July‘s in South Texas are rather warm to say the least. So, unless you fish or boat or enjoy the salt and sand of the beach, recreational activities during the day are fairly well limited to the indoors.
So it was that on this hot Saturday in mid July, my new friend Kimberly and I could be found cruising the various collectable and antique shops here in Corpus Christi, Texas. I might mention, when I say “new friend”, she was indeed new to my life. We had met for the first time earlier in the day at a gathering of mutual acquaintances. I was recently divorced and happened to mention to the group how difficult, after 18 years of being married, I was finding it to develop friendships (much less relationships). Kimberly spoke up and said that she would be glad to be “my first new friend”. We had agreed to meet in the parking lot of a nearby strip shopping center soon after lunch and go “browsing” for the afternoon. ( I’m not sure whether this activity was a safer way for her or for me to begin a new “friendship”, but it was certainly better than spending another afternoon alone in my small apartment).
I might digress for a moment to explain to the uninformed some of the differences between an “antique shop” and a “collectible shop”. Antique shops, for the most part, contain items of “real” perceived value ( ie. $$$ ), where as collectible shops are considered to be a place where one might find sentimental old junk ( ie. No Real $$$ value ). One “meets” at an antique shop to “stroll” or “peruse” and/or to “purchase” a particular “piece”; while people “go” to a collectible shop to “browse” and/or “buy something”. And, perhaps, the biggest difference between the two is location. Antique shops are, by and large, established in a more affluent part of a city; collectible shops, on the other hand, are primarily found in the more economically challenged areas of town. Got it? Ok.
Anyway, back to my story. Kimberly and I had already gone to several collectible shops located, actually, in sort of the gray area. That part of the city located in between the wealthy and the truly poor. Neither of us was up to the challenge of penetrating the more impoverished areas of our town, although that is where the best bargins’ are to be found. Keep it simple – keep it safe. We had spent an hour or so browsing through several shops and, in fact, I had bought a small, imitation jade figurine. I called it my “Magi” because that was what it resembled to me. I might mention that since my divorce and moving into an apartment by myself I had taken to sort of collecting such small replicas of human beings (the more unusual the better). Perhaps, this was my way of having companionship when I was home alone in my little apartment. Other than that it had been a pleasant portion of our afternoon and we were now strolling through an area known as “ Antiques Row” which is not only in a much less economically challenged area of the city it is also, as planned, located directly across the street from where Kimberly and I had met earlier in the afternoon and where we had left her car parked (plan ahead – better safe than sorry, etc.).
She & I were in the next to the last shop along the strip and we were enjoying our perusing and seeing some beautifully refinished pieces of furniture (even some not so re-finished items), various collections of china, old clothes and even some old books (which are another of my weaknesses). We sort of went our own way in each shop. Each of us attracted to different items. Each of us having our own interests. As it was we happened to both be situated in the same area of the store, the far right hand corner, where they had arranged the smaller individual items, either loosely placed on the shelves or grouped in small carousels.
Kimberly said “Oh, Steve, look at this”.
I was absorbed in looking at some old books and looked up “what is it?” I responded.
“Come look”.
So I strolled over to see what it was that had gotten her attention. At first I didn’t see anything of particular interest to me in the small plastic carousel that she was standing by.
“Right there.”
“Oh! Wow!” I finally saw what she had seen. A small, bronze colored coin about the size of a silver dollar. There were various engravings on the coin but what caught my attention right away was the Roman numerals at the bottom. “XXVI”. 26. Both Kimberly and I were familiar with the significance, not only of the coin itself, but what the “XXVI” represented.
“How interesting. Wonder where it came from?” Kimberly remarked as she moved on to continue her stroll through the shop.
But my attention and my interest were drawn to the medallion. “Indeed, where had this item come from? And, how had it come to be here in this antique shop?” There was no price on the item and it was simply mixed in with a hodge-podge of other coins and various small trinkets. I stared at it for a few more seconds and the more I stared the more my curiosity become aroused. I looked around for one of the clerks to see if I might have them open the locked container, but no sales help were in that area of the store at that moment (indeed, there was only one sales clerk who remained at the front of the shop near the cash register, unless one was looking to purchase a piece from the other side of the shop where the larger and more expensive pieces were placed). So I walked to the cash register.
