This is the first of a 2-part retrieval of memory written during a Friend’s  General Conference in 1985 as part of an assignment during a workshop:

Our family pediatrician, Dr. Adams, studied the rash around my waist for several seconds, then told me to get dressed. Speaking both to my mother and me, he asked about possible stresses in our lives. We looked at each other. “No.”

He carefully folded his stethoscope  and put it in his pocket before he spoke again, to me. “Is your father still drinking?”

My face must have burst into sunshine as I spoke: “Oh no. he’s quit drinking. He hasn’t had a drink in ten days!”

It wasn’t the smell of the alcohol I minded so much as what it did to Daddy. He was frightened of people, really, so he only drank at home.  When drinking he never walked through a room, he staggered as though the house was riding the stormy seas.  Our worst fears were never realized, though: he never fell on us.

I probably learned my listening skills ministering to him. I had to always b e ready to tell him where he had left off on some story, when he returned from the toilet.  He also helped me to accept the bizarre; whenever Daddy pointed to the dirty woodwork behind me and asked if I didn’t see those people, and described what they were doing, I assumed that he spoke figuratively, or metaphorically.  I now know that he was describing what he saw, during dt’s.

Whenever Daddy started drinking, he wouldn’t stop until he passed out.  By high school I had learned to peek inside the house first, then if necessary I’d “go for a walk” until he passed out. There were a lot of long walks during high school.  When it was safe I walked back to the house quietly, falling into my bed, still dressed.

Before high school I hadn’t learned the walking trick, and it seems I had to deal with him a lot. I remember especially one summer night in 1947, when he invited me to take a ride with him to Berryhill High School, where he would show me how to improve my forehand in tennis, hitting balls against the walls.  I was eleven, and he knew I hoped to improve my tennis game, while he had won the 1940 men’s singles tournament in Charlotte, North Carolina. [I think he had avoided the draft due to flat feet].

Mother was starting supper, we wouldn’t be gone long.  And then, surreptitiously, he brought out the brown paper bag containing a jug of cheap wine.

My face fell. I looked to mother to intervene. Her expression didn’t change.  She nodded to me.  “Go ahead, it’ll be all right.”  Didn’t she know it wouldn’t be?…

CONTINUED NEXT POST

FOUND IN MY FILES, 1985

One of my favorite pasttimes as a child was reading a sad story to my sister and bawling together at the top of our lungs.  The most effective vehicle for this cathartic endeavor was entitled The Dog of Pompeii, in which a boy is forced to leave his dog behind on the shores under erupting Vesuvius.

Our imaginations constructed with horrified relish the scenario in which the dog arrives on the scene, finds his master has left him, and is engulfed in flames with great sorrow.

One can only speculate as to the needs for grief expression  that were met by us in this  tragic-quaint and somewhat comic manner.

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FRIENDS, AGAIN …

How old do you think your followers are?  And/or your own follows, if there is a difference.  When Keith Wilson says in his title, Musings of an Old Fart, we might imagine, but turns out his “old” isn’t my “old.” Jill Dennison has too much energy to be old, as do Gronda Morin, Dr. Rex and Diane Ravitch, though we may not be surprised at Lobotero due to his drawn gravatar,  nor certainly by Dr. John Persico’s  “Aging Capriciously.”  I’ve sort of gotten hung up on the idea of a tea party for followers and those followed, so I may ramble on about that idea from time to time, unless there’s some objection.  This may have been done before and outlawed, idk.

____________________

OH DEAR

Just when I’ve started to get comfortable with myself,  I read in Michael Gazzaniga’s book Who’s in Charge?” the following:   “…this social group size [150] has been constant for humans from prehistoric times through today.  Not only was this the size of related groups that gathered together once a year for traditional ceremonies in ancestral hunter-gatherers, it is also the size of modern-day hunter-gatherer societies  and modern-day Christmas card lists in personal address books.”

I don’t know about you, but my Christmas card list is on the shady side of ten….

