Alcohol: The Conditioning(Exploits of a Drinking Man) doc

Alcohol: The Conditioning (Exploits of a Drinking Man) Clips of a Truth John Gabriel Mc Donald Smashwords Edition Copyright 2012, John Gabriel Mc Donald Smashwords Edition License Notes: This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it. Happy trails . . . smiles . . . John Part 1 Hidden Wisdom “Just sit down . . . no need to be going anywhere,” the man said. I did not want to listen but somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew there was some wisdom to the words. He went on as though he were introducing the powered essence of an epic play and, to be truthful, he might well have been for all the stuff that was taking place in my life— his too. But he was drunk as a rambling lord and I was as sober as a confused cemetery headstone. And I might well just have been because I was stuck between two roads leading towards the same place— a dead-end. Somewhere along the line I took a wrong turn and that turn led to the place known to many folk as hell’s last acre. I arrived dead on time, all my miseries locked tight as a drum to me although I wanted nothing to do with the stuff. But over the years, it just piled up like dust on a mid- west American cabin floor during the great dust bowl of the ‘20s, making it difficult to wash off. Eventually, so much built up that I got used to haulin’ it around, like one gets used to pain, at times feelin’ like I was cycling a bike across the Sahara desert; a bike without tires— just the bare rims. The man lit a cigarette, drew in a mighty lung-filler, then slowly released a gray stabbing jet of smoke towards the high bordering on the kitchen wallpaper, then continued. “Sure you don’t have anywhere important to go . . . just sit down and relax.” A long time would pass before I got the message of his words but when I did, it stuck like oatmeal to a starving man’s innards. The truth of the matter was that I did not have anywhere important to go but it irritated me to no end that a person whom I had met for the first time, drunk out of his skull, was telling me how to handle my life. Still, I had respect for the man because he took time out of his busy world of drinking to impart to me his thoughts on the matter of life— “if you are not sure what to do— do nothing.” And I sat down much like a child in a school classroom governed by a strict teacher and took in what the man had to say: “there’s no sense rushing off to someplace when there is no purpose to it . . . doesn’t help the old noggin’ one bit.” He held his talk while he eyed his smoke stick, then continued. “See this cigarette,” he said in that tone of mystical certainty which only the greatest of poets have a bearing on. “This cigarette was perfectly new just a couple of minutes ago but take a good look at it now— it’s all burnt out and wasted and that’s what will happen to you if you don’t learn to sit down and enjoy the moment.” His cock-sure attitude annoyed me considerably but he had me cornered and there was bugger all I could do about it. The truth is that I wanted to do what he was doing but I had just finished a roaring bender and was doing the best I could to stay away from the booze. Cigarettes were ok with me but I did get his message about his smoke stick because that is exactly how I felt and probably looked like too. He still held the floor as one might command center stage during a critical drama performance and, to be sure, there was a great play going on— one that was to destroy body, mind, and soul, or see the victim rise above the withering blows of John Barleycorn’s pummelling— but the latter proved relentless in his pursuit of physical and spiritual carnage. Outside in the blackberry bush, a songbird sang the evening in as the orator went on, bearing down his profundities upon his captive, which was me. It all seemed so odd— the calming ease of evening being ushered in by the melodies of the songbirds, while a sober drunk listened to a drunken drunk. Strange indeed it was but that is the image the drunken orator seared upon my mind. But I don’t want to remember him like that. I rather remember him for the kind and giving person he was. He died from alcoholism not long after. Part 2 Drownin’ of Sorrows When Grandma died, many people came to our house to drown their sorrows and many pretenders did likewise who claimed they knew Grandma “way back”, but all they wanted was free drink. After their “filling” they went their way never to be seen again. Wailing and weeping and storytelling went on for days, and then some, leaving the house smelling strong of Guinness porter and burnt, stale cigarette tobacco. Then after the “drownin’ of sorrows”, Mum opened the doors to allow the wind to