“ Excuse me. There’s a piece over here that I’m interested in looking at. There’s no price on it and the case is locked. Would you mind opening it so I can take a closer look?”
She looked up from her book, a little startled. She had seen Kimberly and I when we had entered the shop. (They had one of those small bells located above the door frame that tinkle softly when anyone came in or out of the door. I’ve always wondered, since the restrooms are invariably located at the rear of such a shop, how a lone sales clerk responds when he or she is using the facilities and that soft tinkle sounds. ( Oh, to be a fly on the wall.) At first her eyes seem to brighten but it did not seem to register with her exactly why I was interrupting her reading at that moment. Then she noticed Kimberly still perusing in the far corner and she could tell from which direction I was strolling.
“I’m sorry” she said “Is there something I might assist you with?”
“ Yes, please. There’s a small piece over here that I’m interested in. There’s no price that I can see on it and the case is locked.” A sufficient explanation of the help I required, right? Wrong. She still did not quite seem to comprehend what it was I was asking and why I would interrupt her Mary Higgins Clark. “Would you mind opening the case so that I can have a closer look?”
She paused for a full ten seconds. Her eyes still seemed to question “What is it you want?” Then the light bulb came on. “Oh you would like some assistance. I guess I’ll have to leave the cash register (although Kimberly and I were the alone in our perusing in the shop at that time) and my book. You actually want assistance in that area of our shop? Oh well, a sale is a sale.”
With that a soft smile came on her face and her eyes acquired a bit of a twinkle. “Certainly sir, how may I assist you?” A question I thought I’d already answered twice before.
“Yes, please. There’s an item (it certainly wasn’t a piece) over here I’d like to have a closer look at. There’s no price that I can see and the display case is locked. Would you mind opening the case so I can see it?” There, a full and complete recapitulation of the assistance I required at the moment, right? Wrong!
“Which case, sir?” she asked.
“How the hell do I know which case, lady. There’s no number on the case either” I thought to myself. By now my patience was beginning to wear a little bit thin. “Forget it. Forget the damn coin.” My temper was tempting me. No, I was interested and I did want a closer look.
“It’s this case over here. Would you mind”.
And so it was that with a soft smile and a bit of a twinkle she consented, although reluctantly to leave the cash register, leave the bell, leave Mary Higgins Clark and follow me to “that corner”. As we strolled towards the case I made small talk with her hoping to belay her qualms about leaving her designated area of concern.
“You have a lovely shop here. My friend and I have strolled along this whole strip area, except for the shop next door.” I said as I pointed to the final shop on the west end of the strip. “You seemed to have acquired the best collections of furniture and china that we’ve seen so far. Most of the other shops seemed to be more into the refinished items, single glass pieces, potpourri, soaps and fragrances. Kimberly and I (there’s power in numbers, right?) have enjoyed visiting your shop.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I could see it in her eyes. The pride. “Yes, well, the owner of the shop prides herself on selecting each piece we have on display. Most of our items come from estates and those individual items that come from market Mrs. Taylor selects personally. Working in this area I’ve strolled through the other stores myself and I agree with you, our shop is rather unique. “ Bingo, instant creditability. “ Now, sir, which piece was it you were interested in viewing?” she asked.
“Viewing? Viewing? “ I can see the coin through the case. I would like to have you unlock the case, take the medallion out, hand it to me, let me look at it and tell me how much it costs!” I thought to myself.
“It’s in this carousel here, there on the third shelf. That bronze medallion with the Roman numerals “XXVI” engraved on the bottom.” I responded politely.
“ Oh. Hum?” She said. “ I’m not sure about that piece. Let me go get the keys so I can open the case. I’ll be right back.”
Patience, Steve, you only told her three times that the case was locked. How was she supposed to know she might need “the keys” to open a locked case. Patience is not a virtue I was born with. However, I was working on acquiring it, along with acquiring the medallion.
The clerk, by the way her name was Cheryl (saw it on the shiny name plate above her left breast pocket – aren’t I sharp. I would have brought the keys with me in the first place. Don’t go there, Steve. Let it go.)¸returned shortly with a ring with numerous keys dangling from it’s circle (all the keys had to be on that one ring. Why didn’t you …let it go, Steve).
