Walking Stick

Once in a while in my life I’m reminded of the fact that people are still good.

That the human race as a whole doesn’t stink.

Now that I got that out of the way – let me try to put down the experience in a way that even makes sense to me.

Many years ago while walking on one of my hiking trails – my time with God as I’ve come to call them, I came upon one of the biggest beaver houses I’ve ever seen in quite some time. 

Stopping and looking at this engineering master piece I was amazed.

As I continued to walk around I found small sticks that were left behind – never to be used for this animal’s home. 

To say that there were a lot wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

Anyways, I found several pieces that would, in my mind, make an interesting walking stick. 

(Should I ever find the time or better yet – make the time for one of these pieces of wood.)

Finding my way home, and taking the wood from my trunk, making a small wood pile by the side of the house, and telling my dad what I had seen and explaining all the wood.

Dad being himself just says, “Sure.” Adding in. “Would you like some help?”

“Sure pop. That would be nice.” That was that. The end of the conversation. The end of me even thinking of the small wooden pieces of sticks. Just the end. So I thought.

Months later I was cleaning up around the yard, filling the many bags of fallen leaves from our tree.

A little side note here folks. When I was young and growing up, I’ve always wanted a home with a lot of trees. Being an inner city kid now living in the suburbs thinking, ‘What the hell was I thinking at that age?’ as I lifted the last bag onto the huge area I needed for all the leaf bags. Watch out for those dreams of youth, they just might come true.

Anyways, back to that pile of sticks.

Having finished up and coming in to clean off, I had asked my dad about the wood I had brought home. Seeing if he remembered or if he had moved them?

“Sure.” He says. “I threw them all away with the trash weeks ago.”

“You did!” “Why?” I asked.

“They were just sitting there on the ground not doing much of anything but taking up room.”

“Well, I was going to make some walking sticks with some of them one of these days pop.

It would’ve been good to know you were going to get rid of them.” As I finished washing up my hands at the sink.

“There weren’t any real good ones for making canes anyways.” He said, coming into the kitchen with his empty plate and coffee cup. “Besides, you had all summer. It was time for them to go.”

“You’re right pop.” Trying not to be to upset at my dad. “Maybe I can see if there’s still some more by that beaver’s home one of these days.” As I got my own supper and sitting down at the table to eat.

“Well you had plenty of time if you really wanted one.” He said, moving back into the living room. “Thanks pop. You’re right.” I said. Trying not to get mad all over again as I finished up my meal and washing up my dishes and that was that.

The end of the conversation. The end of the subject. So I thought.

As the holidays come flying by as they do once fall comes around.

Treats for the kids in scary costumes.

Family and friends for turkey and more.  

As the morning comes around the tree handing out gifts to love ones is here.

Dad comes out of his room telling me to hold up son, I have one more that I didn’t place under the tree. Getting up off the floor I see him standing there with a stick in his hands.

“Here.” He says, as he passes my gift to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s a cane from that pile of wood you were going to work on. I cleaned it up and sanded it down. Stained it up so you could bring it on one of your walks.”

I was so taken back I didn’t know what to say. Well that’s not true, I did know.

“Dad, I thought you threw them all away. Telling me that there weren’t any good ones to use.”

“I lied.” He says with a smile on his face. “I’m old. You can do that when you’re old.”

“Thanks pop. Thank you very much.” And that was the end.

The end of the conversation. The end of the subject. So I thought.

Many years have gone by and that walking stick has been through a lot.

To the ocean, to some mountain tops.

To winter strolls, to neighborhood summer parties.

To camp fires, to quiet walks alone.

To baseball fields, to flea-markets too.

It has gone on so many trips within the back of my truck and has been a staple in almost all of my walks around town that people have even asked, “How much?” or “Where I brought it from?”

That it even surprises me when I tell them that my dad had made it for me years ago out of some sticks I had found by a local beavers house.

So as time passes as it usually does things change.

Some for the good some not so much. But that’s life.

I even brought my cane to my father’s funeral.

