Vista sky

When I took the dogs outside for their last bathroom break last night, I was mesmerized by the sky. The moon's glow lit the curtain of filmy, silver-blue clouds that arched across the sky. When I brought the dogs in I told Wayne to put on his coat and step outside with me - I promised him it would be worth it. It was. We stood in silence, holding hands, heads tipped upward.

That sky reminded me of the paintings that hung - maybe still hang - up in the high front corners of the Vista Theater in Negaunee. When I was 8, 9, 10, it was still the kind of world where your dad dropped off you and a friend at the movies after dark and picked you up after. I shivered through many a cheap horror movie in the dark of the Vista. And I have a distinct memory of looking up at those night sky paintings. They gave me the same pleasantly spooky, lonely feeling I got when I stared up at the sky last night. I felt as a child - and felt last night - tiny and insignificant in a vast, indifferent universe.

That feeling was - then and now - tempered by the knowledge that I was securely anchored to the earth, close to home, warmth, and safety. It's all right to feel small and spooked when you know that the feeling is momentary, and comfort is close.

That's one of the aspects of fall that I most appreciate. It feels a little sad to feel winter closing in, but that sadness is eased by the warmth and comfort of home. I can appreciate that moment of melancholy, because the cure for it is on the other side of my back door.

"Are you sure you're an alcoholic?"

   "Are you sure you're an alcoholic?"
   I was recently asked this question after mentioning to an acquaintance that I was approaching my 32-year anniversary of sobriety.
   My first response? I laughed. After a moment, I asked, "Was that a serious question?" Turned out, it was.
   When I am surprised by someone's question, or someone's response, I typically swallow my first reaction, my emotional one. It's an almost unconscious response, and is probably a fear-based defense mechanism left over from my past. My first reaction simmers in my unconscious, then bubbles to the surface a few days later, and I assemble the words I wish I'd said.
   So on that day all I said was yes, I am certain that I am an alcoholic. I explained that I had had an immediate, visceral response to alcohol the first time I caught that liberating, loosening feeling of a light buzz. I explained that I always drank to get drunk, and that even when getting drunk stopped equaling a good time and became a series of frightening incidents of self-destruction, I was unable to stop. And if my own experience wasn't evidence enough, I had been evaluated by an addictions counselor.
   I wish I had spoken more strongly. I wish I had asked, "Are you asking me that because you don't believe I would be capable of staying sober if I were truly addicted?" I wish I had asked, "Why do you think you have the right to question my own self-knowledge?" I know who I am. I know what I am. And I know how I got here.
   I drank heavily - alcoholically - for four years. I experienced my first blackout the second time I drank. By the time I attended my first 12 Step meeting, two months before my 22nd birthday, I had humiliated myself in several local bars, experienced countless blackouts, missed I don't know how many hours of college classes because I'd start drinking at lunch and lose the rest of the day, acted out sexually in a manner my sober self would never be capable or desirous of, and was battling suicidal impulses every time I got drunk.
   Those were the drinking years.
   Sobriety has not eliminated the impulse to drink. I have teetered at the edge of relapse several times in the past 32 years. It's a horrible feeling, desperately wanting - needing - to drink, and knowing that doing so will tear your rebuilt life to shreds. What kept me sober in those tormenting moments was my 12 Step practices, music that soothed and buoyed me, my supportive circle of recovering women, and my spiritual life. When those thoughts flit through my mind, which they rarely have in recent years, I am able to brush them aside with an ease achieved only by rigorous practice of my recovery principles.
   Am I sure I'm an alcoholic? Despite all evidence, I have actually asked that question of myself. An insidious voice in my head will whisper, "Come on, you were just a kid out partying! You're an adult now. Maybe you can have a beer or two..."
   I can definitely have a beer or two. The problem is, there will be a third. And a fourth. And so on, until my money is gone and I am a laughing, weeping, vomiting, intoxicated embarrassment. It has always been so and will always be. I cannot separate drinking from drunk. Imagining myself having being satisfied with a social drink or two is like trying to imagine myself leaping from the roof of my house and taking flight. Drinking is not something to do; drinking is the passageway to drunk.
   My sober life today is bigger than anything I could have imagined 32 years ago when I was a timid, desperate newcomer. Alcohol would have killed me; admitting to alcoholism saved my life.
   Am I sure I'm an alcoholic? Dead sure. And grateful beyond measure.
 

The weather outside is frightful....

