I remember it like it was yesterday. Sneaking up on my dad as he sat outside at what he affectionately termed “the woodpile.” Long hippie hair, earring in his ear, wearing men’s clogs. I thought he was the coolest. I didn’t realize ‘til years later that he wasn’t “making a cigarette,” so to speak, but rolling a “doobie.”
Fast forward 40 years and here I am writing about those days.
What I didn’t know back then was that my dad was trying to calm his nerves, having three rug rats tethered to his leg most of the time. Come to find out, my dad struggled with alcoholism for many years, an affliction that would inevitably cause most of his body’s systems to shut down like dominos: heart, lungs, liver, kidneys. And most evidently his brain; he suffered alcohol-related dementia.
While clearing out my dad’s home, I came across an Alcoholics Anonymous® (AA) book with a publication date of 1973. My dad, it seems, had at least considered getting help through their 12-step program. But in his kitchen cabinet remained the large opened bottle of vodka, and it stared back at us without regard. My dad fought many battles in his lifetime; this was the one he…