Now having picked up my life and slowly start back to the living I found myself going back on those small walks with God.

That should be the end. The end of the story. The end of the conversation. So I thought.

So here I am walking around the streets of a giant size pumpkin festival with my other half and friend. The small children playing dress up and enjoying the fall weather that’s rolling in.

Just enjoying life.

‘Til I had to find the line to relieve myself.

Having found the right line and asking God to please have these people in front of me hurry up so I may go.

I was next in line, moving up and standing in front, I place my cane upon the ground and it disappears right out of my hand!

Just gone.

Looking down at my feet standing on the fallen leafs I found myself kicking at the ground to uncovering a sewer grate that my cane went down.

Just lying to one side quite a ways down.

I had found myself just standing there with complete shock and the need to relieve myself gone.

To say here that my heart was broken would be an understatement.

The emotions that welled up in me were so many that I couldn’t even if I wanted to, put them down here in print.

Needless to say it was my father that came to the surface of my sorrows.

It’s truly gone I thought. That part of my life – that gift from my dad. Just gone.

That should’ve been the end. The end of that part of my life and those journeys. So I thought.

I can’t tell you what the look was on my face as I turned to my friends, but I can guess it was shock. They both looked at me with sympathy and asked if I was okay? Would I be alright?

It’s just a stick I thought to myself and telling them, “Yeah.” – But meaning no.

“We’re so sorry.” My friends said.

“What will you do?” Is all they could say.

Well I would like to tell you that I moved on.

That I stopped thinking that some part of my dad that has been with me for so long was now lost.

That that was the end, right – Nah. I prayed.

Prayed hard to just be okay with the situation.

I started walking again with my friends – but my mind was in overdrive.

I started looking for someone in charge.

Someone that works at this festival that might be of some sort of assistance.

I came upon a young man closing off a small section with rope and I approached him and explained to him what had happened.

Let me try to put it down the way he said it to me.

“What?”

“Your stick?”

“Is your father okay?”

“It’s in where, a sewer?”

“Oh man dude, I don’t know?”

“It’s crazy around here.”

I thanked him for his time and turned away with a heavy heart.

My friends telling me, “Well you tried.”

So we started walking again. Being pulled into the large crowd of people.

Thinking to myself, now what?

As we walked we came upon some men cleaning out some trash. I approached one and expanded myself.

He stopped me in mid-sentence saying, “No man we just pick up the trash and walked away.

One of his co-workers over hearing my woos came over and said to try the tent where the fire station is. Maybe one of those folks could help out and he too turned and walked away.

“Well we could try.” Said one of my friends.

But the overwhelming feeling that it was lost to me started to set in. Then we turned and started walking in the direction of the stations tent.

Now when I say to you that there were a lot of people at this fair – there’s no way I can explain it unless you’ve been to a big sports game.

The Mall on Black Friday or a Zombie Apocalypse. Just a ton of folks.

We could start to see the fire trucks where the tent was as we walked.

Hearing the children playing around them having fun.

Then all of a sudden that young man I first talked to was standing right in front of me saying,

“You’re that guy with the lost stick, right?”

“Where did you say it was?”

My God – my heart skipped a beat!

“It’s right over here.” I pointed.

The young men looked and whistled.

“Damn it’s down there isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Was the only thing that I could come up with to say.

With the look on my face, and my thoughts of my dad, he opened up the sewer and jumped right in. Climbing out and handing me back my walking cane saying, “Here yeah go man.”

“Oh my God.” I said and pull him into me for one of the biggest hugs I had ever given to someone in a long time.

“No big deal.” He said with a laugh.

But it wasn’t just a ‘No big deal’ as he said.

Seeing him get swallowed up by the crowd with my friends standing there looking at me saying,

“That was incredible!”

“We were just talking about how we should help you – but you seem to just walk through it and never give up.”

“That was so cool what he just did!” They added. And that should’ve been it.

The end of the conversation. The end of the subject. The end of the story. So you’ll think, right.

