Category Archives: hope

Once Upon a Lin…

Once Upon a Line

Once upon a line it seemed that no matter how much I had – I still wanted more.
Once upon a line I heard that I didn’t need anyone to feel all alone.
There was a time where I had to wait in lines.
Lines at the bank or the gas station – even when young there were lines in the school cafeteria just for some food.
All in the name of fun I would wait in line – sitting around the bar table looking at people that I didn’t know waiting for the barkeep to bring me my next drink.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror staring back at me.
Walking on that fine thin line of insanity and sane.
Having small glimpses of reality come through my head on what to do next.
There always was a line somewhere.
The line to stand in when I was going to that new club.
Starting out looking so cool to being so washed up by the end of the night.
Flushing the toilet with the tips of my boots, just to be sitting there backwards making lines till 2:00 am.
Like most fairy tales this one starts off just the same with one exception: it’s real.
As we start our story we come upon a young man waiting in the line at the bank.
As he starts getting closer to the teller thinking just give me my money, he starts feeling the overpowering thoughts of when he gets out of this line, what it’s going to take to get to his dealer’s house to get his fix.
The power of using is starting to run through his veins like he was already high.
As the bank teller counts out his money he thinks just for a moment that rent is due, never stopping and thinking that he still owes his dealer for that last fix he got the other day. Not once thinking that there’s still no heat in the apartment or any food.
Why would he.
Once the thought of using enters his mind he’s off and running.
Never stopping to think what’s wrong with this.
At that time – nothing is wrong.
After he sees his dealer and pays him off, just to be fronted some more he heads home. Sneaking by his landlord’s open door to that stairway with that one creaking step.
Opening his door ever so slowly to not hear it squeak.
Over to lighting a candle for some ambience and maybe some heat.
Looking around his small room for the things that he needs.
Never stopping to see the destruction he is making as his head comes closer to that first line.
Sitting back and wondering how he’s going to get more.
Blowing out his candle he sees his breath in the air. No heat will do that.
Opening his door ever so slowly to peek down the hall. Listening in vain for any sound coming up from downstairs.
Over that one creaking step and heading outside.
When did it become day time he thinks to himself – what day is it anyway.
Down the street to try to score some more.
Asking passerbys if they have any loose change or a few bucks to spare, to seeing an old man sitting down in the shade by the side of a building holding a sign that reads will work for food.
Looking down to say, “I’ll never be him – man, that’s got to stink – there’s got to be help for that guy somewhere.
He’s just got to stand in the right line.
Get some help and move on with his life.”
As the old man looks up too tired to try – saying to our young passerby –
“I was just like you once, never stopping to see the destruction I made to myself or to others who cared.
I had a purpose in life too – ‘til I started down this road so many years ago.
I was just like you, always looking for more and look where it got me, all washed up and poor.”
“Yah, you.” “He says as our man just keeps walking down the road.”
As the old man lowers and shakes his head.
I could hear him say.
“I had a life too.”
“I was just like you – Once Upon a Line.”…

