11 - Once Upon A Time In Meductic, Excerpt from The Seventh Crow, copyright © 2013 Bernie Schultz

 

I remember one of the old-timers used to say, If you don’t bend your knee, you’ll bend your elbow. I didn’t know what he meant back then. I came to learn what it meant, though. It means that if you don’t find a higher power and ask God as you understand him for help, you will drink again. I proved that one thirty-nine times in four years. I was a chronic slipper. I’d get sober a few weeks or a few months, then I’d get an urge to drink and I would drink because I had no defence against the drink, no power against the drink. Some of the AA groups in town developed a Bernie protocol. If they saw me coming, they hid their 24-hour chips, the ones you pick up when you decide to try again.

I’m not a religious man. I say the word God because it’s the only word in the English language that describes the point I’m trying to make. And when I say God, I mean whatever God means to me. When you hear me say God, it’s whatever God means to you. God as we understand him.

I was born Anglican, whatever that is. In my time, I have been Protestant, Jehovah Witness, Mormon, Seventh Day Adventist, Rosicrucian, Buddhist, Hindu, Wicca…you think it up, I probably been it. I was so busy trying to understand other people’s understandings of God that by the time I got to AA, I was borderline atheist. I had lost interest in looking, had left the search for my maker in the bottom of a bottle. What I didn’t know was that alcohol had become my higher power.

I made my first conscious contact with God as I understood him when I was hitch-hiking through that snowstorm. I was in the Bible Belt in New Brunswick, outside of Meductic. As I said, I was getting thirsty. I started thinking how nice a shot of rum would feel. I started thinking that it would warm me up some. It would certainly take the chill off. Yes sir that is what it would do for me, but what would it do to me. I began to wonder if Meductic was big enough to have a drunk tank.

Looking back, I see how things were already starting to change for me. In the past, I always believed the lie, that one drink wouldn’t hurt. Like that one beer I wanted to have on the train. Or that one shot of rum I wanted to have now. Those were lies I told myself. That it was going to be different this time, that I would be okay, that there would be no trouble this time. But, the truth is that it was never different. It was always the same. Alcohol kicks the crap out of me every time I drink it. One always leads to ten or twenty for me.

Now, it was four days later and I was trying to do the same thing, trying to find some way to stay away from a drink. I looked around. Down the road about a hundred yards was a church. I chuckled to myself. It seemed that every AA meeting I’d ever gone to was in a church and the church was invariably down the road or across the street from a bar or a liquor joint. I had the growing suspicion that I was about to attend a meeting with myself.

The church was unlocked and very warm inside. One problem solved. I sat down in one of the pews. I just sat there, staring at the stained glass, and the statues, and the pictures. As I’ve said, I’m not a religious man. In AA I had begun to learn about spirituality, but I knew it was not the same thing.

As I sat there, I began to think about some things. I thought about my childhood and how I had gone to Sunday school every week. I thought about some of the things I thought I believed in. The Native beliefs I had been researching, they seemed to make sense to me. All that stuff about the Gifts of the Four Directions. I thought back to all the testimonials I’d heard in 12-step recovery rooms about a God doing for others what they could not do themselves. Well, I certainly needed something done that I couldn’t seem to do myself. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be there.

As I’ve said, I wasn’t sure exactly what I believed in, but I did remember what the old timer had said. If you don’t bend your knees, you’ll bend your elbow. So, I went to the front of the church, by the altar. I knelt down. But, instead of praying, I just started talking. I said the usual stuff, about how it had been quite some time since I’d done this and how I didn’t deserve any help. Then, I asked whoever or whatever was listening if he could help me get back home. I even made a promise, that day, that if God, whoever He was, would keep me alive just a little longer, long enough to get back home and try this AA thing again, that I would try to believe a little bit more.

