had noticed me! Even a senior told me, "Chased Gail into the girl's bathroom at the choir party. Way to go, kid!"
Another kid said, "Lucky you didn't get kicked out of school. Mr. Quistorf was pissed at you when he kicked you out." It wasn't as much fun when others filled me in on my drunken antics.
I found a cadre of new friends with whom I would get drunk many times. Suddenly I went from a nobody to a bad-ass and I liked it. My friends and I would laugh at the scrapes we would eventually encounter.
The business of taking finals came and I had put forth much effort into studying for history and English, my weaknesses. Biology would be easy and algebra? I reckoned that you either know it or you don't. I did review the distance and rate problems, but nothing else. If I did a lousy job in the final exams Mom and Dad would probably kick me out. Maybe I could live with Sam Khoury and become a famous pool shark. At any rate my academic confidence was low, save for biology.
Classes resumed and the day of reckoning arrived with report cards distributed. Biology got me a B, English a C, World History a C-minus. I entered Mr. Mattson's algebra class with cold hands and a pounding heart.
Mr. Mattson had written the distribution of all the scores in all four algebra classes, the lowest being 74, which I thought was mine, to the highest score of 195 of a possible 200 points. He settled the class down and drew their attention to the scores. He used a yardstick for a pointer.
Mary asked, "Mr. Mattson, who got the 195?" A chorus of queries arose then ebbed.
"You'll never guess who got the 195," Mr. Mattson wore a smirk and he rested the tip of the yardstick on his shoulder. He sauntered back and forth, obviously amused.
"Ed Tafelski?"
"Nope."
"John Hedin?"
"Nope."
"Ken Talaska?"
"Nope."
Mr. Mattson was coming ever so slowly down the aisle where I sat.
" "Beet" Anderson?"
"I'm looking at the guy with the top score. I looked up to a joyous smile."
"Me?" I croaked.
"Yup!, you got the 195. Notice that the next highest score was 174."
If someone had dropped a pin it would sound like a hammer. The whole class was stunned, myself included.
"George has what it takes to do math. He'll be in Plane and Solid Geometry next year, right?"
I nodded, speechless.
It slowly filtered through Luther L. Wright High School that George was a smart guy. The next year I helped the principal's son (a future lawyer and judge) with chemistry, a future teacher with physics and even a few pretty girls with geometry . I went on to major in math, receiving a bachelor's degree in science for Northland College. Math became one of the things I love about life and I still go to websites and review concepts in linear algebra, calculus and many other topics.
Limitations, self imposed, keep us from successes.
I did exactly what Mr. Lugviel, our Career Dayl counselor told us. I stared at Mr. Lugviel incredulously. He was burning me with laser-angry eyes, "Yeah, you! The stupid-looking kid in the glasses." A twitter of laughter arose and the giggles of the pretty girls stung as my face and ears got red-hot. I never heard a word Mr. Lugviel said during Fourth Period English that day, Carreer Day be damned.
I must have thought of at least fifty ways of brutally killing Mr. Lugviel since I was not the only kid talking before class began. Why pick on me? A hot steam iron applied to his face occurred to me.
Mrs. Pavlovich assured me of my intelligence the year before but I didn't feel intelligent. I took failing grades rather than get up in front of the class and give an oral book report. I was disappointed with sub-average work in algebra as a sophomore among freshmen. Mr. Kettula exiled me to the back corner of his World History class for the entire year because I whispered something to Dave across the aisle. I sat next to Tom Yunker, a senior in sixth period study hall. The desks were in pairs and Tom liked to talk. Whenever I responded (whispering) Mr. Hocking made me sit on the raised platform in front of the study hall. He never humiliated Tom.
At home I couldn't do anything right. Girls at school acted as if I were invisible. I was confused, scared, angry. My world was upside down and I increased my smoking of unfiltered Camels to a pace of three packs a week.
Algebra was the biggest disappointment. I got a C for the first marking period, a C-minus the second and a D for the third period at the end of the first semester.
"You better bring up those grades, mister," said Dad, as my grades slipped to a D in world History also, as did my English grade. Mom agreed. No mention that I was doing solid B work in biology. Then Mom jumped in.
"You won't get good grades hanging out at Khoury's and shooting pool and smoking cigarettes. Do the honor roll kids hang around there. No! They're at home, studying. They're not down in Khoury's hole (below street- level.),"
I was thoroughly shamed and more angry. I was also afraid that I was upsetting Dad and that could set off a fatal heart attack.
Everyone else was so happy at school, engaged in sports or extra-curricular activites. I tried that also- joined the ROTC drill team. After one practice session the PMS (Professor of Military Science ) disbanded the team because the team was too small.
Now I didn't feel a part of Ironwood High School, disconnected academically and socially. I was fifteen and a failure already. The friends of the last two years drifted away as David and Jon had girl friends and school activities. In the fall I spent much time in the caves (woods) smoking and brooding. In the cold months Khoury's was my home away from home with the click of pool balls and the cacophony of pinball machines.