“Because ‘Good Faith’ Can No Longer Be Assumed”:

In the Wind,   “I won’t think about that now, I’ll think about it tomorrow.”  Well, folks, tomorrow will be here before you know it and we probably better think about this sooner than later

How Trump could win the presidency even if he loses the popular vote AND the Electoral College

Michael Johnson and other House leaders must pledge to certify the election results

Robert Reich’s Feb. 1 Newsletter

 

Seems like I made a confession before, but I can’t remember what I confessed to, of the many I might.

My photo today is of me at my prime, half a lifetime ago, which reminds me of another earlier poem,

“MY Mirror Is A Liar:”

It is my fifth birthday and

I am in pigtails, swinging

on the garage door,

wondering if I will still

be me

when I am grown.

Eighty-eight years later,

I am.

(Ooh, I didn’t know that photo would be so big!

Anyway, back to my confession.  I am a neophyte at this blogging business, if you haven’t noticed.  It’s gotten recently worse because I can’t reply to some posts because they use that little square in order to do so.  And when I look for help I find some SEO, without any suggestion of what that stands for.  I’m also having difficulty re-blogging, maybe in some cases if I’m trying to re-blog from Gugenheim (shudder).  I usta could, but not so much now.  Moreover, I get confused between “Reply” and  “comment,” and who the author is.

I’m running free of my censor today and want to tell my friends that I appreciate you, although I rarely converse with you or welcome your visits verbally…no, not verbally…in writing.  It’s nothing to do with you; it’s my shyness or avoidance or …and I HATE TO MAKE EXCUSES FOR MYSELF, so ignore those remarks.  My topics seem to consume me and remain undigested until the next one.  I wish there was an easier way for me and my blogger friends to meet together on one blog (or post).  Everyone has seemed friendly except one whose toes I must have stepped on. I still visit her site but don’t try to reblog her. And oh, Dr. Rex, a Floridian fomerly from Puerto Rico.  and friendly Ali Redford, who remains somewhat of a mystery.  And of course one of my daughters… and the two bloggers with the same gravatar.  And my favorite and perhaps most longterm blog couple, Katiemaefredricks.

Jill Dennison shares snarks, music and keen observations, and we both live in Ohio. Aussi Ned Hamson?  Ned Hamson gave me blood transfusions for months (reblogs), and when not re-blogging, “liked.”  Keith Wilson and I discovered a place connection by way of Charlotte, North Carolina. A breath of Fresh air comes from Annie Writes,  and  Petru, an old faithful (not necessarily old, tho)  great friend who lives in South Africa writes poetry and paints, or perhaps I should just say she’s an artist..  I’m kind of fearful of 10-grain because he’s so prolific and sharp, , but welcome him and any visitors I get, as I do the new guy on my block, KK, who says he will attempt to download what has been uploaded throughout the life  “Before, yes before…
my memory may start fading away….,
Else, the whole thing will go away,
Unsaid, unlettered, unsung…sheer waste”  (I initially  avoided his blog because he shared how economics-oriented his life has been and I suspected he might be quite different than it turns out he is.) But upon looking further, I am more confused.  If he is a hit singer of Indian origin, how is it that his “KK” blog doesn’t mention it?  His photo looks quite different on his blog versus Google.  Could it be father and son?  Either is welcome to visit and it’s no newsflash that I can easily get confused.  Oh, it would be too crowded if everyone who visited me just once visited for this gathering,  so I may sometime in the future comment on other friends or may be lazy, or forget, or be ashes  (Tho I have a nice obituary already written for that eventuality.  “They” will share it.)

THE JOKE’S ON ME:

[In response to a painting of a woman with scads of things in her high hat]

SNIFFLES

Ow.  My head is full to over-

flowing.  I can’t sleep for ideas

cascading in my mind’s eye.

There’s the metaphor for today’s

prompt: An overstuffed movie

projector. Although apt in my

mind,  it feels kinda stuffy–

–you know–like you might have a cold

coming on.  But she’s  kind of cute

without the hat.

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THE JOKE:

I couldn’t figure out to deal with Mr. Linky, then I learned you have to pay to post on it now.  Since I’m against paying money everywhere these days, I never got this posted on D’verse and shan’t.