Room Six

Room Six

I’ve heard the suggestions like change your playground, stay away from those old haunts. Stay out of your own head. To hearing that popping sound as I take my head out of my – well, you know where.
Sitting down with a friend one day having coffee. Talking about how we felt and joking about the times we put those, “For rent signs,” in our minds.
Thinking that this great machine I like to call my brain will fix the problem sometimes.  And we laughed – knowing that we share the same way of thinking.
We started telling each other how it is when we go to that place in our heads what I like to call room six.
Room six – just the name sounds amusing when I say it out loud.
But it’s not. Just one room. My room, your own room.
We all have a place that we go to when things are going on in our life.
Room six is a large room with one window and peeling ceiling with wallpaper walls.
Well, at least what’s left of the wallpaper, that is.
Looks like the preceding leaseholder had some fun tearing some of the wallpaper off in three of the corners.
But why just three? Now there’s a query.
Least they had their hands free.
Or maybe not.
It could’ve been done with their teeth I reason to myself. I’ve even heard that one could use their own toes to pick away at themselves to the point of bleeding. But let’s not go there at the moment.
Needless to say I don’t have my hands free along with the taste of wallpaper. That doesn’t appeal to me either.
I haven’t been in room six long enough to think about it and there’s that word right in itself – think.
That’s why I’m in room six now, anyway, is it not?
My large room has but one chair, tanned in color and by the window.
Listen to me, my over sized room, ha!
The chair is old and worn with age. Looks like somebody sat in it relatively often looking out the window. Which is not much to look at other than the wall of the building next to this one.
My room has no bed in it either. They must not consider that I will require any sleep.
The floor is white – well, most of it anyway.
Nice and white like after snow first falls.
Worn down in places like in front of the door or where the wallpaper in three of the corners is peeled away. But not in that one corner, I thought. That one blemish stands out the most.
The ceiling has but one light bulb, hanging down low from it. Old by the looks of it. Yellow with age. It has no string or switch on the wall to turn it on or off – it’s on now – but most of the light is coming from the window.
I decide then to walk over to the window and look out – that’s when it happens.
Let me try to put my thoughts in words that even I can understand.
I could smell things – not bad smells. But remembering smells.
Like candy apples at the state fair or cotton candy. The smell of rain on a spring night’s air, and I had to sit down.
Is this why the chair is here by the window? I thought to myself.
I was overwhelmed with intoxicating odors to the point where you could taste them. Sitting down I started to breathe easier – one breath at a time, slowly I told myself as I closed my eyes, slowly breathing through my nose.
Then they came at me again – these inhibitions forcing their way in.
The smell of an open field of wildflowers, the pages of a new book when you first open it. The smell of grass when cut. These odors reached out to me.
My mind was in a thousand different places all at once.
I don’t know how long I sat there, five minutes, ten – it could have been five hours just sitting there breathing slowly in and out.
At some time I opened my eyes to look out the window to see shadows dancing across the side of the building next to me. How long was I staring? Who knows – but the more I stared at those shadows they began to take shape.
It sounds mad I know sitting there having these overwhelming odors and now – now seeing shapes in the shadows, like children running or throwing a ball back and forth. Someone old sitting on a park bench feeding some birds, a couple holding hands while they walked away, and I cried.
One tear from my eye – down the side of my cheek.
I let it go and breathed in deeply.
The taste of my tear when it touched my mouth brought even more smells.
How long?
How long have I been sitting? I thought to myself.
My legs hurt and my feet were starting to tingle. I wanted to get up then. Start walking around – let the blood flow through my legs.
But it’s so nice – where did that come from, was that me?
This spot – it’s familiar.
Looking around my room, the three corners where the wallpapers were torn. The one wall where the door was at.
I looked at the far corner now. Dark and uninviting. But familiar just the same.
The window was too far away to cast any light on that side of the room and my one light bulb hanging down didn’t seem to shed enough light either.
I closed my eyes again, then stood up.
Feeling lightheaded. The images of the shadows still playing across my mind. Slowly – so slowly I open my eyes again, to see my door was open.
Open!
How long? How long has it been open?
There I was standing next to the chair feeling the rush of blood going back into my legs. How long?
I took a step towards the door – this is a dream – it’s not really open. I take another step and stop, my hands are free.
Free! For how long?
I touch my face running my hand through my hair. My tear dried long before.
Before?
I stopped looking back out my window to see the shadows playing across the building and they’re gone. I breathe in quickly – the smells they’re gone too!
How long? How long have I been standing there?
I face the door again. Open, it’s open.
I walk to the door slowly taking each breath, each sight in and I stop again to look down. The paint is worn not on the outside of the door – but inside where I’m standing.
Have I been here before?
Think – and there’s that word again.
The door is open. My hands are free. Just one step and I’ll be through that door.
I look back around now, I have been here before. I close my eyes again, I want to leave or do I want to stay?
With one step I walk through the door.
Eyes open most likely to come back again once more. My friend and I finishing up our coffee only to laugh at this place of mine I’ve come to call Room Six…