blow through taking with it the nauseating odors— even the wind did not escape the going ons. It was a rare occasion for people to gather in our house and drink porter and the likes. Mother was very strict about who came into the house— sober or drunk. “I don’t want you bringing home any of those characters from the bar,” she would tell Dad, and if Dad didn’t listen well enough, he found himself talking to the hens in the chicken coop with his drunken buddies. Mum was very protective of us kids and did not want drunken talk in the house, especially the foul language. That stuff and its bearers were sent to the chicken coop without cigarettes and matches just in case the straw caught fire. And if Dad and his buddies didn’t listen well enough, which was often the case, Mum waited until they were snoring, then she would sneak in and remove the matches from their pockets just so there was no cremation. After all, we were Catholic and cremation was forbidden under all and any circumstances, most particularly in a chicken coop. One day Uncle Joxer came and ranted that he should have inherited the house from Grandma. He went on and on inside the house and outside the house until the neighbors, and their neighbors, and their neighbors came to listen to the one act play, which in no uncertain terms did not lack the spirit of a powerful drama. “He should get the Academy award for that disgusting display of irreligious behavior,” Mum said after the sensational indoor/outdoor show. “Hollywood is just a joke to that kind of lunatical performance. Indeed, Peter will keep that one in his books to toss in his face when he shows up on his knees at the Holy Gates, begging a pardon for his Churchy behavior.” Mum referred to Churchill as Churchy because he was always drunk on French brandy and was forever preaching about the wrong doing of other nations while his kicked the crap out those nations that were ripe for his “empire’s interests. “He’s just a bloody hypocrite like that Churchy,” she would say, a huge sigh preparing the continuation, then contemplating on the more notable orator, she would add— “and ugly too”. Dad would say in a kindly way that it was just the drink . . . that he wasn’t himself . . . that he would be back to apologize about it later. And true to prediction, Uncle arrived to beg forgiveness and that it would never happen again and that he was more ashamed than Adam and Eve for their “carrying on” in the sacred garden. And true enough, it never happened again until he had another drink— and that was often. I remember clearly Mother’s finger pointing at her husband who was feeding his face with potato and corned beef. “If I ever see him in this house again, I will have the police come and take the pair of you away.” And she went on. “That drunken fool, Delaney Muttonface, (Delaney’s face sported a big whitish/grayish beard that mirrored a sheep’s behind) God love him, is but an angle compared to that brother of yours.” And that was the first time my mind edged in on the negative ramifications of the world of the drinker. My instincts were awakening to the unusual behavior brought about by the partaking of alcohol, but in an accepting way: moments before, all were happy and singing and chatting, and moments later, some were squabbling about “this and that”. I still didn’t grasp the meaning but, then again, it seemed no one did. It was just a natural outcome of drinking and all was settled amiably after the happy and unhappy effects and happening passed. Part 3 Collecting Pig Feed I was five and my brother Larry six when Uncle Joxer took us to collect pig feed from around the city but instead of collecting the feed, he raced over sidewalk, the flowerbeds in the parks, and drove the wrong way on the one way streets in a big hurry to get to the next pub, whereupon he would leave us kids with the horse and cart while he filled himself with whatever he was filling himself with. In those days almost any behavior was acceptable as long as nobody got hurt. “Hold on tight,” Uncle would say as he snapped the reins down harsh on Tessy’s rump, making her bolt into God’s knows where. Larry and I were too young to realize the serious danger we were in and too busy holding on to the side of the cart so we didn’t fall out into the street or on top of the wheels. “Oh, Mother of God,” Auntie Lizzie would say to her husband who now and then took time off from his racing pub crawl to feed his face and have our Auntie make cheese sandwiches for Larry and me. “Leave the children here in the name of God before you get them killed.” But Uncle Joxer was very hard at hearing, and with cheese sandwiches stuck in our mouths; once again, he tossed us back into the cart to gallop off in stampede