Christmas recess descended upon L.L.Wright High School with an accompanying gloom. Final exams loomed the week after New Year's Day.
It was a Christmas gloom that was to become a lifelong personal tradition. I felt like a prisoner on death row.
John Hagstrom called me and asked if I would join him at the Christmas party sponsored by the choir, since he was a choir member and one of the guys I used to hang out with.. I thought that anything would be better than staying home and assembling my model of a '62 Chrysler Imperial.
As the day of the party approached apprehension arose. What would I say? There would be girls there, some of the prettiest in the school. I didn't want the disgrace of chickening out but I prayed that God would make me catch the flu before the party. I always caught the flu at some point in the school year. To have it now would be a blessing.
My prayer wasn't answered so I was stuck with attending a social event. That was something like getting in front of the English class and giving a book report. What was I thinking? I worried and brooded until Mom asked, "What the hell are you brooding about? You look like an old hound dog. Snap out of it!"
What I needed was liquid courage, some of Dad's whiskey that his boss gave him for Christmas. I checked it out but there was a little notch in the label coinciding with the whiskey level. Damn it! A little hooch before the party would perk me up and maybe I would even muster some conversation with those pretty girls. Wait a minute. Check the refrigerator. There it is, a quart of kosher wine that a fellow employee had given Dad. If I break the seal and only take a third of the wine Dad won't notice.
I needed a container for the wine but there was nothing available except an unused goldfish bowl in the storage room upstairs. I poured the wine into the bowl. Maybe I need more. Half the bottle should suffice. I hid the goldfish bowl, filled with wine and put it in an old empty Victrola cabinet and covered it with a book to arrest the fumes. There it would stay until needed.
The party was not formidable, filtered through a goldfish bowl of kosher wine. I talked to a girl and she just giggled. Tried another girl and she walked away. Then I saw Gail. I knew her, a sidekick with Jenny . Gail frowned and walked away. I followed her and from then on I was in a black-out.
I came to lying in the deep snow, shivering violently. I was in the caves and my (bare) hands and feet were freezing . I zipped up my short jacket. Somehow I found my way home. Mom hit the ceiling when I vomited and made me clean it up. I didn't admit to drunkenness but to the side-effect of Copenhagen snuff. Dad noticed the wine he received was somewhat depleted and he asked me if I took any. I confessed and was grounded for two weeks. Dad was also not happy that I didn't admit to being drunk when confronted by Mom.
When school resumed I had found fame. People had noticed me! Even a senior told me, "Chased Gail into the girl's bathroom at the choir party. Way to go, kid!"
Another kid said, "Lucky you didn't get kicked out of school. Mr. Quistorf was pissed at you when he kicked you out." It wasn't as much fun when others filled me in on my drunken antics.
I found a cadre of new friends with whom I would get drunk many times. Suddenly I went from a nobody to a bad-ass and I liked it. My friends and I would laugh at the scrapes we would eventually encounter.
The business of taking finals came and I had put forth much effort into studying for history and English, my weaknesses. Biology would be easy and algebra? I reckoned that you either know it or you don't. I did review the distance and rate problems, but nothing else. If I did a lousy job in the final exams Mom and Dad would probably kick me out. Maybe I could live with Sam Khoury and become a famous pool shark. At any rate my academic confidence was low, save for biology.
Classes resumed and the day of reckoning arrived with report cards distributed. Biology got me a B, English a C, World History a C-minus. I entered Mr. Mattson's algebra class with cold hands and a pounding heart.
Mr. Mattson had written the distribution of all the scores in all four algebra classes, the lowest being 74, which I thought was mine, to the highest score of 195 of a possible 200 points. He settled the class down and drew their attention to the scores. He used a yardstick for a pointer.
Mary asked, "Mr. Mattson, who got the 195?" A chorus of queries arose then ebbed.
"You'll never guess who got the 195," Mr. Mattson wore a smirk and he rested the tip of the yardstick on his shoulder. He sauntered back and forth, obviously amused.
"Ed Tafelski?"
"Nope."
"John Hedin?"
"Nope."
"Ken Talaska?"
"Nope."
Mr. Mattson was coming ever so slowly down the aisle where I sat.
" "Beet" Anderson?"
"I'm looking at the guy with the top score. I looked up to a joyous smile."
"Me?" I croaked.
"Yup!, you got the 195. Notice that the next highest score was 174."
If someone had dropped a pin it would sound like a hammer. The whole class was stunned, myself included.
"George has what it takes to do math. He'll be in Plane and Solid Geometry next year, right?"
I nodded, speechless.
It slowly filtered through Luther L. Wright High School that George was a smart guy. The next year I helped the principal's son (a future lawyer and judge) with chemistry, a future teacher with physics and even a few pretty girls with geometry . I went on to major in math, receiving a bachelor's degree in science for Northland College. Math became one of the things I love about life and I still go to websites and review concepts in linear algebra, calculus and many other topics.