“Let me see, which key is it?” Cheryl asked herself. ( I hope she was asking herself because how the hell was I supposed to know, She’s the one that works here. Let it go!)
“We’ll try this one.” We’ll? After trying several keys Cheryl finally got it right. She opened the case and gently lifted the medallion out with the tips of her slender fingers. She then looked at me questionably “ Is this the piece you were interested in?” she asked.
“No duh, lady. Do you see another bronze medallion with “XXVI” on it?”
“Yes, may I see it please?” I responded.
Again, gently, as if the coin were made of some fragile matter, she placed the medallion in the palm of my hand. “ How interesting.” Cheryl said. “What is it?”
I knew what it was and what it meant. But, Cheryl if you don’t know I am not going to try and explain the significance of this small bronze medallion. Nor what it takes to earn this reward in life. You never would and never could understand “what” it is.
“Thank you.” I said. Turning it over I noticed there was still no price marked on the medallion. “How much is this?” I asked.
“There’s no price marked on the piece?” Cheryl responded.
“Now, Cheryl, if it had a price marked on it, why, why would I ask you how much it cost?”
“No, I don’t see a price.” I said. Easy, Steve, she only works here.
“Let me see. I don’t know. Ah.” Cheryl was definitely in a quandary. She’d left the cash register, left the bell, left Mary and now the piece that I wished to purchase (perhaps) had no price marked on it. On top of that, she had no earthly clue as to what that particular piece was. I could see it in her eyes “What do I do?” she was asking herself.
“How much would you take for it?” I asked. Simple question, right? Wrong.
“Take for it?” poor Cheryl seemed to question to herself. “Oh, how much would we sell it to you for?” she asked.
“Yes. How much would you sell this to me for?” I responded, holding up the medallion so that Cheryl would know exactly, positively which medallion with “XXVI” engraved at the bottom I wanted to buy.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Well…” I said “ it represents a certain level of accomplishment within an organization that I’m a part of. The “XXVI” means 26 years of being a member in this organization.”
I really did not want to try and explain this.
“Oh!” Cheryl said. “ You mean like the Lions Club, or Kiwana’s or the Masons?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s right. How much will you sell this to me for?” I said, again holding up the medallion so that poor Cheryl would know for sure which bronze medallion I wanted to buy.
“I don’t know. Mrs. Taylor acquires all of the pieces personally. She’ll be back in on Monday.” Cheryl said, as if that had answered my question.
“I have to work on Monday.” I responded.
“26 years” Cheryl said. “That’s a long time. My husband and I have been only been married for 23 years. But, it’s a second marriage for both of us. My first husband and I were together for almost 10 years before our divorce. And, John, that’s my husband was married for 12 years to his first wife, Kathy. John’s 5 years older than I am. He was single for a number of years before we met. We both have children from our first marriage and he and I have two together. Thomas and Rose Marie. Thomas is the oldest he goes to school at …”.
“Excuse me, Cheryl” I said politely interrupting “ But, I have to work on Monday and I may not be able to get back in next weekend, would you take $5.00 for this piece. Would you sell this to me for $5.00 right now. It has some meaning to me and I would like to buy it today. $5.00 sound like a fair price?”
“Well” she said “Mrs. Taylor, ah…”.
“Cheryl, I assure you this medallion is not made of any rare material, it’s not even real bronze you can tell by it’s weight.” I cut in, handing her the medallion so that she could feel the weight of the coin. “It is not a rare collectable piece” although in the sense that it represented 26 years of abstaining from drinking even one drink of alcohol it represented a rare accomplishment among those of us who understand such an accomplishment. “I would really like to purchase this today. It has sentimental value. It does mean something to me and to the members of my organization.” Again, power in numbers.
“Oh, all right. I can tell it does have some meaning to your fraternity. If Mrs. Taylor complains I’ll tell her she should have put a little price sticker on it. Be sure and tell your friends where you purchased it. OK.”
“I most certainly will” I assured her. I’ll also tell them to come in only when Mrs. Taylor is available.
With that we strolled to the cash register where Kimberly was patiently waiting. I could see her shaking her head and she was smiling at me. “That do it?” she asked.
“I just need to pay Cheryl and we can move on”. I responded, also with a slight smile on my face.
Cheryl looked around the counter area for her receipt book and something to write with. “Let me see…” she said to herself “ where did I put my pen?”