As we headed out and started walking again talking and laughing about our lives and where we’re at in them right now. Hearing the children playing and enjoying life I couldn’t help but think of my dad and thanking God once again we walked upon that same young man not hard at work this time but with his family instead.

Holding his two small children’s hands being a dad and having fun.

With a heart full of joy and a chill in my soul, and thoughts of my father and God, I walked over to him and gave my deepest thanks and with my cane in one hand, I shook his hand with the other.

As my friends and myself walked back into the crowd, back into life, with my head held high with gratitude in my heart to once again be reminded that good people are alive.

That there’s still some goodness around. If I only stop and look around.

While holding my cane, my gift from my dad.

Taking that next step for more journeys ahead.

I stopped and I prayed saying thanks again and holding very tightly that hope is still alive within the human race,

along with my walking stick…                                   

Where did I park My Life

Why does it always seem like when I have it all ironed out in my life,

something always comes along to remind me that the only certain in life is change?

I mean really,

just what more does my higher power have in store for me in this life?

My sponsor would probably say anything and everything – he’s like that,

very vague – when I’m looking for a direct answer in my life.

Now don’t get me wrong – in the beginning there was a lot that I needed help with.      Help with the simple fact that I couldn’t drink in safety any longer,

help with not knowing where to turn,

help with the fact that – at the time it felt like my life was over.

In the beginning it seemed that drinking wasn’t the problem.

It was my parents, my bosses, or whomever I was with at the time.

As simple as that.

But what I didn’t know at the time was that I had given alcohol free reign of my life.

It told me that I knew more than my parents at the ripe old age of 14.

Wherever I worked my bosses would tell me,

“This is how it’s done”.

I would say,

“But I know a better way”.

The same with any relationships that I was in –

“Do what I say, not what I do”.

Ya, like that worked.

But alcohol told me that I was right, and they were wrong.

Did you ever wonder why WAR was sometimes spelled in capital letters?

I think for me it stands for We Are Right,

So does that mean You Are Wrong?

Mr. Webster’s definition of YAW is a verb – to deviate from the intended course.

To move unsteadily.

Could the problem really be me?

Alcohol said it was ok.

But it was anything but ok.

All this time fighting the WAR on others,

when the truth of the matter was the YAW, right in my face.

Looking right back at me with blood shot eyes,

unbrushed teeth and no clean socks.

How unsteadily I moved through life.

How deviated from my intended course did I go.

And still, alcohol said it was ok.

I don’t think that there was ever a time in my life that I said,

“Gee, I think I’d like to be an alcoholic

and that I would like my life to be unmanageable”.

It just happened.

That’s the truth of the matter.

Neither right nor wrong, but the truth.

There’s still a lot of work ahead for me.

But with the help of my sponsor,

meetings and a higher power to help me on this intended course of sobriety.

To move somewhat steadily through this life,

to know that today, that the only certainty is change

and to stop living in the past where I would wonder,

“Where did I park My Life?”….

 Under the Orange Roof

It’s funny how they said my life would change so much.

I didn’t think I would be back here, where I used to drink, that’s for sure

and where I drank would still be in my life.

It started years ago come to think of it.

Like all stories, this has a beginning.

It starts really with my father.

My father was a cook. Had been a cook even before I was born.

He’s been cooking for so long that there’s not a time when I can’t remember when he wasn’t.

To me it seemed when I was little that my father cooked everywhere.

At work, at home, even the church when they needed someone.

My father was always there.

But one of the places stands out most in my mind, one of my favorite places my father took me to when I was young.

When we first pulled up I could see the blue sides of the building and get this – it had an orange roof.

To me it looked so funny like it should have clowns or something living inside of it.

I remember there was this sign over the top of the roof of this man reaching down to a small child.

It made me think of my father and me.

When we were inside my father and I walked through this dark and smoky room with people sitting and laughing.

“Dad?” I asked.

“Are these the clowns that live here?”

He looked down at me with a smile.

“No son.” He said.

He went on saying, “They aren’t clowns,

but I think some of them do live here most of the time.” And laughed!