fashion into the unknown. And it was just as well Larry and I did not know what the unknown was. Our lives were seriously endangered by a good man who went crazy when he tossed “Arthur Guinness” down his throat accompanied by a short of “John Power’s” volatile Irish whiskey. From a kind, caring gentleman, he went to that state of behavior where an asylum, insane or otherwise would take off running if he came in sight of it. The nation was at his mercy and his mercy was not the heavenly kind— but he did not know that because “Arthur Guinness” told him differently. Auntie Lizzy appeared one day at the door. “May,” she cried desperately to Mother. “Don’t ever let the children go with that lunatic, which, of course, was her husband. “In the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he will get them killed with his rodeo racing around the streets . . . it’s a wonder they are not already dead.” And Mother took the warning to heart. Auntie Lizzy was very scared for our safety and made it clear that we were never to be seen with Uncle Joxer again, particularly in a feed cart. That warning was only added to Mother’s troubles because Dad had been smitten with tuberculosis and was sent to the infirmary for three months. During that time, Mum sold some of the pigs for two reasons: that they did not starve to death because of Uncle Joxer’s inability to collect the feed, and that the family didn’t starve to death. In those days, one had to be nine tenths in a grave before the government allowed a bit of assistance to the dying and starving. But we survived because St Vincent De Paul gave us clothes and the odd hamper of food, and the neighbors, all of them, came to our aid. Tessy, our horse was also more than relieved when the voice of Uncle Joxer became less and less frequent— she, too, would live. Still, the business of drinking was, too me, far from understood. The hard work and efforts of Dad sailing right into “Arthur’s” bank, while the winds of shoddiness blew heartily into our lives was but a natural occurrence to my uncorrupted mind:— the laughter— crying— the arguments and endless sighs—the empty food shelves. Part 4 The Pacifist Boxer Lugs Brannigan was a well respected policeman. He was a well known boxer and also a referee in the same sport. He took no lip from anyone but he was fair and square to those who made a try to improve their lives. He converted an old building into a sports/boxing club. Dysfunctional family life, usually brought on by alcohol abuse saw many a kid wind up in correctional homes. Lug’s figured if kids had energy to spend in the wrong way, then he could help them spend it in the right way and put a bit of pride into them. He trained them in the skills of boxing whereupon they were entered into boxing competitions. His success in turning kids away from the crooked and wide was enormous. However, at one contest, which I was privileged to attend, there was a certain chap that did not adhere to the rules of the square ring. Dressed in the usual boxing sports gear of the day, after Lug’s instructed the fighters in the rules of engagement, Lugs’s trainee lay down on the floor— without being hit— refusing to get up. When asked what might be the matter he said that he didn’t want to hurt anyone and he didn’t want to get hurt either. Lug’s, on the other hand, was mystified— actually, we all were but everybody loved the kid for being truthful. Some thought that he may have had a vision. He got a standing ovation and he went his way. The fellow next to me said that if armies had the courage to do what the kid did then our world would be a great place to hang out in. He was right but it was a pipe dream. Part 5 The Air Cadet Auntie Lizzie scraped enough money together to head off to England with her husband. But her life was rough. She was an angel and did not deserve what she got in life . . . I guess neither did her husband but some cruel winds come into one’s life and don’t blow by fast enough. I never saw my lovely Auntie again. Dad was back in health again, and again, with Larry and me set off to collect the pig feed, which was usually Tuesday and Friday nights. Some nights went fast at the collecting and some slow depending on the length of social stops Dad made, but his stops were benign compared to Uncle Joxer’s. But I tell you, no matter how well prepared one is to ward off the unwanted, life has a dirty way of upsetting the apple cart, which was in our case, a pig-feed cart. “Here,” said Larry. “Have some of these . . . the Italian man gave me a nice bag of fish and chips.” The Italian man was a nice man. Often times when we went into his fish and chip shop to collect the pig-feed, he would slip us some piping hot chips doused in salt