Alcoholic – PART II – Fountainhead
I realized some time ago that nothing exists in a vacuum, nor do events like those mentioned (or the ones that weren't) nor personalities like my mother spring fully formed into existence. Everything starts somewhere. So, when I reflect on my mother's drinking problem, my own and the rest of my family, especially the maternal side, I fix my gaze upon my grandfather.
Born in Massachusetts to my great-grandparents he left home as soon as he could and joined the US Navy in 1942. He served in South America until 1944 when he joined the Army Air Corps, which later became the US Air Force. This meant he served in 3 Branches of the US Military. He retired in 1970 after 26 years. And after living in 30 of the 50 states and several foreign countries, he stayed in my hometown the rest of his life and go on to work at the base commissary for 30 years while becoming a stalwart member of the VFW.
My grandfather, who we all called 'Pa', is a fixed point in my memory. Not a source of joy and happiness, but with few exceptions one of fear, bitterness and disappointment. I knew two men in him: the indifferent or angry morning-pa, and the sloppy and angry evening-pa. As much as I loved my grandmother, I always feared and avoided her other half.
I longed for the kind of man I saw on television and in books that a grand-dad could be. But instead was only able to suffer his anger and unkindness by avoiding him whenever possible. All of my young memories with and around him involve being in trouble or suffering his anger.
I don't know what happened to him to make him this way. But I cannot ignore his time in the military and his experiences in both the second Great War and Korea. Based on the few stories I heard about him, prior to his military enrollment, he was a kind and thoughtful man. His marriage to my grandmother is an example of his thoughtfulness.
She found herself a widow with an infant when her first husband died in his mid-twenties. In the 1940's an unwed woman with a child was a pariah with little chance of finding traditional happiness. So when they met and fell in love, it indicated a willingness to go against social norms. To hear my aunt tell the story of growing as his step-daughter however, it would seem that kindness did not continue.
Of the 4 children he would raise, none of them would turn out to be emotionally stable and successful in the sense that we hope. The youngest of his children (born in 1962 and 10 years my senior) would go on to be one of my great antagonists in life. Though I doubt my uncle ever really understood how miserable he made me, no doubt a lot of his anger and abuse stemmed from the treatment he experienced growing up at my grandfather's hand. I wonder if this contributed to his premature death from cancer at 61.
I realized some time ago that the post-traumatic stress my grandfather suffered from likely drive his drinking. Whether it was from life with his family and parents and/or what he experienced in war, it is clear to me now that he was using substance abuse as a way to hide from those emotional demons that likely haunted him. And he was working hard to hide. I have few memories of him without the influence of alcohol.
Unlike my mother, my grandfather never sought to address his addiction. Not until much much later in life that is. By this time, I was an adult and had moved away and long since lost touch with him. I never knew his sobriety. My sisters and cousins do report that the clean man he became showed some of those kindnesses that originally drew him together with my grandmother. And I shouldn't cast too much shade, at least he stayed married to her for more than 60 years. That is no small feat in this world's climate.
On his deathbed, he told me the story of meeting my grandmother in Alaska to marry her. They originally met at a USO club and soon began corresponding when he was transferred to San Diego soon after their meeting. After he was there a time, in 1951 he was moved to Elmendorf AFB in Alaska. He wrote to my grandmother and proposed via letter, asking her to meet him there where they would be wed. I am quite smitten at the idea of a letter-based courtship. It seems so romantic and out of gamut for someone I considered so unhappy. After my grandmother accepted, via letter, he loaded up his 1949 station wagon and drove the 3000 miles up the west coast to his (and my) future. It was a sweet story which he ended with encouraging me to make that drive at least once in my lifetime.
I have yet to do so.
He was a complicated man with an unfortunately simple problem: an intractable addiction to alcohol. And the pattern of his life was one that he trained his 3 daughters and single son to replicate. And they, in turn, trained their children to repeat those behaviors. The anger and abuse I experienced were duplicated and in some cases made much worse in the lives of my cousins and their children. It seems like it was a race among us to see who could ruin their life first.
End of Part 2
PART 1 – Growing up with an alcoholic parent
This is a long one, close to 7000 words, so I'm breaking it up because that's a lot to ask you to read in one sitting and it's pretty heavy stuff for me to write about. As they post, I'll add links here to continue the story.
Thanks for reading and sharing my beautiful lie.
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