Limitations, self imposed, keep us from successes.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
The Scary No-Man's Land of Math Part I
"The following people will be in Group Two Math," declared Mr. Martell, my Seventh Grade math/science teacher. I didn't like him very much- made me feel stupid. I once got an "A" on a science test and his reaction was, "I didn't think you had it in you." I thought the "A" must've been a fluke since I was dumb.
I was declared a member of the Group Two Fraternity of Mathematics, those who were not adept at math. We got easier homework assignments, but there was a stigma attached to Group Two.
I struggled with math. I was bored with it. This was the fall of 1961 and each year we had a rehash of the math of earlier grades, no introduction to algebra, no geometry, just the same old stuff.
Mr. Erickson, the Principal, was my Eighth Grade math teacher. He was affable, yet stern. He was about five- foot six and he wore a suit and tie. His thick glasses hid his eyes.
Mr. Erickson took us into the realm of algebra and I liked it right away. I caught on right away as to solving an algebraic equation. There was an ascent in my math grades. This was such a relief from the same old arithmetic curriculum of the first seven grades. I still wonder why algebra wasn't introduced as early as the Fifth Grade.
At the end of the school year we were given Ninth Grade pre-registration forms and I signed up for algebra since I liked it so much. I was unsure of Latin and took General Science instead.
At the site of the Pioneer Park Apartments was the old Oliver Mining building where the miners got paid. I remember the counter inside the office and the walk-in safe behind the counter. Adjacent to the Oliver Center was Oliver field, not the present-day Little League field with a diamond and a real pitchers's mound and chalk lines. In addition to the baseball field was an area that had two standards to support a crossbar and a pit of coarse sawdust behind the standards.
We kids, practiced pole-vaulting. Pole-vaulting energized me, gave me a challenge and a thrill. My maximum accomplishment was six feet, not bad for a kid who just graduated from the eighth grade. We got sawdust in our eyes but it was great fun.
Dave Hagstrom and I were talking about high school and what sheet metal shop and wood shop and drafting would be like. "In drafting you gotta be good at math. George, are you taking algebra this fall?"
"Yeah."
"Don't do it, man. It's tough. I had a hell of a time with it." Dave was a year ahead of me and a sage at that. He knew the score.
"Can I get out of algebra?" I asked as my algebraic confidence melted away.
"Just go to the high school office and ask Miss Nelson. She'll help you. It'll be easy. Just tell her you want to take General Math instead of algebra.
The entrance to the Luther L. Wright High School was imposing- so many steps to ascend to the battery of main doors, then another ascent to another battery of doors. The smell of the place brought on a melange of school experiences and my fists got tight and I sensed that my teeth were clenched.
Miss Nelson lived just around the corner from us and many times I saw her. She was single- never married, and she had a 1960 Chevy four-door. I remembered her from my tricycle years, yet I'd never had an encounter with her. She dressed conservatively, befitting her position as organist at the Salem Lutheran Church. I'd never heard her laugh or seen her smile.
I rounded the corner toward the administrative offices. Miss Nelson was busy at the counter and I entered softly, wearing my sneakers. It was ridiculous, but I hoped she wouldn't notice me and I could just turn around and run.
"May I help you?" Miss Nelson had a pleasant, almost melodious voice.
"Um," I pressed my lips together and looked down.
"Is there something I can help you with?" This time her voice had lost an increment of melodiousness.
"I, um, you know gotta change a class for freshman year, eh?" I felt so dumb and awkward and silly and stupid.
Miss Nelson reached under the counter and produced a Change of Schedule form. "Which class do you wish to drop?"
"Algebra."
"What would you like to take instead?"
"General Math."
She wrote these particulars in the appropriate boxes. She must think I'm stupid, not taking algebra. Maybe she talked to other teachers who think I'm stupid. Dave Hagstrom told me...
"Look it over and if it's what you want then just sign on the dotted line."
I spent the summer free of the impending doom of algebra
Mrs. Pavlovich was my General Math teacher, at 1:00 each day, room 104, with a view of the traffic of Ayer street. The textbook was incredibly simple. I would just breeze through this!
On the first test I got a perfect score. Then the same thing happened on the second test. Maybe high school wouldn't be so bad after all.
The down side to this was double. The tough guys in Mrs. Krznarich's home room copied my homework. I didn't refuse lest I get a few teeth knocked out after school by Frank Gusman or Jim Siirila.
Then in class one day the clock gave it's last (minute) tick before the bell. Mrs. Pavlovich gave the usual reminders about homework and the next test and she also looked my way sternly.
"George, would you please remain after the bell?"
I tried not to show my visceral fear, the fear of a coming reprimand. My heart raced.