and vinegar. Nothing in the world tasted as good as those chips, particularly if the night was cold, and wet, and windy, which they often were. And as we sat behind Tessy’s rear-end feeding our faces with delicious Italian fish and chips, the most incredible happened On each side of the cart, the lamps flickered but not as strongly as in the darkness of an unlit street. We were parked beneath a street lamp himmmmming our praise of the belly satisfier when suddenly our munchies went flying out across Tessy’s behind. The bang was fierce. Into the cart flew a man in a helmet accompanied with bottles of “Double Diamond”, a drink just as productive as “Arthur Guinness’s”. Fortunately for us, Tessy’s intuition fell upon “full horse sense”— she did not bolt. If she had, the story would have hit on the international air waves and broadcast on the disgusting TV reception that was as clear as the dark side of the moon. TV reception was just in its infancy and had a long, long way to go before it found its legs. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus!” The air cadet cried as he landed smack into the pig-feed, his bottles of “Double Diamond” clinking up to him. And lucky for us the bottles did not break; the pig feed would have been destroyed. Dad had been collecting the feed from a supplier and missed out on the action. And I say this with full certainty: when he returned and found a man with a helmet sprawled in the pig-feed in the back of the cart with bottles of beer snugging up to him, he was lost for words, to say the least. The air was a bit tight for a few minutes; then, the astronaut spoke. “Why in the name of God didn’t you have rear lights on your cart?” In the meantime, Larry and I got around to picking our scattered fish chips from the street and also the ones that lay across Tessy’s back. They were too delicious to leave to the birdies and doggies. Dad went back into the house of the supplier, got on the phone and called the police. A policeman came on a bicycle, told the man to go home and have a good bath and the next time he was riding his motor bike, not to be crashing into parked vehicles, particularly those parked beneath street lamps that were clearly visible. In the meantime he “arrested” the bottles of beer because it was illegal to be riding on a motor bike with a parcel of beer as a passenger. Still, the registering of the negative consequences alcohol brought about was by-passing me by a long shot, and for sure, I wondered how Uncle Joxer was doing in the Churchy’s land. “Mum, will uncle Joxer ever come back?” “I don’t think so, son . . . wont that be a blessing?” “Where in England is he?” “He’s away in Coventry to wash down his troubles.” “Where is Coventry?” “It’s in eastern England but he’s not far enough away as far as I am concerned,” and added. “Your poor auntie Lizzy . . . that blessed angel . . . she didn’t deserve the likes of him— no one did— maybe England doesn’t deserve him either.” And it appeared that everyone was happy that uncle Joxer had gone away, and Mum hoped that he fell into the company of Churchy— beccause he, of all people, should be subject to uncle Joxer’s rebel song singing and ear bashing. Still, the unqualified horsemanship potentials that Uncle Joxer daringly and drunkenly displayed, apparently resided in the lifeblood of his brother— my father. Part 6 The Midnight Rider A knock came on our door around the midnight hour. “Madam,” said the visitor. “Your husband is beneath his horse out in the street,” he said with controlled alarm, then went on. “I am not sure if he needs medical attention but he is asleep beneath his horse, which is also asleep.” “Jusus, Mary, and Joseph! What in the name of God happened?” Well, the story goes: Dad was washing down his troubles but apparently the troubles were much and he needed much wash to wash them away. That amount of wash did something unusual to his thinking. He had been out alone collecting pig-feed. When the chores were completed, he went to his drinking hole and overstayed by a long-shot. When he left the pub, the oddest thing entered his head: he decided to unhitch Tessy from the cart, leave the cart of pig-feed on the road and ride the noble steed home. And while dad was galloping hell-bent homeward, our neighbor, Mr. O’ Hare, backed his Morris Minor car out into the street just as dad was galloping by. Now, I say this with certainty: dad was not trained in the art of horsemanship but the way his “Arthur Guinness” thinking was working, to him, he was a champion equestrian rider and set about proving his unmatched skills: the hurdle that suddenly appeared before him was but a minor one and dad gave the command to Tessy to jump over it. Now, I say this with certainty