“I believe it’s in your book” I said “ you marked your place with it.”
Kimberly stifled a genuine laugh.
“Ok, that’ll be $5.43 with tax”
I handed her $6.00 and Cheryl turned to make change from the register. “May I see it?” asked Kimberly. I handed her the medallion. “No it’s not for sale” I told her with a smile.
“Cheryl, you wouldn’t by any chance know where Mrs. Taylor got this medallion would you?” I asked. “You know, was it a part of an estate or where it came from? Who the original owner was?” Even as I ask I thought to myself “hey Steve, she doesn’t even know what it is. How is going to know where it came from. Stupid question. Cheryl was rubbing off on me.
“Why no I don’t.” Cheryl responded. “As I told you Mrs. Taylor personally selects all the items in the shop. She’ll be in on Monday. She works week days, I work weekends. She takes the weekends off to relax or sometimes go to market. That is unless it’s a Holiday weekend. Then depending on which Holiday it is she may or may not work. Some Holidays we’re busier than others. Take for instance Labor Day and Memorial Day those are busy weekends. Easter and…”.
“Thank you, Cheryl” I said calmly. “I’ll try to call Mrs. Taylor next week or perhaps I can stop in and visit with her about it. You really do have the nicest shop here along the strip”.
Cheryl nodded her head in agreement and smiled. “Yes, I think we do. Mrs. Taylor personally selects each item. That makes it so much more personal.”
With that Cheryl handed me my change and Kimberly and I walked to the door. Our business completed at “ The Antique Shop”. The bell tinkled twice (once when we opened it, once when it closed).
We strolled to the final shop along the row. And Cheryl returned to her Mary.
I knew what the medallion represented. And I knew the value it had not only to me, but even more so to it’s original owner.
What I did not know was the impact that simple medallion would have on the rest of my life.
Chapter II - Terry
Having enjoyed her company and not looking forward to another Sunday alone in my apartment, I ask Kimberly if she would like to accompany me to a movie the next day.
Remembering how lonely I said I was she smiled and said “ Sure, why not.” In truth I believe she too had enjoyed our browsing and perusing. I think she had especially enjoyed the way I had handled Cheryl. (If only she’d known my unspoken thoughts.)
So we perused through the local paper, The Caller-Times, to see what movies were playing and what the time selections were for Sunday afternoon. We agreed upon a romantic comedy starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan (I am in love with Meg Ryan), “Sleepless In Seattle”. Nothing too heavy. No blood and guts nor heavy unrequited love themes for friends this early in the friendship. We also agreed on the mid-afternoon showing allowing both of us to sleep in and have a casual portion of Sunday to rejuvenate before the work week began again on Monday. The movie began about 3:30 so I was to pick her up around 3:00. We estimated from the show times listed that we would be out of the theater around 5:30 to 6:00 and both Kimberly and I had intentions of meeting with some mutual acquaintances at 8:00 p.m. that evening; since we were both going to the same place that evening I asked if she’d like to have dinner with me after the movie and before we gathered with our friends.
“It’s a little hole-in the-wall Mexican food place out near my apartment on the far Southside. On South Staples Street. “ I told her. “The foods good and the prices are reasonable.” I believe the exact word I used was “cheap”. After all, I’d spent $5.00 on my “Magi” and $5.00 for the medallion plus taxes. I had to watch my budget – child support, you know.
Kimberly said that sounded good but “Let’s just wait and see.”
OK! And, ”Cheryl” that means “yes” or that means “ no way Jose”.
This seems like as good a point in this story as any to digress and tell you a little about me and my “history”. I was married for 18 years (my second, her second). We had had three children together who were all in their early to late teens. (I also had 3 from my first marriage, but they were grown, obviously, married and out on their own). The marriage overall had been a good one and I loved her very much, but… there was obviously a but or we would not have gotten a divorce. Throughout the marriage there had been some issues, not the least of which was my drinking. And, in the end, my drinking was The Issue that broke us up.
My former and I were still good friends and I had a descent relationship with all my children. Now I was trying to put my life back together, start over and lay off the booze. Easy, right. Yeah, right. But enough about me, this stories about the medallion.