Well, time didn’t stand still. The earth didn’t move. There was no blinding flash of light. But, there was something. I felt different when I stood up. I felt stronger. It’s difficult to put into words, but it was like someone had said, It’s going to be okay. I didn't know it yet but my Great Alone was ended. I was no longer lost on the road of spiritual darkness. I was now walking the Wheel in a circle.

Back on the highway, a car stopped almost immediately and drove me quite a distance. The driver could see I was hungry so he bought me lunch. The next drive took me to just the other side of Fredericton. That driver gave me ten dollars. He said he would give me more, but that was all he had till payday. I still get goosebumps when I think about that.

I spent the next four hours walking towards lights in the distance. They looked like the lights of on-ramps and where there were ramps there had to be cars and service stations and hot coffee. Finally, a car pulled up beside me. The driver had obviously been drinking, but I was too tired to argue the point. The fellow had been on his way to a party and had passed me on his way. At the party, he had been thinking about his days as a drifter and had decided to give me a lift to the next service station. I was beginning to marvel at how much trouble this God fellow was having finding me Good Samaritans.

At the service station, I saw a pay phone and decided to try one last thing. I called an ex-girlfriend of mine. She was astounded at the story I told her and said she wanted to help. She asked me to hold the line. Her boyfriend came on. His name was Larry. He asked me where I was. I realized then that I did not know where I was. I told him this and Larry asked to speak with the gas attendant. After a five-minute chat, the attendant gave me back the phone. Larry said, “Don't move, I'll be right there.”

He must have been insane. He was in Moncton. That’s about two hundred clicks which is even longer in a snow storm. The gas station was closing so I had to wait outside. It was still snowing and the wind had picked up. It was extremely cold out there. My walkman batteries were just about dead. Metallica was singing “You're Where The Wild Things Are.” I didn't want to be where wild things were. I just wanted to be somewhere I could lie down and go to sleep. I almost dozed off standing up. I must have passed out because the next thing I remembered was being in a car. Larry was passing me a warm coffee and saying something about how lucky I was. In fact, I think he said God must be watching over you.

The next day, I was back home, sitting in an AA meeting. I could have passed all this off as a series of coincidences, claiming some feeble excuse like the law of averages had turned in my favor, or some other nonsense. But, I chose not to. I figured God must have been listening and had kept his end of the deal. He had kept me alive a little longer. Now, it was up to me to keep my end. That night, when I prayed, I remembered my manners and I said Thank You.

I spent a week or so with my friends, but honestly now, I was her ex-boyfriend. I left them to live their own life without me in it and spent the next six weeks sleeping under the bridge.

1 - When John Sang For My Sister - Excerpt from Square Peg In A Round Hole

 It was 1964. A gang of crazy young men from Liverpool, England had taken all the girls in the world hostage and no one had been able to do anything about it yet. They were called The Beatles. I had seen them on TV once or twice, on the Ed Sullivan show, and honestly I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. You could never hear what they sang, everyone was too busy screaming “I love you Paul”. Of course, I was only eight years old. My heroes were Matt Mason, GI-Joe, and Santa Claus.

My older sister, Cathy, was ten years old, going on eleven. Cathy thought the Beatles were the best invention since thick bangs and cake liner makeup.

We were living on Waterloo Street in London, Ontario. There was a big red house next to ours – we called it the Big Red House. Next door to that was a grey House. Guess what we called that. The driveway for the Grey House went all the way through to Princess Avenue. I think it had been a street once. About halfway up this old street that wasn't a street anymore was a little white house with a large porch.

One day we noticed an older boy sitting on the porch, strumming an old acoustic guitar that looked like it had seen its day. I recognized the type of guitar because my uncle had one. It was what they called a super jumbo. The boy introduced himself as John. He looked to be about 13 or 14 years old. He was tall and lanky with long shiny black hair tied in a ponytail. John was a Native American. We called them Indians back then because that's what our parents called them and everyone knows that parents were always right back in those days.

“What cha doing with that guitar, John?” I asked.