also: Tessy was not trained in the field of equestrian “know how” and was not possessed with the “Arthur Guinness” thinking, but she did do her best— she belly-flopped across the roof of the Morris Minor, thus causing some damage to the Major’s Minor, to herself, and to her rider. I knew exactly what was going on as I had stuck my head out the bedroom window into a world of midnight quietness, the voices of Mum and the Major chatting as though what had happened was not so an abnormal occurrence. “They look so peaceful, don’t they, Mr. O’ Hare?” And true enough, they were peaceful, the moon’s radiant glow adding a heavenly aura over the serene scene. “I should call an ambulance,” choked the Major, but before the call was undertaken, Mr. Crannigan, dad’s doctor came upon the scene. He had been out on a midnight stroll, something he did on a regular schedule because he enjoyed the night air and the quietness. “Hang on for a moment,” the good doctor said. “He looks like he’s heading back to us.” And true enough that is exactly what happened. Dad headed back and woke up but there was still the matter of his heavy horse blanket. Tessy was not heading back and that was a big concern. Mr. O’ Hare went to a few doors and woke up a number of neighbors, and he being a Military man, directed the removal of the blanket. That indeed was a dicey bit of work because nobody in the country, as far as I knew, ever removed a sleeping horse off a sleeping man. But they prevailed. Dad was taken into Mr. O’ Hare’s house and fed French brandy. Mr. O’ Hare had fought in the 11 World War and was wounded. Churchy commended him on his bravery and besides medals, he was also given a bottle of Napoelon brandy— Churchy’s favorite. That is what was shared with the horse- helping neighbors and dad that night. Mum didn’t drink. When I was a child, she did have the odd bottle of Guinness and smoked cigarettes. But as more children came, she quit both habits and steered whatever money was spent on that stuff towards the caring of her children. She also never stood in a pub. She detested the places and what they did to the victims of the “brewers”. No, she never stood in a pub until I returned to my home after twenty five years absence from my country. I had not had a drink in a long time but when traveling home from Canada, I allowed my AA teachings to slip out of the aircraft and drown in the North Atlantic. I purchased those “great tax free” attractives— booze and cigarettes. And I say to you in all earnestness: I did try hard to shun the drink but after not seeing my family for twenty- five years unnerved me a bit. Back on Irish soil, I was not recognized by any member of my family, actually, any member of my country but for that of an over zealous customs guard who demanded that I open my guitar case. I told him that I couldn’t because the Canadians had wrapped it with “secure tape” and that I needed a sharp knife to cut it open. His look upon me was that which Dad had displayed when he saw the astronaut sprawled across the pig-feed in the back of the cart. His arm stretched long— his finger rod-straight. “Go over to that office and get the officer to take a look at what is in that case.” I wanted to stretch my arm just as long and squeeze the life out through his throat but that was against the law and I was exhausted. Also, he might have done to me what I really wanted to do to him. I gave him the “strangling look”, then moved on to the next stop of interrogation. “What can I do for you, Sundown?” the not-wanted-to-be-bothered guard said, his head showing up from the paper before his eyes and a great heave accompanying the enquiry. I pointed back toward his work-mate. “He sent me over to have you open the guitar case.” His eyes went up. He pointed to the exit. “Just keep going, Sundown . . . welcome home,” and then added.” He is a pain in the ass . . . and we have to put up with him year in year out.” I smiled. That was all I could do, then made for the exit and the bar. At the bar I sat on the tall stool, pint of “something” alcohol in my hand. And for sometime I sat there feeding my face with pints of “something” while waiting to be found. And the more I swallowed the “something” the more relaxed I became. Then, eventually, a delightful looking blond tapped me on the shoulder. It was my sister Marien. She was four years old when I had last seen her. She was now married and had a family of three boys. Her piercing blues eyes shot square at me. “Are you my brother?” The “tax free stuff” did not last long. The party was continuous. Then I disappeared. I had just come out of the Canadian mountains where I had been literally living for the past seven years. I lived the life of a loner and I loved