The medallion. How could anyone let go of something so precious. Something that represented 26 years of struggling with a demon that I just begun to face everyday. Had there been a death and the family didn’t appreciate the value that was inherent with such a token? Had the medallion been inadvertently mixed in with other items in an estate sale, if so, perhaps the family would like it back in their possession – hey! I only paid $5.00 for it. They should have it. Or, as is so often the case, had the drunk become a drinker again? One is too many, a thousand is never enough. But 23 years. I hoped to find out its story on Monday. Beginning with Mrs. Taylor.
As I said earlier, The Plan was for me to pick Kimberly up around 3:00 at her apartment, we’d go to the movie and after the movie… “we’d see”. At about 1:00 on Sunday afternoon Kimberly called.
“Steve, sorry I got up late this morning so I’m still running behind. I’ll just meet you at the theater. Ok?”
Friends meet. Dates get picked up. Gotcha’.
“Sure, Kimberly, that’s fine. I’ll meet you there around 3:15.” What happened to “we’ll see”? I was beginning to see, that’s for sure. But, in reality, we had just met and we were just friends. See ya’ there, Friend.
Although hot, it was a clear, beautiful day outside. Chamber of Commerce weather I call it. And not wanting to stay cooped up in my apartment, alone until it was time to meet Kimberly (by the way, just so you’ll know. It is most definitely “Kimberly. Not “Kim”. She hadn’t come right out and corrected me on this matter, but hey, I’m a quick learner, so trust me, this I had already figured out) I decided to go to “my place” and hang out until for the movie. “ My Place “ is a small coffee shop located inside a local book resale shop, Half-Price Books. My Place’s name is Café Calypso and they cook and grind their beans fresh. My Drink is called a Cubano – it’s 3 long draws of espresso and 2 packettes of raw sugar, mixed with a splash of half&half. I drink mine over ice, especially in the summer heat, but you can ask for it hot if you prefer.
Anyway, I was on a roll. Out of my apartment most of the day Saturday and now out again for most if not all of Sunday afternoon and evening (we’ll see”). I hopped into my pickup truck (in Texas we “hop” into our trucks or “git” in our trucks. You may just simply “go to” and “get in”. In Texas, we hop) and headed (again, you may simply drive) to My Place. I figured I could kill a couple of hours getting my caffine fix and browsing through the books. Just browsing though. What with the movie and the “we’ll see dinner” and my major expenditures from the day before I really did need to keep an eye on my check book balance.
My Place is great. Besides the superb fresh coffee, you can either sit at a table outside (yeah, right – it’s July – 98 degrees and no wind) or you may choose to occupy a table inside where there’s air conditioning. Or, as I usually do, browse through the large collection of used books and still be inside with the A/C. My favorite section was and still is “Mysteries”. At that time I was into Travis Magee. And I perused the shelves for any book by John D. McDonald. As luck would have it I stumbled across a couple of McDonalds books that I had not seen before in the “clearance section”. One was part of the Travis Magee series and one was just another book that McDonald had written early on in his career. “Clearance Section” – 50 cents each. A bargin (why does SpellChek not realize that a bargin is a bargin, b-a-r-g-I-n, hell if I know) I could not pass up. Hey, what’s a buck? I truly was on a roll. The God’s were shining down on me. My luck had changed. “We’ll see”.
So, after another fiver ( $1.00 for the books and $4.00 for the coffee), I headed (again, you may simple drive) to the theater for my date with destiny. No, to meet my friend Kimberly. I arrived early, about 3:00 and went ahead and purchased the tickets because the lines were beginning to form. Not for “Seattle” but for some other show. I think it was “The Terminator XVI “ or something like that. I didn’t want to be rude, even to my new friend, so I waited outside in the shade so she would know both that I was already there and that I had paid for our tickets.
At about 3:20 Kimberly drove up and I watched her as she approached me.
“Been here long?” she asked.
“Only a few minutes” I replied. “ I went ahead and bought the tickets so we wouldn’t have to stand in line”. That should be a safe thing to say and do, right? Wrong.
“Oh, ok. Well here, let me pay you for mine”.
“I’ve got it, Kimberly. You can get it next time.” Shit.
“Oh, well I’ll buy the popcorn and drinks. Ok?”
“Sure, that’s great”.
And so our afternoon began.