Mrs. Pavlovich's heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She sat down in a desk across the aisle from mine. She was a somewhat attractive woman with red cheeks, bright red lipstick and she smelled nice, but she was stern and nobody messed with her.
"What are you doing in this class?" Her tone was incredulous. "You should be in algebra."
"I changed my schedule this summer because I didn't think I could do algebra."
She rested her chin on her hand with her thin index finger pointing out. Her wedding band and diamond ring caught me eye. Was she going to kick me out of her class and banish me to the no-man's land of algebra?
"Have you thought of going to college, George?"
"No. I don't know. I never thought about it."
"If you go to college you'll need algebra." She sighed and took her pretty hand away from her face. "No matter what, I will not give you higher than a B plus, even if you have a perfect test."
I was crestfallen and she must have read this.
"George, it's not fair to the other kids in this class. You have much more mathematical ability than anyone else in this class."
I didn't think her proclamation was fair, since I thought I would just be an average student in General Math. I didn't see myself as smart and I was surprised at the easiness of the class. I never thought I could survive in algebra. So many smart kids were in algebra.
"George," She paused until I looked up and met her eyes.
Her eyes were compassionate- long dark eyelashes, with a hint of emotional ache, "Do yourself a favor and sign up for algebra next year."
"Better hurry up for your next class."
(to be continued.)
I was declared a member of the Group Two Fraternity of Mathematics, those who were not adept at math. We got easier homework assignments, but there was a stigma attached to Group Two.
I struggled with math. I was bored with it. This was the fall of 1961 and each year we had a rehash of the math of earlier grades, no introduction to algebra, no geometry, just the same old stuff.
Mr. Erickson, the Principal, was my Eighth Grade math teacher. He was affable, yet stern. He was about five- foot six and he wore a suit and tie. His thick glasses hid his eyes.
Mr. Erickson took us into the realm of algebra and I liked it right away. I caught on right away as to solving an algebraic equation. There was an ascent in my math grades. This was such a relief from the same old arithmetic curriculum of the first seven grades. I still wonder why algebra wasn't introduced as early as the Fifth Grade.
At the end of the school year we were given Ninth Grade pre-registration forms and I signed up for algebra since I liked it so much. I was unsure of Latin and took General Science instead.
At the site of the Pioneer Park Apartments was the old Oliver Mining building where the miners got paid. I remember the counter inside the office and the walk-in safe behind the counter. Adjacent to the Oliver Center was Oliver field, not the present-day Little League field with a diamond and a real pitchers's mound and chalk lines. In addition to the baseball field was an area that had two standards to support a crossbar and a pit of coarse sawdust behind the standards.
We kids, practiced pole-vaulting. Pole-vaulting energized me, gave me a challenge and a thrill. My maximum accomplishment was six feet, not bad for a kid who just graduated from the eighth grade. We got sawdust in our eyes but it was great fun.
Dave Hagstrom and I were talking about high school and what sheet metal shop and wood shop and drafting would be like. "In drafting you gotta be good at math. George, are you taking algebra this fall?"
"Yeah."
"Don't do it, man. It's tough. I had a hell of a time with it." Dave was a year ahead of me and a sage at that. He knew the score.
"Can I get out of algebra?" I asked as my algebraic confidence melted away.
"Just go to the high school office and ask Miss Nelson. She'll help you. It'll be easy. Just tell her you want to take General Math instead of algebra.
The entrance to the Luther L. Wright High School was imposing- so many steps to ascend to the battery of main doors, then another ascent to another battery of doors. The smell of the place brought on a melange of school experiences and my fists got tight and I sensed that my teeth were clenched.
Miss Nelson lived just around the corner from us and many times I saw her. She was single- never married, and she had a 1960 Chevy four-door. I remembered her from my tricycle years, yet I'd never had an encounter with her. She dressed conservatively, befitting her position as organist at the Salem Lutheran Church. I'd never heard her laugh or seen her smile.
I rounded the corner toward the administrative offices. Miss Nelson was busy at the counter and I entered softly, wearing my sneakers. It was ridiculous, but I hoped she wouldn't notice me and I could just turn around and run.
"May I help you?" Miss Nelson had a pleasant, almost melodious voice.
"Um," I pressed my lips together and looked down.
"Is there something I can help you with?" This time her voice had lost an increment of melodiousness.
"I, um, you know gotta change a class for freshman year, eh?" I felt so dumb and awkward and silly and stupid.
Miss Nelson reached under the counter and produced a Change of Schedule form. "Which class do you wish to drop?"
"Algebra."
"What would you like to take instead?"
"General Math."
She wrote these particulars in the appropriate boxes. She must think I'm stupid, not taking algebra. Maybe she talked to other teachers who think I'm stupid. Dave Hagstrom told me...
"Look it over and if it's what you want then just sign on the dotted line."
I spent the summer free of the impending doom of algebra
Mrs. Pavlovich was my General Math teacher, at 1:00 each day, room 104, with a view of the traffic of Ayer street. The textbook was incredibly simple. I would just breeze through this!