solitude— being around so many people eventually got to me. And like I hid out in the mountains, I now found refuge in the bars. For days my mother had not seen her son and her son was heading back to the mountains within twenty-four hours. A family scout found me in the local “washing down my troubles” and sent out the call. It was then my Mother stood inside a pub for the first time in her life— to see once again her son before he disappeared once again into the unknown. Of course, all heads turned as Dad’s “Missus” stood in the “unholy”. And not alone did she stand in the “unholy”, but she stayed all night and sang beautiful songs. My mum was a professional soprano. Suddenly, Dad was something of a celebrity— a far move up the ladder from the rung on which he was seen to been standing. Now it was ““Mr. Mac” what is your pleasure?”— and not the usual “whatilitbe””. That was the first and the last time my Mum stood in a pub. She did it for her lost son— and was I lost? Part 7 River of Death On a summer’s starlit night, two men stood staring into the ebbing tidal water of the River Liffey that flows through the heart of Dublin city. Liffey is an Irish word that means “life”— the “River of Life”. I often wonder what the man’s thoughts and fears were when he realized that he could not win the bet he had made: the desperation in the face of death as the tidal waters drained the last vestiges of strength from his weakening body as he tried desperately, not now, to reach the far side of the river, but just to keep his head above the now “river of death”. Was he thinking of his wife and children . . . cursing himself for making the bet in a bar that overlooked the river that was to kill him? God only knows, but for sure, he was a victim of that stuff that killed more people than all wars combined. Of course, at the time, I thought that he was just an idiot to attempt such a stupid thing but as time went by, particularly when I was unknowingly being sucked into the powerful web of alcoholism, that night the River of Life swept the man out into the Irish Sea burnt bright in the centre of my mind— because I too, was beginning to wade into that same “River of Death”. I was just not aware of it. On the east coast of Vancouver Island, some thirty years after that fateful night, I, too, stood with a friend looking out into the Georgia Strait as the tide ebbed. My friend was a tugboat man and an expert on the “ways” of the ocean. He was born by “old salty” and it ran in his blood. We had just made a run down from Stewart Island, a small piece of paradise nestled in the hub of the Gulf Islands. A week there saw us tanked to the gills and in shape for an open plot in a cemetery; nevertheless, the seamanship of my friend, drunk or sober was masterful; sailor Jack getting us through some rough navigation to the small sea resort of Qualicum Beach. Mooring the speedboat at the dock, we made our way to the local pub to “fill-up” for the remainder of the journey back to Nanaimo. After the “filling”, we headed back to the boat which lay about two hundred meters from the shore line. The waters near the shore line were too shallow forcing the docks to be constructed out in deeper waters. Upon arrival from Stewart Island, the tide was out, thereby allowing us to moor the boat and walk up the dry beach. But when we returned, the tide was in. Twelve hours was a long time to wait for the tide to turn. But that is the way it was and I was prepared to wait it out— but not sailor Jack. It was a moonless night, a southwest mild breeze teasing up from the sea, the smell of salty-oyster upon it. Along that bit of seaway abounded the most sought after oysters in the world, particularly the ones harvested around Fanny Bay, a tiny resort just a few miles north of Qualicum Beach. From the lap of those beaches oysters found there way to the ritzy dinning rooms of New York, Tokyo, and Paris. Out in the salty blackness the clockwork flickers of distant lighthouses pierced the blackness giving a haunting feel to the setting. “I’ll just head on out and get the boat and bring her in,” said the sailor as though he had just telepathically had a chat with Old Neptune and was given the “go ahead” from the god of the water world. “You what?” His hand ran across his chin slowly, very slowly as though it were a part of some permissible ritual that eventually okayed the decision. “Yeah,” he said, a bit of hesitancy in his voice but a hesitancy that was sizing up the chances of making it out on the incoming tide to the Sangster— our carrier-on-the-waters . “Yeah . . . I reckon I can make it.” Now, believe me, we were good and drunk and the idea to get to the boat was a great one— very inviting, but in the deeper parts of