The movie was enjoyable. The buttered popcorn and large diet Coke were free. And I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering back to thoughts of the medallion. How had it ended up in some small locked plastic carousel in The Antique Shop? See you tomorrow Mrs. Taylor.
After the movie the “we’ll see” became “sounds great, where is it? I’ll meet you there.”
So I gave my new friends directions first, then I said “Just follow me. But, if you get lost you know where it is. Right?”
“Sure. Ok.” Kimberly responded with an “Hey, whatta’ ya’ think I am, stupid” sound to her voice.
And so we proceeded to La Taqurita #2 on South Staples Street. ( To clarify, if you’re alone or all in the same vehicle you “head to”, If there’s more than one vehicle involved you’re a procession. Got it? Ok.) Dinner was delicious and inexpensive (cheap). I had my usual, #13. Nine (9) large shrimp combined with chunks of chicken fajitas mixed with slices of green peppers, onions and jalapinos all grilled and served on a sizzling hot cast iron skillet. Ignoring my directions, Kimberly ordered cheese enchildas. Both orders came with fresh Spanish rice, bowls of pinto bean soup (not refried beans) and homemade flour tortillas. They bring me a small bowl of fresh sliced jalapinos to mix with my food. I like it hot.
As I said, dinner was cheap. Mine was $6.50 plus tax. Kimberly’s was $4.25 plus. We went Dutch.
The conversation was more than adequate (hey, it beat talking to myself, which is what I usually did). We were getting to know each other. Friend meeting friend. Seriously, I did enjoy the dinner with her.
“I can’t believe you bought that medallion” laughed Kimberly. “What are you going to do with it?”.
“I don’t know, Kimberly. I’d like to find out it’s story. Where did it come from? How did it come to be in an antique shop? Did someone die or get drunk? I’m going back tomorrow and find out what Mrs. Taylor knows. She hand selects each piece they have on display. Did you know that?”
Kimberly laughed. “You handled the clerk very well. Better than I would have. Good luck tomorrow”.
When we met with our other compadres (that’s Texas talk for “friends”hell, Spellchek again) later that evening I shared the information about the medallion with several as we smoked our cigarettes outside. Some seemed amused; some bemused; some curious; some incredulous. But, all did agree it was a most unusual item to find in an antique store.
Even that night as I lay in my bed I pondered the medallion. Where? How? Who? When? Why??????
Monday morning finally came. I went to work, checked in and planned my day. By the way I was in outside sales so my movements during the day were somewhat fluid and open, as you can imagine. See so and so. Deliver such and such. Mrs. Taylor!
My day was set. I had my plan. You’ve gotta’ have a plan. I had made a mental note of the shop’s business hours as Kimberly and I left the store on Saturday – Monday thru Saturday 10 A.M. until 5 P.M., Closed Sundays. In the corner nearest the door of the shop, in the bottom corner of the window was a small sign which had a picture of a church steeple on it. Under the diagram was printed in bold letters “ Closed Sundays, See You In Church. I was glad that Kimberly had agreed to go with me on Saturday. Originally she had suggested going on our browsing & purusing (fuck SpellCheck, what the heck) expedition on Sunday afternoon. I think she saw the disappointment in my eyes and knew I needed company that day. If we’d waited we’d have had a short afternoon (most of the shops along Antique Row were closed on Sunday) and the medallion would most probably never had entered my life. Also, the way it worked out I was out of my apartment with my new friend on both Saturday and Sunday. Worked out just about the way it was supposed to, I guess.
I had a busy morning scheduled for work. Mondays usually were, and I had a lunch date set with a customer so the A.M. was out for Mrs. Taylor. Not knowing what her lunch schedule was I decided on mid-afternoon as the best time to make my call. If she took the late lunch shift I really didn’t want to run into Cheryl again. I would hate to interrupt Mary Higgins twice in three days. Anyway, I mentally scheduled myself for around 3:30 P.M., after the lunch breaks and before Mrs. Taylor might make an early afternoon of it and go home for the day.
Before I left my office I let my boss, Mike know that I had some personal business to take care in the late afternoon and that I would not be back in the office as I usually would do. He said that was fine. Mike is a sweet heart. We’ve known each other since high school. When I was going through my divorce he was very supportive. He kept telling me “Steve, if you need some time off take it” or “ Steve if you just need some ears to listen or a shoulder to cry on, I’m here”. Other than those times where I had to meet with my lawyer or be in court I did neither. My work kept my mind off what was going on and I was with people rather than being alone so I worked. But, it was knowing the offer was there on both counts, that was nice.