On the first test I got a perfect score. Then the same thing happened on the second test. Maybe high school wouldn't be so bad after all.
The down side to this was double. The tough guys in Mrs. Krznarich's home room copied my homework. I didn't refuse lest I get a few teeth knocked out after school by Frank Gusman or Jim Siirila.
Then in class one day the clock gave it's last (minute) tick before the bell. Mrs. Pavlovich gave the usual reminders about homework and the next test and she also looked my way sternly.
"George, would you please remain after the bell?"
I tried not to show my visceral fear, the fear of a coming reprimand. My heart raced.
Mrs. Pavlovich's heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She sat down in a desk across the aisle from mine. She was a somewhat attractive woman with red cheeks, bright red lipstick and she smelled nice, but she was stern and nobody messed with her.
"What are you doing in this class?" Her tone was incredulous. "You should be in algebra."
"I changed my schedule this summer because I didn't think I could do algebra."
She rested her chin on her hand with her thin index finger pointing out. Her wedding band and diamond ring caught me eye. Was she going to kick me out of her class and banish me to the no-man's land of algebra?
"Have you thought of going to college, George?"
"No. I don't know. I never thought about it."
"If you go to college you'll need algebra." She sighed and took her pretty hand away from her face. "No matter what, I will not give you higher than a B plus, even if you have a perfect test."
I was crestfallen and she must have read this.
"George, it's not fair to the other kids in this class. You have much more mathematical ability than anyone else in this class."
I didn't think her proclamation was fair, since I thought I would just be an average student in General Math. I didn't see myself as smart and I was surprised at the easiness of the class. I never thought I could survive in algebra. So many smart kids were in algebra.
"George," She paused until I looked up and met her eyes.
Her eyes were compassionate- long dark eyelashes, with a hint of emotional ache, "Do yourself a favor and sign up for algebra next year."
"Better hurry up for your next class."
(to be continued.)
The Dark Side of Christmas
Since grade school I've experienced a melancholy cloud descend, dampening my Christmas anticipation and joy. Mom would ask me, "What are you mooning about now? Stand up straight and quit looking so gloomy! No one likes a gloomy person."
I heard parts of sermons at St. Paul's Church in my youth that touched upon thankfulness and this brought shame because I could not pull myself up by the bootstraps and go around smiling and saying 'merry Christmas' to everyone I encountered. It was the celebration of the Savior's birth! I read it in the gospels with feeble stirrings and more shame.
I had heard the phrase, "he'll outgrow it," pertaining to my allergies and accompanying dermatitis and asthma and hoped that would apply to Christmas season gloominess. I never outgrew any of these.
"Oh, for crying out loud, get over it!" That would be the frequent parental admonition that I was incapable of obeying.
And yet it was a bittersweet experience with a few sublime moments; when the Christmas tree was erected in our living room, when mom's mood elevated to occasional cheerfulness, or the time in eighth grade when I felt the dawn of puberty and thrill of my first crush.
Bittersweet it was because it would lead back to the sadness; sadness I couldn't define or isolate, sadness for which I felt apologetic, ashamed.
As an adolescent I drowned these feelings with alcohol, welcoming the warmth, physical and emotional as well as the blackouts, and stinging reprimands from Mom and Dad. Dad got two bottles of top-shelf whiskey from his boss for Christmas so it was easy for me to get drunk and feel some false Christmas cheer.
A kindly physician, Dr. Gardner, explained that depression has cycles which could occur in the winter when the days are short or even in the springtime when darkness gives way to light. Each person has unique cycles. The Christmas season could very well trigger depression, for example in unfulfilled expectations or fear of the death of a loved one. (I used to fear the death of Dad, since he survived two heart attacks.) The elevated stress of Christmas holidays also contributes to a depressed state in some people. More must be accomplished in less time because during the holidays less work time is available.
I believe many are prone to depression including holiday depression and I'm thankful that this is no longer viewed with scorn or impatience. The intensified depression during the holidays accounts for the increased suicide rate.
I don't believe that God frowns upon depression since it is an illness and not a moral shortcoming or an indication of lack of faith in God.. I no longer feel shame for my holiday gloom. God knows us and he understands from even the quantum level why we suffer from depression.
I am blessed with a wonderful wife, Lois who is sympathetic to depressed people, who doesn't chide me or prod me. She is the greatest gift God ever gave me, second to the Savior Himself.
It's cold today, less than ten degrees, but I will suit up for a run of four or five miles in the snow and ice. (I have ice-grippers on my running shoes.) Running invariably helps- it's one of the gifts God has given me, along with compassion for those who suffer the darkness of depression during the holidays.
Merry Christmas and happy New Year, everyone!