my mind the last words of the “Liffey” man punched up . . . “Vincent . . . Vincent,” . . . and then to eternal silence fell as his lifeless body sunk to the floor of the unforgiving river to be washed away forever as Vincent, in retching shock, uttered his lost friend’s name: Toby . . . ah, Jesus have mercy on your soul, Toby . . .” I remained as calm as a coach might mulling over an idea to present to his team, then I pitched. “It’s not a good idea, Jack.” But Jack wasn’t listening. “Yeah, I reckon I can do it.” Now, I say this with all earnestness that the thought of the man losing his life in the tidal waters of the Liffey river jumped up in front of my nose as though to bite it off if I did not persuade sailor Jack to change his mind. The tides that moved through those Gulf Islands moved as though some nasty sheriff were on their tails— even some mighty fine powered fishing vessels had a tough time of it when the tides turned one way or the other — no one messed with those tides and won. Many a big ship found itself at the bottom of the ocean because of a brave, daring and foolish captain. Drunk as I was, a huge amount of sobriety seemed to appear from somewhere and put upon me a state of mind that was to remain unchangeable. Inflexibility carried in my voice. “You aint goin’ Jack . . . I aint goin’ to see you drown.” Now, to be truthful, I knew for certain that Jack’s hearing was flawless and it perturbed me to no end that he was either ignoring me or he was just not “tuned in”. I sized him up on the spot; particularly his jaw— but he did not know that. The one thing that bit at my mind was the “choice”:— should I tell him that I was going to smack him on the jaw or should I just pull a “dirty” and level him right there and then. But other thoughts began to drift into my head: what if Jack were an able fighter? What if he turned the tide on me? And I did have some genuine concern because back in my homeland because of the not-so-safe neighborhood that I had to navigate through, on many an occasion, I was attacked by bullies. I became guarded and defensive. I fought back. I learned how to fight and I got good at street fighting but I was a fair fighter. I used only my fists. I got to be able to handle myself so good that I fancied myself as a world champion in the makin’. Encouraged by a bystander who was witness to one of those “donnybrooks” because I was guarding a bag of groceries my Mother had sent me to shop for. I was afraid but I stood my ground against three attackers. They hadn’t a clue how to fight. What they wanted was the bag of groceries. I backed in by a street lamp. Placed the bag behind me, then eyed the three. Their strategy was to lure me out from the post and while they were laying a licking on me, one of them would snatch the bag and take off. The confrontation dragged on and I was getting weary. My arms began to ache and I found it increasingly difficult to hold them up in a defensive position. Fortunately, a friend of my Dad came cycling by. He put the run on the trio and then told me how brave I was and that I should join a boxing club— that I would make first rate boxer. He fed my ego real good and off I went to join the St. Dominic De Savio boxing club. “Now,” said my trainer, as he prepped me to go fort and demolish my opponent. “Watch for his right cross. He is very good with it . . . and don’t forget to keep him off guard by jabbin’ with your left.” I nodded as all great boxers do when they get strong advice from the coach, then the bell rang and out I went to fame and dreaming. I did what the coach said: I kept a good sharp eye on his right but I should have done that bit of viewing on his left. I have no idea how hard I hit the ground but the sleep that came on me was instant. And just like in the movies: I was looking at a spread fingered hand and someone asking how many fingers could I see. That was the knockout punch that got rid of a lot of innocence arrogance. I learned to respect my opponents and I never did make it to being that “great boxer”. Twenty years had passed since that fateful night and as I sized up Jack’s jaw, the thought of injuring him badly bothered me immensely. He was my friend and I did not want what happened to Vincent’s friend, Toby, happen to him. I moved to his side so I could get a good view of his jaw. He was still looking out to the Sangster, nodding his head in that way that the certainty of what he was thinking was going to happen. “I’ll say this for one last time, Jack . . . you are not going.” And again, my friend just nodded in the affirmative but not to my advice but rather his. “Yeah, I can do it.” Now, I knew that what I was thinking was a dirty move, then I wondered if I tackled him rather than firing a punch would be of more benefit, but then I thought he might get [...]