“Hey hey little man. I'm just trying to get my grandfather's guitar to work. I'd like to play a few songs on it if I can get it tuned just right.” John replied.

Cathy said, “Do you know any songs by the Beatles?”

“Well you know, little lady, I do know a few of their songs.” John winked at Cathy. Then John started to play All My Loving and when John started to sing, you would swear the Beatles had come to our London. Cathy was in love instantly.

John ended the song with a little flourish of strumming and we both applauded.

“How was that, little lady?” John smiled at Cathy.

“That was fabulous, John.” Cathy giggled. “Can you play another one?”

John did a little bo diddley guitar solo and then launched into a cross between Roll Over Beethoven and I Saw Her Standing There. Then, he played I Want To Hold Your Hand. Every time he did the chorus, he extended his hand in Cathy's direction but every time she reached out to take it, John would smile and withdraw his hand.

Cathy didn't seem to mind his teasing. It was obvious that she really liked John. So did I. John was nice to me in an older brother kind of way. He showed me how to double knot my laces so they wouldn't come undone when I was playing. He showed me how to tip my cap to the side so I would “look more hip”. And most importantly, John would take time to talk to me about whatever I wanted to talk about. He always seemed interested in what I was saying and he could make me feel older. Ten, maybe.

Cathy and I spent many afternoons hanging out at John's place. John always stayed on the porch. We always sat on the lawn. Sometimes John would look at me and smile and say, “Hey little man, when you going to invite me home for supper. You know I really like beans and wieners.”

My dad had rigged up a loudspeaker on our balcony so he could let us know when it was time to come home and eat. We would always be out playing something or other in the neighbourhood and he would come on and say “Bernie, Cathy. It's time for supper.” And of course we would know it was time to come home. One time in particular, my younger brother asked if he could do it. So, we're out there, with our friends, and suddenly there's this loud kid's voice shouting to the whole darn city, “Bernie....Cathy....it's time for supper....we got paid today so we're having beans and wieners.”

We'd all laugh. It had been a bit embarrassing when it happened, but now it was just funny. Whenever I noticed Cathy was getting bored from all the talking, I'd say, “C'mon, John, play us a song.”

John would laugh, grab his super jumbo and play what seemed to be the only 3 songs he knew. Cathy and I wished we could spend all summer at John's place, on our backs, on the grass, gazing up at the clouds and listening to John sing.

One day we went to John's house and John wasn't there. The next day he wasn't there. The next day, still no John. In fact, we never saw John again. We thought maybe his family had moved away, but then I never remembered John talking about his family. I didn't remember seeing any brothers or sisters, or his parents. There was no dog in the yard. John's parents never called him in for supper.

The kids in the neighbourhood said that no one had lived in that house for a long time, and often they had wondered why we kept going over there. When I heard that, I looked at Cathy and Cathy looked at me and then we both looked over at the porch where John used to sit. The porch that John never left.

We went home and told our parents about this. Mom said, “Oh you must mean that little orphan kid. He used to live with his grandfather, but the old fellow passed away about a year ago. They put young John in a foster home, but he kept running away. Maybe you saw him one of those times.”

I looked at Cathy and Cathy looked at me. I said, “I think I like that story better.”

Cathy squeezed my hand. “Do you think he'll ever come back?”

I didn't think he would but I lied and said, “Of course he will, Cathy. And when he does we'll invite him home for beans and wieners and make sure he brings his guitar.”

But, John never came back.

Old Man Canavar & His Shiny New Buick

There was an old guy living in Eddie's building. Mr. Canavar. He was tall and muscular with hair as black as night and eyes like fire. He always seemed to be angry about something. He wasn't ever friendly like some of the other tenants.

Old Man Canavar had a large dog that he kept chained up on the back porch. It was a mean dog that barked and howled all day and sometimes half the night. No one used the back entrance because of that dog. Eddie and Wally used to tease the dog with a long stick that they would use to rattle against the porch spindles. The dog would growl and snap but he couldn't get his snout through the spindles to rip them limb from limb as they were sure he'd like to do.