He then brought me in the back where he cooked,

sat me up on this long bench, told me to stay right there and to be good.

“I’ll be right back.” He said.

He then gave me this chocolate lollipop.

It had the same man and child on it that I seen on the rooftop outside.

I was no different than most kids – once done with my treat,

my mind started to wander and the body wasn’t too far behind.

I went through the kitchen,

on by the ice cream and soda fountain,

to the room that was dark and to me full of clowns.

It was still dark inside.

Maybe they were sleeping I thought?

But how could that be.

It was sunny and warm outside.

Sometimes I could hear the clowns talking and laughing.

I was still standing there in the smoke – filled doorway when my father found me. Needless to say, he never brought me back there.

He said things to me like, “Not staying put.” “Could’ve of got lost.” or “Had I gone outside I’ve might have been hit by a car.”

But that made no sense to me.

All I wanted was to see the clowns again.

Little did I know that years later I’d be one of those clowns?

It seems to me that when I started drinking,

I drank everywhere I could.

But the one place that I seemed to make my home was the same place my father had brought me years ago.

I had found a place where people knew me and I them.

We told stories, laughed at bad jokes.

I even had a couple of beers with my father while my mother was at church.

My father would tell me about when he worked here and how much it had changed since then.

To me, it was just a place that I could go to, have a few drinks in peace.

Talk to some people, laugh when they laughed, and were sad when they were sad.

By then I couldn’t feel anything and I didn’t know why.

So I would order another drink.

Gone were the memories of my childhood.

It seemed there were times when I would not smile or laugh for days.

When I did, it was hollow and dry.

If I didn’t laugh, I’ve break down and cry.

I was so empty inside and I didn’t know why.

So I would order another drink.

It wasn’t long after that, that I would find recovery.

I didn’t know what else to do by then, but I knew in my heart,

that I’d had enough of living the way I was.

I started to go to meetings.

Even picked up my first 24-hour chip at this place, which is now my home group.

I made coffee and later handed out the same chips that I had picked up years before.

They said things like,

“Keep coming back.” And “Don’t drink, no matter what.”

But the things that I remember the most was,

“Change your playground.” And “Clean your house.” And “The person who walks in this door has to change.”

Well I have changed my playground.

My friends – which weren’t many by the end of my drinking and cleaned my house.

I found out that a meeting could start before a meeting and go on well after it in parking lots.

In friends cars going to and from a meeting.

Even at places where they serve coffee late at night.

It wasn’t long after I met my sponsor that he asked me out for coffee.

I said, “Sure, where?”

“Get in the car.” He said.

“We’ll go over there.

There will be other people from the meeting there too.”

As we pulled into the parking lot I started to laugh.

My sponsor looked at me and asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Here?” I asked.

“This is the place where we’re having coffee?”

“Sure is.” He said.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been here before?”

“Oh no.” I said.

“I’ve been here many times, come to think of it.” And laughed again.

So here I sit with my new friends.

Not in the dark room of my childhood filled with smoke and clowns.

But near the soda fountains of my youth.

Telling stories of how it used to be.

How my life has changed so much.

And we laugh.

Here – Under the Orange Roof….

 The Last Son

A while ago I was sitting down by my mom’s side.

She was bedridden due to a sickness she had had for many years.

Not a bad night.

No rain, no heat, just a day.

Well it was night and she was dying.

My father and partner were out for a break and it was my turn to watch over my mom. Watch, like she was some kind of child or something.

My mom was very with it that night while I was there.

We talked and talked.

About everything and nothing really, just talked.

When I was a child.

When she was one.

She had no regrets she told me.

She didn’t want any anyway.

“Life is too short.” She told me.

“Mom, can I get you anything?”

I asked as I got up from my chair.

“Yes, please, some water would be nice.” She had said.

Looking down at my mom I thought,

what a strong person she is.

Dad said early that she didn’t know who he was or where she was this afternoon.

Sitting back down in the chair beside her with her water in my hand I asked,

“Mom, do you know who I am?”

“Of course, you’re my son.” She said.

“I have two.