... and the poor remained poor, and the ignorant remained ignorant, and the brewers made enormous profits because their sanctuary was far more appealing than that of the Church And I was one of their victims— but I did not know that Part 11 Choices Entertaining as a traveling singer can be difficult at the best of time but when the head is all hung-over and miserably sick, then the profession becomes a. .. That is all he said Later, when I realized my stage production was far off the mark, I was thankful that that was all the boss said and did He was a good man I let him down I had much to learn and much to suffer before I got the message about the “relaxing effects” of alcohol brandy, or otherwise I, too, was on my way to being a vegetable but I did not know it at the time Part 9 One With All and All... I had arrived in paradise and overworkin’ was not a thing yeh do in paradise; at least, I don’t expect so So I just sipped my Plainsman whiskey and took my time a pannin’ because the air itself had a feel of pure ethereal gold about it and what came out of the river was gonna’ be a bonus Downstream along the banks some Indian folk were a fishin’ the Sockeye salmon which came in from the Pacific and... bit of food and a coffee and a bit of floor to nap on— the morning will see you away safely.” That bit of happening was not by chance I thanked God for intervening and saving a potential happening that involved anything from a bloody fiasco to a drowning I thanked Him profusely The man was kind He threw us a couple of sleeping bags and that was it —we were in a place of safety— in God’s messenger’s care—... dismantled making way for a life of true learning and value, leaving the one of escapism and utter misery to where it belonged— beneath the confused headstone of an ancient cemetery At last I was free from an addiction that strangled all that was good out of my life The Native, too, looked to the sky “See that star up there?” I nodded “Well, you can have a life as bright as that star or you can have one... Now, really I say this without a grain of doubt: the reality of life is far different than that of the illusionary reality of life under the influence of whiskey or any other form of alcohol A strong, fast current of water is not unlike that of a vehicle smashing into you, then bowling you over and doing whatever it cares to do with you That’s the reality of the power of a fast flowing river and,... care— the Good Samaritan The imprint on my mind of Vincent’s friend calling to him as he succumbed to the life taking Liffey River had proved that Vincent’s friend’s death was not in vain The tidal waters’ of the Liffey are at a snail’s pace compared to that of a raging grizzly bear hammering through the Gulf Islands However, in my case, all was not well The consternation brought about by Jack’s detachment... prepared to do With one last swig from the bottle of magic, I took one last look at the commander of the vessel, who, by all appearances seemed fully at peace guiding the craft through the watery sky Then, without his knowledge, I snapped him a tribute— that salute all great captain’s deserve, then into the world of fishes I hopped and sunk like a stone to the bottom of the ocean How peaceful that was... and headed up the river every season Their methods of fishin’ had not changed for thousands of years:— a long handle with a net attached held out across the waterfall, and when the fish came a leapin’ up they just netted it It was only Native folk who were doin’ that kinda’ fishin’ because that was a tradition to them — one of the very few the Whiteman did not prohibit— like everything else that was precious... me the feeling that I was sailing through the graying ethers towards the crimson heavens of the setting sun And as my thinking funneled up marvelous thoughts of grandiosity while Jack piloted the craft through the blending of sky and ocean, starboard and portside of the boat dolphins appeared to playfully help guide us towards that heavenly bliss our “betters” always spoke of “in the sky Lord, in the . upsetting the apple cart, which was in our case, a pig-feed cart. “Here,” said Larry. “Have some of these . . . the Italian man gave me a nice bag of fish and chips.” The Italian man was a nice man because the air itself had a feel of pure ethereal gold about it and what came out of the river was gonna’ be a bonus. Downstream along the banks some Indian folk were a fishin’ the Sockeye salmon. Stewart Island, a small piece of paradise nestled in the hub of the Gulf Islands. A week there saw us tanked to the gills and in shape for an open plot in a cemetery; nevertheless, the seamanship