Old Man Canavar drove a big fancy car. Eddie thought it might be a Buick. He was always shining and waxing it. One day when he was carting some groceries upstairs, he left the driver's side door open.

Wally had been playing in the driveway with one of his Tonka dump trucks. When he saw that Old Man Canavar had left his car door open, Wally ran over to close it for him. Eddie found it hard to believe that Wally would do something so nice for Old Man Canavar, but that's what Wally said later when the poop hit the fan so Eddie backed up his story.

Wally almost got his good deed carried out, but instead he tripped over a rock in the driveway and his dump truck went sailing through the air and landed on the driver's seat of Old Man Canavar's shiny Buick. And Wally fell across the seat, spilling the contents of his dump truck over the polished leather interior of Old Man Canavar's pride and joy. Mr. Canavar picked that exact moment to remember he'd left the door open and came out to close it. When he saw Wally's feet sticking out of his car, he burst into a rage. Most of what he said was unintelligible to Wally because it was in Greek, but it sounded a lot like:

“You crazy kid! What the fuck you doing in my car?? I'll kill you.”

Old Man Canavar put one huge hand on Wally's arm and tried to drag him out of his shiny new Buick. Wally had just managed to get his little hands on the Tonka truck. When he heard Old Man Canavar shouting and felt that grip on his arm, he knew he was about to die. So he did the only thing his six year old mind could come up with. He hit Old Man Canavar in the face with his Tonka dump truck. If Wally had been older and stronger he might have been able to defend himself better, but six year olds are no match for grown men. Still, he gave Old Man Canavar a black eye which only made him angrier. He grabbed Wally with both hands and started shaking him. He was cursing while he did it and poor Wally knew he was done for.

That's when Eddie showed up. Eddie didn't know what was happening. All he could see was Old Man Canavar trying to kill his brother and Wally crying, so he started punching and kicking him. Now, both boys are beating on Old Man Canavar. The old Greek put up quite a fight and managed to get them both by the shirt collars. Then, he dragged them upstairs to their parents because he was going to see to it that they were properly punished.

Unfortunately for Old Man Canavar, his day was about to get very unpleasant. Eddie's dad didn't take too kindly to other men manhanding his children so he punched Old Man Canavar seven or eight times and almost threw him down a flight of stairs. Canavar started shouting something in Greek and then Eddie's dad was chasing him down the stairs, out into the driveway and up the street as Old Man Canavar raced away in his shiny new buick.

Seven Years Ago

Seven Years ago.........

On Friday May 13, 2016, I received a message on social media from the local Member of Parliament. He was in town and would be presenting certificates to community leaders. He wanted to know if Nancy and I were available to come over and get one. Sure, I replied. I'll bring a cheesecake. I know he likes my cheesecake. That would be super, he replied.

I sent Nancy a text and let her know not to make any plans. She was excited. She didn't have a thing to wear, would need to have her hair done, etc. All very typical. Then, I start to wonder if I should let the board of directors know. After all, most of the community work we do is with the Society. I sent them a message suggesting that they attend if they were able to.

We get to the church where the “event” was being held. I'm all decked out in my fedora and a red tie (because he's a Liberal and red would show how supportive I was), I got my cheesecake with me. I'm going over a little speech in my head and mentally envisioning where I will hang the plaque, the man cave is getting a bit crowded with all these accolades. There's a lady standing at the door to direct us in, she looks familiar but I can't place her. When I enter the room, I see a small crowd of people standing at the far end of the room. Is that my brother? Why is he here? And isn't that my.....

Everybody yells SURPRISE!!!!! And then I clue in. My birthday is on the 20th. My 60th birthday.

Two months previous, I had gone to Tim Horton's in Waverley to be presented with a check from the current councilor. Our MLA had also been there and we exchanged a bit of small talk. After I left, the two of them were talking. I had mentioned on social media that my 60th birthday was in a few months and they thought it would be nice to throw me a party.