Mexican Apple P…

Mexican Apple Pie

Here’s a story of my dad’s cooking gone bad.
The morning started out the same for the last couple of days.
Dad, knowing where he was and who he was – not a big deal to some – if you know that – but dad has been forgetting a lot lately due to getting older.
The church had given us some apples early this week – just because, well, that’s what they do – just – you know what I mean.
Anyway, seeing the apples on the counter as I was making my lunch gave me an idea.
“Dad, would you peel and slice the apples so I can make a pie after work?”
“ Sure,” dad said.
“Just set them out on the counter.”
“They’re on the counter already,” “I said.”
“ No, they’re in the refrigerator.”
“No, they’re on the counter.”
“Are you sure?” “Dad asked.”
“Pretty sure, dad,” not telling him that I was looking right at them in front of me.
“Well, just make sure they’re out so I can peel them.”
“Yah, pa. I will.”
Like I said earlier, dad tends to forget.
On coming home I went to the refrigerator to get some water.
Looking down I noticed a pan covered with aluminum foil – not that that was a surprise.
It seems we always have bowls and platters but no covers. The day I open the package of plastic wear the covers must be getting thrown out along with all the wrappings.
None can be found.
Maybe I should ask Dad – nah.
“Thanks, dad, for slicing up the apples,” as I closed the refrigerator door.
Going into the living room where Dad was watching T.V., he said,
“Did you see what I did?”
“Yah. Thanks,” “I said.”
“No,” “He says.”
“ I made the pie.”
“Oh God,” “I thought.”
“Well,” “I said.”
“I was going to get the stuff to make it tonight at the store.”
“We had the stuff in the refrigerator,” “He says.”
“We did?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you ever look?”
“Yah, but we had no cinnamon,” “I thought to myself.”
“You know you’ve got to look around sometimes to see what we have to work with.”
“Yah, pa, you’re right.”
Feeling like I just stepped into a bad Abbott and Costello skit. Who’s on first deal.
After supper, dad sitting back in his chair, my partner handing him a piece of pie along with one for himself – please don’t ask why I didn’t get one – that’s a story for a different time – those who know my partner – just know.
Anyway, out from the kitchen I hear,
“What the heck is this?”
“Is what?,” “I asked.”
“What I’m eating>”
“I don’t know. I don’t have ESP.”
“Is this supposed to be apple pie?”
“Yes, for Pete’s sake. I made that today,” “Dad says.”
“You did?”
“Yes – why does no one believe that I can still cook around here.”
“Well, I thought we had no cinnamon,” “I told him.”
“Oh, for goodness sake. Am I the only one who looks around the house to make stuff to eat”.
“No,” my partner said.
“I usually look around the kitchen if I’m going to cook something.”
“Not the whole house.”
Once again I’m back in that Abbott and Costello skit.
“What’s in this?,” “He asks.”
“Apples!,” “Dad yells over the T.V..”
“Yah, I know that. But what are these little brown pieces?” and “Why’s it so hot?”
“It’s hot from cooking,” “Dad says.”
“It is? Well, what time did you make it?”
Dad, once again yelling over the T.V. “This morning. Then I put it in the refrigerator.”
“So it’s been in the fridge at least five hours and it’s still hot?”
“I don’t know why,” “He shoots back.”
Looking over at my father as I picked up his plate,
“Dad, just what did you put in the pie?”
“The stuff from the fridge,” “He said.”
“What stuff?,” (i.e. – on the word stuff – let me clarify – that could be anything that ends up in the refrigerator – eggs, soda, socks).
Going over to the counter where the pie now sits, taking a small mouthful, I realized it is hot and looking very red.
“Is there hot sauce in this thing?” my partner says from the table.
“My God, there is hot sauce in this.”
“Dad, what did you make the apple pie with?” yelling from the kitchen.
“Oh, I’m getting really tried of you two thinking I can’t cook,” “He yells back.”
“No one said that, dad. I’m just asking.”
Going over to the table hearing my dad yelling,
“Fine. I’ll never cook again.”
To my partner saying,
“Fine. You’re banned from cooking.”
And me, waiting for that 50’s show music to start playing do do do do.
Thinking, this is my life.
Oh God, this is my life.
Going over to my partner to get his plate.
“Here let me throw that away.”
“Throw what away?”
“The pie!”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yah.”
“Where?”
“I ate it.”
“You did?”
“Yah.”
“But I thought you didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t.”
“But you ate it?”
“I was hungry>”
Like I said, dad sometimes forgets and apparently so does my partner.
Oh, and before I forget…here’s the new recipe in our house.