   As I write this, swathed in sweatshirt, sweatpants, fluffy socks, fuzzy bathrobe, and a knitted afghan over it all, we in the Upper Peninsula are enduring one of the roughest winter days of this season. It's a blizzard out there: 35 mph winds, -35 wind chill. The heavy clouds are sifting a steady falling of dry, floury snow. It's a notable day when the postal service knuckles under and announces there will be no mail delivery in your city today. Events were cancelled; everything from high school sports to church dinners to bingo. Local police are advising people to stay off the roads and the snowmobile trails. Last I heard, the U.P. is currently in a state of civil emergency. Civil emergency! What does that even mean?
   For me, it means stay put, relax, have another cup of coffee and see who's doing what on Facebook. Hardier souls than I are braving the blasting wind and icy temps, venturing out to the events that haven't been cancelled. More power to them. I will stay in my warm, albeit drafty house, with my two-legged best friend/Valentine and the motley four-legged crew. We are all in neutral gear, dozing, eating, reading. Sadie cat has had gotten the most exercise of us all today, chasing a small ball of tinfoil that I rolled down the hall for her. She loves chasing tinfoil balls, but she will not touch them. She galumphed down the hall (she is a rather large cat), cornered the ball, then sat beside it expectantly, waiting for me to come and get it and roll it back again. I call this game Bowling for Sadie.
   A snowstorm produces its own particular kind of silence. There are fewer cars going by, of course, but the sounds of the few that pass are muffled by the snow-covered streets and the high banks. There are no human or animal voices to be heard. Each house is its own island, private, tucked in tight.
   I ventured outdoors twice today, to take the dogs out. They went in the morning and again this early evening. Normally they would have become restless in the mid-afternoon, pacing by the back door, but they seem to understand that today is a day for semi-hibernation. When I took them for their second round, Saira beagle was wild with joy - so much new snow to sniff, to burrow her head in, to dig into for treasure! Indy, my schnauzer, shared my sentiment: Let's just get this over with and get back inside, OK?
   I am not a winter person. I don't skate, ski, snowshoe, or hike along snowy trails. Winter has its beauty and its pleasures, but for the most part, for me it's a season to muscle through on the way to next spring. But I've got to hand it to Mother Nature. Just when you've had about enough of scraping ice off your windshield and putting on a brave face to meet another frosty day, she says, No, you aren't going anywhere today. Settle in. Stay warm. Make popcorn with extra butter. Crack open a good book and relax. For one glorious day, your world is on hold.
   Come to think of it, I may be more of a winter person than I thought.

Good neighbors

    I have good neighbors. No, scratch that. I have outstanding neighbors. I've lived next door to Hank and Perri for almost nine years. We've watched each others' teenagers grow up, move out and, on occasion, ricochet back to the nest. We've weathered blizzards, hailstorms, deep freezes and deep-fry seasons. We've shared sympathies when we've lost beloved dogs. We stop to chat when we're outside at the same time. It's comfortable, and then some. Here's a little tribute to the "then some" of good neighbors.
    When I brought my son and my older daughter to see comedian George Carlin perform at the Island Resort and Casino, a 90-minute drive from home, I asked Perri to keep an eye on the house while my younger daughter was home, alone from early evening until much later that night. Melissa was 15; old enough to be left to her own devices. But my concern wasn't about wild parties or a boyfriend coming over, it was the thought of my daughter alone in the house late at night.
    My daughter told me later that Perri had kept a steady but unintrusive eye out for her that entire night. When my daughter was leaving to run to the store, Perri popped outside to remind her that she was available for any major or minor issue that might arise, from a blown fuse to feeling lonely. My daughter felt the comfort of neighborliness with feeling the smothering of nosy supervision. I felt free to have a good time without worry nibbling at my thoughts.
    When my older daughter needed to get from Marquette back to college in Houghton and her car died, Hank and Perri came out in the bitter winter cold and tried to charge the car's battery with their charger. When that failed, Perri drove me to buy a new battery, and Hank installed it.
    Need I say more? Well, I can. They gave me natural remedies when our beagle, Saira broke out in a fire-red, itcy, painful rash. Just this week, Perri answered my call on Facebook when my Jeep needed a tire removed and my partner was unable to get the lug nuts loosened. He needed a pipe to provide extra torque (or something), and Perri immediately replied that Hank had a pipe he would loan. And by the way, did I want a box of Calvin and Hobbes books? Perri had noticed my posts of the comic strip, was getting rid of the books, and thought I'd appreciate them.
    Did I mention that whenever Hank snowblows his driveway he also does mine? I do what I can to repay their kindness, but every gesture I make feels paltry in the face of this steady, ever-present care.
    Some people love to help because it feeds their ego. They radiate false modesty and lap up "thank you's" like a cat laps warm milk. They make it clear that they are the awesome helpers, and you are the needy "helpee." Getting assistance from these people leaves you feeling less than.
    Good neighbors - good people - help because they can. They don't seek fawning thanks and they aren't in it for anything other than the pleasure of being able to help. I have the inestimable good fortune of living next door to two such people. And I never, ever take my good fortune for granted.