They got together with my wife and began to make plans. They were very thorough and very secretive about it. I never even saw it coming. I hadn't needed to tell Nancy about this. She already knew. I hadn't needed to tell the board of directors. They already knew. Most of my family was there, plus a few very dear friends. The cake was in a knitting theme with balls of frosting intricately designed to look like balls of yarn.

I suppose I looked quite a sight, standing there holding a cheesecake I had brought to my own birthday party, with a look on my face that seemed to say What? I don't get a certificate?

I did actually receive two certificates. One was a congratulations from our MP on receiving the Provincial Award and the other one was another special resolution that had been passed at the NS House of Assembly to recognize my 60th birthday, because of the work I do in my community.

Often, I think back to that frosty morning when I crawled out of my sleeping bag under the bridge, checking for signs of frostbite. I possessed only the clothes I wore, a walkman with no batteries, a battered copy of a book about recovery, and a shred of hope that I could overcome the situation I was in.

This morning, when I woke up, I looked around me at all the things I knew I could never have. Wife, family, grandchildren, a job to go to, a house to live in, a lawn to mow, a driveway to shovel, all the things that normal people have. I closed my eyes, said a little prayer, and then I said thanks.

Know what I mean. Jellybean.

15 – The Gift Excerpt from The Seventh Crow, copyright © 2013 Bernie Schultz

 

When I fell in love with Nancy, I forgot to ask her if she had children. Well, she had told me she was married twice before and I recall her mentioning she had a few sons and a few daughters but I naturally assumed they were all grown up, moved out and married with children of their own. Buzz! Wrong answer!

Nancy had two sons and two daughters. One son and one daughter did fit my description, but the others were still teenagers and still living at home. Now, I had a son of my own so I had a rough idea how that was done. But, when it came to daughters, I didn't have a clue.

I suppose it would have been easier if she didn't hate me the way she did. She would not look at me or talk to me or speak to me when I spoke to her. She completely ignored me and if she hadn't burst into a temper tantrum the day she found out I was coming to live with them, I might have assumed she didn't acknowledge me at all. This affected me deeply.

I remember asking Nancy why she hated me and Nancy said oh don't worry she treats a lot of people that way. Really? Well I did some covert observing and I didn't see her treat anyone else the way she treated me.

I talked to my sponsor about it. He gave me one of his mysterious one-liner answers. "Don't go to them; let them come to you." It made perfect sense to him, and no sense to me. When I asked him to elaborate, he said, "Be patient. Work your steps, that's what they're for." Well, I know now what he was trying to say. He was talking about the principles that are embedded in the Twelve Steps, spiritual principles by which we try to live our lives, a day at a time.

So I was patient. I waited six months and she still wasn't talking to me, unless you count that time I was standing in front of the fridge when she was hungry and she said, "Could you move?" Oh, and there was that other time when she said, "If you think we're going to be one big happy family, you're sadly mistaken!" Then she made a comment about my IQ.

There was another wise old man I sometimes confided in when my sponsor wasn't readily available or when I just wanted a second opinion, so I talked to him about all this 

He was a spiritual man and he directed me to the Prayer of St. Francis, to the verse that states: "Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted, to understand than to be understood, to love than to be loved, for it is by self-forgetting that we find, it is by forgiving others that we ourselves are forgiven, it is by dying that we awaken to life."

My friend went on to say something I have never forgotten. He said everyone ultimately wants, desires, needs only one thing - to be loved. And if we want to be loved, we must love first. What I came here looking for, I must come here looking with.

And that's exactly what I did. I gave Angel (that's her name by the way) unconditional love. That's not always an easy thing to do, because in order to give unconditional love, we must practice acceptance. I would need to accept Angel for who she was and how she felt about me. I would need to allow her to be where she was for as long as it took her to realize where she was. Sometimes that would mean accepting unacceptable behavior and sometimes it might mean redefining what was acceptable or unacceptable.