I heard parts of sermons at St. Paul's Church in my youth that touched upon thankfulness and this brought shame because I could not pull myself up by the bootstraps and go around smiling and saying 'merry Christmas' to everyone I encountered. It was the celebration of the Savior's birth! I read it in the gospels with feeble stirrings and more shame.
I had heard the phrase, "he'll outgrow it," pertaining to my allergies and accompanying dermatitis and asthma and hoped that would apply to Christmas season gloominess. I never outgrew any of these.
"Oh, for crying out loud, get over it!" That would be the frequent parental admonition that I was incapable of obeying.
And yet it was a bittersweet experience with a few sublime moments; when the Christmas tree was erected in our living room, when mom's mood elevated to occasional cheerfulness, or the time in eighth grade when I felt the dawn of puberty and thrill of my first crush.
Bittersweet it was because it would lead back to the sadness; sadness I couldn't define or isolate, sadness for which I felt apologetic, ashamed.
As an adolescent I drowned these feelings with alcohol, welcoming the warmth, physical and emotional as well as the blackouts, and stinging reprimands from Mom and Dad. Dad got two bottles of top-shelf whiskey from his boss for Christmas so it was easy for me to get drunk and feel some false Christmas cheer.
A kindly physician, Dr. Gardner, explained that depression has cycles which could occur in the winter when the days are short or even in the springtime when darkness gives way to light. Each person has unique cycles. The Christmas season could very well trigger depression, for example in unfulfilled expectations or fear of the death of a loved one. (I used to fear the death of Dad, since he survived two heart attacks.) The elevated stress of Christmas holidays also contributes to a depressed state in some people. More must be accomplished in less time because during the holidays less work time is available.
I believe many are prone to depression including holiday depression and I'm thankful that this is no longer viewed with scorn or impatience. The intensified depression during the holidays accounts for the increased suicide rate.
I don't believe that God frowns upon depression since it is an illness and not a moral shortcoming or an indication of lack of faith in God.. I no longer feel shame for my holiday gloom. God knows us and he understands from even the quantum level why we suffer from depression.
I am blessed with a wonderful wife, Lois who is sympathetic to depressed people, who doesn't chide me or prod me. She is the greatest gift God ever gave me, second to the Savior Himself.
It's cold today, less than ten degrees, but I will suit up for a run of four or five miles in the snow and ice. (I have ice-grippers on my running shoes.) Running invariably helps- it's one of the gifts God has given me, along with compassion for those who suffer the darkness of depression during the holidays.
Merry Christmas and happy New Year, everyone!
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Aging Marches on
I had visited the ophthalmologist in the Shopko store in Rhinelander (an insurance network thing.) After the preliminaries of having my eyes assailed by bursts of air, bright lights and other ophthalmic voodo I was bade to wait in the reception area for my turn with the ophthalmologist.
The weather was on my mind, since we encountered blizzard conditions from Ironwood to the south of Mercer. Then sunshine and dry roads the rest of the way. After a brief interlude the doctor welcomed me.
I explained my astigmatism seemed to be worse and I was generally having trouble seeing computer text, especially the (insanely) low contrast print. Several vision tests ensued. I performed poorly at reading random letters of all sizes except the largest. The doctor, an affable Asian dilated my pupils and sent me out to await the third phase of my exam.
Lois said I should look at frames, but many similar searches in past exams have proven difficult since I can't see worth a hoot when my pupils are fully dilated. Anyway, the frames that I picked were always the most expensive. who, in their right mind would pay $250 for frames! Just because the Harley-Davidson logo appears on them?
Lois found out that we can have old frames outfitted with a new prescription. This is good news since I have a pair of unused glasses and I happened to like how I looked with the frames.
Back into the exam room to see more bright lights as the doctor peered into my retinas.
"You just aren't seeing very well. The problem is your cataracts have worsened over the last year. You have the worst kind, in the center of your lenses and I'll bet you that when you drive at night the oncoming headlights look like fireworks displays."
"That aptly describes it."
"It would be pointless to prescribe new lenses since they wouldn't help. You need surgery, George."
My pulse quickened, recalling the surgical procedure Dr. Stempihar did to relieve my insanely excessive tearing. Primal fear overtook me when the hypodermic needle approached my eye. Micro scissors were used to open my tear ducts closed by my atopic dermatitis (eczema.) "Never again," I vowed out loud after the procedure while trying to open my painfully clenched fists.
Dr. Stempihar will perform the cataract surgery and I'm going in on faith inspired by others who who have had the operation and claimed that it was 'nothing.' I'm hoping this surgery will make my life easier. The ophthalmologist said that I won't be nearsighted anymore, but I may need reading glasses.
That makes me anticipate the surgery! I can't imagine what a blessing that would be, to basically have the eyesight that I had as a little kid before nearsightedness set in.
I asked Lois to drive on the way home and I walked into Culvers a la Ray Charles. It was the only way I could stand the bright lighting.