Your brother was my first and you were my last.”

We must have talked for hours it seemed.

She told me how proud she was of me.

But that she was proud to have me sober and in recovery.

That the last four and a half years she had her son back in her life.

She told me that she had been praying for me every day that I was out there using.

“Don’t use this as a reason to go out and start drinking again.” She said to me that night.

Not to go out, I thought.

God, if there was ever one this would be it.

“No mom, I won’t.” I said.

She took a couple of sips from the glass I was holding up to her lips.

God, please be with my mom, I thought.

My mom used to say, “That life was like a giant book with all the stories already written down.

Stories of those who came before,

stories that are being read right now and still many stories yet to come.”

“You know?” She said to me.

“Going to heaven is the biggest classroom of them all.

All our questions will be answered that you asked in life.”

As she looked up at me with eyes so clear.

“I’m going to school tomorrow.” She said.

“Mom, is there anything else I can get you?” I asked.

“Yes, give me a hug.” She said.

So I did.

I sat with her ‘til my father and partner came home.

I told them what she had said about tomorrow.

Dad said she’s been like that all day with him.

We decided to stay home from work that next day to be with her.

10:43 a.m. my mom had some breakfast.

At 11:30 a.m. she said to us that she loved us.

“What’s the weather outside?” She wanted to know.

“It’s a great day, Ma” Dad told her.

“A great day to be alive.”

11:48 a.m. my mother died with us holding her hands.

Now she knows I thought.

I was the last son she talked to.

The last son to hold her hand.

For the rest of us, all we can do is turn the page.

From the beginning to the end,

she was always with me.

I can’t think of a better gift to give my mom,

from her Last Son….

 Freedom to be Me

For once in my life I would like to be free.

Free to make decisions that are good for me.

But that wasn’t always how it was.

Once I found alcohol, the ability to make choices and sane decision-making were gone.

Alcoholic thinking was what I would do.

Most of my life I was like a great chess player in my mind.

Always two or three steps ahead, moving the pieces on the board for the outcome I wanted.

Manipulating the people around me, if I could.

To produce the final victory, which was the drink or drug in my hand.

But there was no real freedom in my thinking at that time in my life.

Old John Barleycorn was making the real moves on my chessboard life.

Leading me into thinking that I was the one making these great choices and leading me down the road of what I thought was happiness.

But there was no real happiness by the end of my using.

Nor was there any real freedom from my thinking.

The insanity of this disease was keeping me out there using when the end was well over. What I didn’t know was Old John had moved all my pieces on the board into no freedom for me.

Now I’m in the program, working on these steps.

Having put down that drink and drug was one of the hardest decisions to make. Especially when my thinking was so messed up that at sometimes in that first year, drinking sounded right.

The alcohol thinking and the insane decisions were still right there.

I thank God for the old-timers that helped me out.

Showing me a way from the insane life I was living.

Helping me understand that even if I wanted to drink,

I didn’t have to.

This was for me my first real freedom.

Knowing that I had choices again.

But what if I chose wrong?

Well that’s what a sponsor is for – to ask.

That’s what the twelve steps are for – to do.

Having cleared away the old chessboard and getting honest with me.

Not drinking or drugging was but the first of many decisions that I would make.

Learning how to live one day and sometimes one moment means to make choices and decisions for myself.

Wrong or right I’ve learned how to do this.

With the help of a higher power, a sponsor, having a home group and being part of a Fellowship.

Not just a side line watcher. But a doer.

Jumping in with both feet as they say.

Talking to other people in the Fellowship.

Letting others know where I am and learning to have people help me when my thinking isn’t great.

It’s not so much the drink or drug today, it’s my thinking, my decision making.

The choices that can put me in the wrong place so fast that I feel I’m back at square one. But the ability to make right choices for me is the best freedom of all.

Being able to think clearly because there is no alcohol or drugs in me is one of the greatest feelings to date.

Right or wrong, the choices we make and being accountable for our actions is freedom of self.

But the best thing of all is that I can be me.

That I am free,

and the Freedom to be Me….