A wise man once said, in reference to alcoholics, honesty with ourselves and others is what gets us sober, but it is tolerance that keeps us sober. Tolerance is defined as the readiness to allow others to think and act as they see fit. So, I was tolerant.

I began to see from observing Angel that it was not me she disagreed with. In fact, it had little to do with me, it was the role I was in. The father. Without going into too much detail about the failings of another, her biological father had been unkind to her. Not in a physical way, but he had seldom, if ever, expressed the love of a father toward his daughter. I do not know why. I only know my own story. Like me, my father had been an alcoholic. I knew from my own experience as one that alcoholics are people who suffer from an inability to carry on a true partnership with the people around them. It may not have been that my father didn't love me, he just did not know how to say it or show it.

Suddenly, in that instant, I understood. I wanted to rush over to her and tell her it was okay. I wanted her to know that I possessed the one thing she had never known, the unconditional love of a father for his daughter, for despite everything, I saw her as my daughter.

Unbidden, the words of my sponsor echoed in my head, "Don't tell her, show her." I practised more patience, and I made every attempt I could think of to show her she was loved and needed. I did little things for her. I folded her laundry when she was too busy with her homework to do it herself. I bought grocery items that I knew she liked. I left little notes here and there, the kind that require an answer, like will you be home for supper? is there anything you want me to pick up tonight? do you need any money? And so in a small way, we began to communicate. I think the most important part was that I was listening, paying attention.

One evening, her and some friends went to a school dance and they got into some rum. Angel was escorted home by two chaperones. She was very drunk. Nancy and I put her to bed. I sat up all night, in case she needed anything. The next day, she had no recollection of the night before, and the last person she wanted to talk to about it was the only person home.

We had quite a chat that day, about alcohol and alcoholism, blackouts, about my drinking and my reasons for drinking. I told her I basically drank because I was afraid. Well, she couldn't imagine how anyone as big and strong as me could be afraid of something. I told her I was mostly afraid of rejection, of abandonment, of failure. I showed her that I had weaknesses and she was smart enough to know that I wouldn't tell just anybody that stuff. She told me that the main reason she didn't want us to become close is because she was afraid I would leave too. I didn't say I wouldn't. I just nodded and told her I understood how she felt. I think I made a friend that day. Some time passed and we began to talk a little more.

One day, I told her something about myself, about a secret I had been keeping from everyone and had only recently exposed to the light of day. Angel asked me why I was telling her. I said I was telling all the people who were important to me. She began to cry and said he had never told her she was important to him. We hugged that day and she cried on my shoulder. I cried too and I think she knows. She has never mentioned it, but I think she knows.

On another day, not long after, Angel told me she loved me. She did it in a way I will never forget. In my spiritual life, I have a tool called a God Box. Whenever I am wrestling with some thing I cannot seem to let go of, I put it in the box. It's a physical way of putting the situation into God's hands. Well, one of the men I sponsored needed a god box, so I gave him mine. Then I put a request in for a god box on my xmas wish list.

On xmas morning, I opened a gift that Angel had bought for me. Inside was a beautiful box, very expensive I could tell, with picture frames on all four sides and on the top. Inside each frame were pictures of sunsets and clouds and other scenes she hoped would be helpful to me in my morning meditation. On each one, she had handwritten a line of the Serenity Prayer and on the back she wrote I Love You and signed her name. I was speechless.

On father's day of the following year, Angel gave me a brooch made out of pewter. It was a native American symbol of the Wolf. She said she wanted to give me this gift because on the box it said the wolf was a symbol of family and togetherness and that I had taught her that these things were important. I asked Angel if she was familiar with the St. Francis Prayer. She had never heard of it. Well, the emblem of St. Francis, the gentleman who wrote the prayer that drew Angel and I together, is the Wolf. Imagine that.