When we got to Woodruff I took over behind the wheel and the blizzard resumed just as we passed Highway 70 intersection. It was tough and my eyes were still a little dilated, making oncoming lights difficult to bear. We did lots of praying, "God, keep us safe." Oncoming semis intensified the blizzard as did the one idiot driver who passed us with a Chevy Monte Carlo, blinding us for a long time.
It took two hours to drive from Woodruff to Ironwood at about 30-40 m.p.h.The blizzard was much worse as we approached Hurley. The Nissan handled it well, with God's protection. We would live so each of us could have our cataracts removed. Lois had the same diagnosis during her appointment with the asian doctor. The blind leading the blind.
The weather was on my mind, since we encountered blizzard conditions from Ironwood to the south of Mercer. Then sunshine and dry roads the rest of the way. After a brief interlude the doctor welcomed me.
I explained my astigmatism seemed to be worse and I was generally having trouble seeing computer text, especially the (insanely) low contrast print. Several vision tests ensued. I performed poorly at reading random letters of all sizes except the largest. The doctor, an affable Asian dilated my pupils and sent me out to await the third phase of my exam.
Lois said I should look at frames, but many similar searches in past exams have proven difficult since I can't see worth a hoot when my pupils are fully dilated. Anyway, the frames that I picked were always the most expensive. who, in their right mind would pay $250 for frames! Just because the Harley-Davidson logo appears on them?
Lois found out that we can have old frames outfitted with a new prescription. This is good news since I have a pair of unused glasses and I happened to like how I looked with the frames.
Back into the exam room to see more bright lights as the doctor peered into my retinas.
"You just aren't seeing very well. The problem is your cataracts have worsened over the last year. You have the worst kind, in the center of your lenses and I'll bet you that when you drive at night the oncoming headlights look like fireworks displays."
"That aptly describes it."
"It would be pointless to prescribe new lenses since they wouldn't help. You need surgery, George."
My pulse quickened, recalling the surgical procedure Dr. Stempihar did to relieve my insanely excessive tearing. Primal fear overtook me when the hypodermic needle approached my eye. Micro scissors were used to open my tear ducts closed by my atopic dermatitis (eczema.) "Never again," I vowed out loud after the procedure while trying to open my painfully clenched fists.
Dr. Stempihar will perform the cataract surgery and I'm going in on faith inspired by others who who have had the operation and claimed that it was 'nothing.' I'm hoping this surgery will make my life easier. The ophthalmologist said that I won't be nearsighted anymore, but I may need reading glasses.
That makes me anticipate the surgery! I can't imagine what a blessing that would be, to basically have the eyesight that I had as a little kid before nearsightedness set in.
I asked Lois to drive on the way home and I walked into Culvers a la Ray Charles. It was the only way I could stand the bright lighting.
When we got to Woodruff I took over behind the wheel and the blizzard resumed just as we passed Highway 70 intersection. It was tough and my eyes were still a little dilated, making oncoming lights difficult to bear. We did lots of praying, "God, keep us safe." Oncoming semis intensified the blizzard as did the one idiot driver who passed us with a Chevy Monte Carlo, blinding us for a long time.
It took two hours to drive from Woodruff to Ironwood at about 30-40 m.p.h.The blizzard was much worse as we approached Hurley. The Nissan handled it well, with God's protection. We would live so each of us could have our cataracts removed. Lois had the same diagnosis during her appointment with the asian doctor. The blind leading the blind.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
My Twenty-Fifth A.A. Birthday
I am an alcoholic. I haven't taken a drink in a long time. (My sobriety began on Oct. 1, 1989, the day I tearfully left the rehabilitation center at Memorial Hospital in Ashland, Wisconsin.) I was also full of trepidation for the future, rooted in lectures by counselors, "After five years only one in five will still be sober. Alcoholism is a disease characterized by relapses."
I arrived at the aforementioned facility, in a state of tremors and a mental blackout. I remember the tremors, holding a styrofoam cup (filled with coffee only halfway) with both hands. I was brought there directly from Grand View Hospital by my wife, Lois who had saved me from swallowing my tongue and by a dear friend, Judy Schulze.
My brain began to operate beyond the reptilian level the next day and I was astonished at my surroundings. The windows were reinforced and the place was spotless.I had no idea how I had arrived or where I was. The nurse came in to monitor my hand tremors, take my temperature and blood pressure and watch me wash down several pills with a glass of water. "Relax,George. No one is going to harm you," the nurse said in a soothing voice. I had heard the term, 'detox' and thought this must be where I was.
Boredom set in and I had a book about the Twelve Steps of A.A. I had read it and it was boring at the time. It would come alive later as I progressed in recovery. At the end of the book were several blank pages. I was thinking about an algorithm to get me out of this mess. The whole universe is defined by mathematics and the solution was there! I just had to solve it. I went to the desk and asked for a pen.
I wrote what I thought to be profound mathematical discoveries revealing the process of becoming sober. I would come to dismiss these great 'discoveries as delusional scribbling.