Poppoes’ Mexican Apple Pie

1 Bag crab apples
Peeled and sliced
Wash with dish soap until bubbles are gone
Place in pie bowl – cover not needed
Add sugar to taste
1 large tablespoon salt
1 dash over shoulder
A handful of bacon bits
2 dashes of hot sauce
2 more for coloring
Bake in oven @ 700 degrees
For 5 minutes
Or until hot sauce bubbles

P.S. Come to think of it – serve in hard Taco shell with a two finger scoop of whipped cream – ice cream on the side – for your very own piece of Mexican Apple Pie…

My Father’s H…

My Father’s Hands

This thought came to me when I was sitting down next to my father in the hospital.
Dad was in again due to his breathing or lack of.
He had asked me to trim his fingernails for him.
As I was trimming them I saw for the first time just how old his hands looked.
All the wrinkles of time, to all the age spots showing.
I couldn’t get over just how old my dad had become while lying in this hospital bed.
Looking at my own hands and seeing how they’re shaping up now.
The small traces of lines forming from time – the age spots slowly being seen.
As I held my father’s hands it came to me all the things his hands had held throughout these years.
From holding my grandmother’s hand to his horse Major’s reins to the simple thing as a cup of water to his lips.
There is history in all our hands.
From tying our first shoe laces to that first button down shirt.
I started to see the past of my father within those hands.
He would tell me about the farm he grew up on.
Those hands moved dirt and tools to farm with.
Off to war so people like me can live with freedom freely.
From holding his mother’s hands to his first date.
To his wife as they started their life together.
Holding on to my brothers; then to me in the end.
His hands have felt the touch of so many things in life – that looking at them now made me realize how my life or better yet – just what my hands have touched so far in life.
My father told me once that you could tell a lot about someone with just their handshake.
To look someone in the eyes when shaking their hand meant something at one point.
That deals were done upon their word and a handshake.
How much we placed upon that.
When I started my journey in recovery who knew all the things that my hands would touch.
All those handshakes at meetings.
From being welcomed in.
To the one welcoming people in.
To see people bound with just that simple handshake.
You can see the friendships starting up that will last one day at a time.
How easily we can forget to hold on to those hands when we think it’s going too bad.
Looking down at my own hands again and seeing my father’s hands looking back.
Maybe not as much has touched them like my father’s – but God willing they’ll get there.
Trying not to forget that it all started with me holding on to that drink, thinking that my life should be so much better if only “they” would leave me alone.
Never realizing that my life was unmanageable because of that drink.
How much money passed between these hands to pay for the things that ended up destroying my life in the end.
Finishing up trimming my dad’s’ fingernails and really seeing for the first time just where my life was going today.
To knowing just what my hands touch on a daily basis.
The handshakes that greet us to the handshakes that bind us in life.
Being responsible in what my hands hold onto throughout today. Working on my fathers’ nails was just another God shot in how I interact with all my affairs today.
Being mindful of where I’ve been, to now.
As I let go of My Fathers’ Hands…