The red leather book

While in Italy, my daughter bought me a gift. It is a red leather journal.

I have deiced that I will one day lay down all the "family" stories in that book. The stories my grandmother shared with me, the stories that my mom and dad shared, and the stories that I lived to tell about.

One such story is that of Oct 17.

I believe I was in 7th or 8th grade. We lived on Kedzie and Belden. The apartment spread from the intersection to the alley. I lived there with my grandparents, my sister, my schizophrenic uncle tony, and, on occasion, my dad. He lived there, but most of his time was spent five blocks north at the square. There Kedzie and Wrightwood and Milwaukee and Logan Boulevard meet -- The Square. There was the Eagle. The Central Monument. But we all called it The Eagle. And there, on most any day past 9:30AM, you could find my dad drinking.




I remember the first time I was allowed to walk to the store with my friends. They wanted to go past the statue. It is faster, they said. Yea, but the drunks are all there, I don't want to get harassed. I didn't want to be embarrassed. I didn't want my dad to start yelling out my name and telling people how smart I was. I didn't want to smell the beer on his breath. I didn't want to be harassed.

Oct 17 was a Saturday. It was almost my birthday and I was being a brat. "Dad, I want a cake. I want you to get me a cake. I never have a party and I never have friends over-- but I want a cake from the store like the other kids have on their birthdays."



Back then it seemed such a simple request. Today, I understand the impossibility of such a request. There was no money. There was never a birthday party. It didn't happen in my home. There was no way we would want anyone to see our family-- our dysfunctions. How selfish of me to expect a cake. But when you're 12, your selfish. I didn't have new cloths. I wouldn't get gifts or toys. I don't even think we had a color TV yet. A cake, a real cake. From the store. That said happy birthday. It seemed doable. I was a good kid. I got good grades. I should have a cake. If he could have beer day in and day out, I should be able to have a cake, just once.

Later that night. My dad came home. He was red and rushed. He had a brown paper bag. It contained one Jewel cake, and a 12 pack of beer.

"You stole this. "
"I got you your cake ."
"But you stole it. You couldn't just get the money like every other dad. You stole the cake. And not only that -- you had to steel beer. Would you have even bothered if you didn't want the beer?"

I yelled at him. I yelled and the tears ran down my face. I yelled at him some more.

Then my father did something he had never done. He stuck me. He backhanded me. I fell to the floor. The hit wasn't hard, but it was a shock. My father had never so much as spanked me.
Discipline in my home when I was a child was handed down by my Grandfather. He had the belt, or at least the threat of the belt. I recall maybe one spanking in all my years growing up. Yet if you asked me to recall a sparking, I couldn't. My dad had never hit me. Not ever. Today he did. I did the only thing I could think to do -- I got up and I kneed him in the crotch.

He hit me again and I kneed him again. Thinking back, neither of us were good fighters. I don't recall pain--I am guessing he wasn't in much pain because he still hit me. That is when my grandparents came running in.

The floor beneath the warn out carpet shook as they came down the long hall from the living room to the dinning room.

My grandfather stepped between us.

"That's it" my grandfather's voice was deep, serious and loud. "You don't slap her, you leave now" My grandmother pleaded with my grandfather. I know what she was thinking. If grandpa kicked my dad out, he would die. He was an alcoholic. He was a bum. He couldn't make it out on his own.

My dad took a shoebox from under his bed and left.

There is more to this story. Stuff I didn't know back then. Today, I know.

My dad had not had a drink in 5 days at that point. He was dry.

In that shoe box was a card. A card from a local AA group. He went there, on Oct 17. He did not drink that beer that he stole. He didn't take the next drink. And one day at time for over 20 years, he has not taken that first drink.

A few years back, my dad spoke at a regional open meeting. He told this story, thought his eyes. It was good to hear his point of view.