After being released from detox and integrated with the 17 other treatment patients my thought processes began to clarify. I no longer dismissed the treatment program as a foolish waste of time. God had removed the hostility and fear that had held me hostage.
One day I came to the realization that the awful, grinding craving for booze had left me. Was this possible?
Other patients confessed that they still had cravings. I declared that the cravings had left me, bringing a sharp rebuke from one of the counselors. I yielded to this counselor but I knew that the cravings were gone.
Before the dawn of my recovery I could not go without a drink of vodka for more than about two hours. That meant taking drinks during the night to ward off the poison dreams that would have me sit up screaming.
It also meant that I would need several hearty swigs from a pint bottle when my legs failed to work. I couldn't move them. I would crawl to my stash of booze and with shaking hands put the bottle to my lips. In a few minutes I could walk again. It also meant furtive trips to the liquor store, driving while I was drunk.
I told a doctor that I had been the recipient of a miracle and the doctor dismissed this, saying, "The alcohol must have burned out the brain cells that caused your addiction." This postulate that I had cured myself by drinking was laughable, I thought, but out of respect I did not argue with the doctor.
On October 1, 2014 twenty-five years will have passed since the dawn of my recovery. I have not had a craving for a drink in all that time. I still attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, which help me to remember that I am still an alcoholic and will be until they shovel dirt on my coffin. The meetings also help me remember the power of alcoholic craving, the hopelessness that I felt, and the welcoming spirit and acceptance of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Psalms 18:17-20 came to be my favorite Scripture, "He delivered my from my strong enemy, from those who hated me, for they were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was my support. He also brought me out into a broad space." Verse 20 is the amazing part, because I had thought the Lord was through with me, a quivering booze hound who passed himself off as a born-again Christian. "He delivered me because He delighted in me."
My twenty-five years of sobriety have been 'God stuff.'
I arrived at the aforementioned facility, in a state of tremors and a mental blackout. I remember the tremors, holding a styrofoam cup (filled with coffee only halfway) with both hands. I was brought there directly from Grand View Hospital by my wife, Lois who had saved me from swallowing my tongue and by a dear friend, Judy Schulze.
My brain began to operate beyond the reptilian level the next day and I was astonished at my surroundings. The windows were reinforced and the place was spotless.I had no idea how I had arrived or where I was. The nurse came in to monitor my hand tremors, take my temperature and blood pressure and watch me wash down several pills with a glass of water. "Relax,George. No one is going to harm you," the nurse said in a soothing voice. I had heard the term, 'detox' and thought this must be where I was.
Boredom set in and I had a book about the Twelve Steps of A.A. I had read it and it was boring at the time. It would come alive later as I progressed in recovery. At the end of the book were several blank pages. I was thinking about an algorithm to get me out of this mess. The whole universe is defined by mathematics and the solution was there! I just had to solve it. I went to the desk and asked for a pen.
I wrote what I thought to be profound mathematical discoveries revealing the process of becoming sober. I would come to dismiss these great 'discoveries as delusional scribbling.
After being released from detox and integrated with the 17 other treatment patients my thought processes began to clarify. I no longer dismissed the treatment program as a foolish waste of time. God had removed the hostility and fear that had held me hostage.
One day I came to the realization that the awful, grinding craving for booze had left me. Was this possible?
Other patients confessed that they still had cravings. I declared that the cravings had left me, bringing a sharp rebuke from one of the counselors. I yielded to this counselor but I knew that the cravings were gone.
Before the dawn of my recovery I could not go without a drink of vodka for more than about two hours. That meant taking drinks during the night to ward off the poison dreams that would have me sit up screaming.
It also meant that I would need several hearty swigs from a pint bottle when my legs failed to work. I couldn't move them. I would crawl to my stash of booze and with shaking hands put the bottle to my lips. In a few minutes I could walk again. It also meant furtive trips to the liquor store, driving while I was drunk.
I told a doctor that I had been the recipient of a miracle and the doctor dismissed this, saying, "The alcohol must have burned out the brain cells that caused your addiction." This postulate that I had cured myself by drinking was laughable, I thought, but out of respect I did not argue with the doctor.
On October 1, 2014 twenty-five years will have passed since the dawn of my recovery. I have not had a craving for a drink in all that time. I still attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, which help me to remember that I am still an alcoholic and will be until they shovel dirt on my coffin. The meetings also help me remember the power of alcoholic craving, the hopelessness that I felt, and the welcoming spirit and acceptance of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Psalms 18:17-20 came to be my favorite Scripture, "He delivered my from my strong enemy, from those who hated me, for they were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was my support. He also brought me out into a broad space." Verse 20 is the amazing part, because I had thought the Lord was through with me, a quivering booze hound who passed himself off as a born-again Christian. "He delivered me because He delighted in me."
My twenty-five years of sobriety have been 'God stuff.'
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