Page 37 - Firehouse Pond

My father worked as a cooper for the mill. I remember him asking the family

to save old socks so he could use them as gloves to shield his hands. Each
wooden stave had to be boiled then stacked on wire racks to dry. One of my
father’s jobs was to remove the staves from the boiling water for “stack

racking”. He came home with burns and blisters because he could not afford
to buy the proper gloves needed to protect his hands.

When I allow myself the uncertainty of revisiting my early childhood, I am

forced to reconcile my feelings for the man I hated with the man suffering
from the disease of alcoholism. Unquestionably, my father was plagued by
the bottle; my entire family suffered.

I was left trying to understand the man he became during his military service.
An unanswered question continues to plague my mind: How is it that a man

that did not drink alcohol before the war came home an alcoholic? Ghosts
from the past have a way of haunting and changing a person. Did he drink for
pleasure or escape?

Unfortunately, his undiagnosed injury (PTSD) and the failure of the military
to acknowledge their responsibilities, ruined an otherwise good man and
contributed to the destruction of an entire family.

Later in life, I entered the U.S. Army, and I too was changed by what I
experienced. Thankfully, I do not drink, and I did not fall prey to illegal

drugs.

My father’s treatment was self-administered alcohol. Take one sip and forget
what you saw; two sips will block the sounds; three and you are on the path to

forgetting, at least for a few hours; the horrors of war.

Make no mistake; I do not excuse his behavior, nor do I pardon his behavior.

I know in my heart, it is not my place to forgive, excuse, or pardon. I’m
confident you understand what I am trying to impart.