Anyway, the day past fairly rapidly. At around 3 P.M. I wrapped up my sales calls and headed (I was alone so I headed) to The Antique Shop. I arrived just before my designated time and took the steps towards the door with little expectation of getting the information I was looking for. Even though Mrs. Taylor “hand selected” each piece, the chances of her remembering the nondescript medallion were slim to none. They hadn’t even bothered to price the thing, for God’s sake. But life is full of surprises. Yes it is.
As I opened the door to The Antique Shop I heard the distinct soft “tinkle above my head and as it closed once again a soft “tinkle”. The sales counter was located directly in front of me, but set slightly off center to the right side of The Antique Shop. There was no one behind the counter (thank God, no Cheryl) but a I heard a tiny voice from the far left hand side say “Hello. Be right there” (incidentally, that’s where the restrooms were – did I catch going in or coming out. That makes a difference you know as to how much time Mrs. Taylor, if that was Mrs. Taylor, might allow for information seekers). I could hear the soft click of women’s shoes on the tiled floor and within a few seconds a short, squat women, about 60 years of age, rounded the corner.
“Hello, welcome to The Antique Shop. Is there anything in particular you are looking for or would you just like to browse (browse an antique store, this must be Mrs. Taylor)?” she asked with a cheery smile and a twinkle in her blue eyes. She did have beautiful eyes and for her age she carried herself well. Mrs. Taylor, definitely.
“Yes, I hope you can assist me” I responded. “ I’m looking for Mrs. Taylor”.
“I’m Mrs. Taylor” she responded with a questioning look on her face.(I could read her mind- is this a salesman? A disgruntled customer? A policeman? A Buyer!). “Theresa Taylor, how may I help you?”.
To put her more at ease I introduced myself “Mrs. Taylor I’m Steve Matthews.”
“Yes, Mr. Matthews. How may I help you?”.
“Well, Mrs. Taylor, this may sound a little odd, but actually I’m seeking some information” I responded “on a small piece which I purchased from Cheryl on Saturday”.
Her head cocked slightly to the left, her lips pursed and there was a questioning look in her eye as if to say “ What do I look like the tourist bureau or something?”.
“How may I be of assistance to you Mr. Matthews?” Mrs. Taylor again questioned.
“Well again, Mrs. Taylor this might sound a bit odd, but I purchased this small medallion from Cheryl (keep repeating the name to reassure her that I really did get the item in her shop) on Saturday. It was displayed in that small plastic carousel there in the far right hand corner.” I said, holding the coin in the palm of my right hand and extending my arm so she could see the item about which I was inquiring. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about it. You know like how did it come to be here in your shop and hopefully where it came from”.
“Please, call me Terry everybody does” she said as she took 2 or 3 cautious steps towards me and lifted the coin from my open palm. “ My given name is Theresa, but everybody calls me Terry. They have since I was a child. Everybody, that is but my parents. They passed away a number of years ago. They always called me Theresa. And my husband John. When John is upset with me or if he’s being playful John will say ‘Theresa’. But ever since I was a child everyone else has always called me Terry. So please, Mr. Matthews call me Terry” she continued as she quizzically inspected my medallion.
The first thought that flashed through my mind was “ Oh God, Cheryl’s twin sister in disguise”. The second thought that came to me was “ Theresa’ husbands name is John and Cheryl’s husbands name is John? That must be interesting if and when the two couples socialize privately. I got this picture in my minds eye of the two couples having a dinner gathering at one of their homes. The wives are in the kitchen. The John’s are in the TV room watching a game, sipping their third or fourth martini and one of the wives calls out “John, I need your help.”. They both get up. Which John is The John that’s being summoned? I smiled to myself.
“Then please call me Steve. Everyone does. They’ve called me Steve since I was a child, also. I don’t know why, but they do. My given name is Stephen but everyone calls me Steve, except my parents. Especially my mom. She always calls me by my given name, Stephen. Oh, and my former wife, we recently got divorced. She used to always call me “Stephen”. But, now that we’re divorced, she just calls me “Steve”. I don’t know why she changed, but she has. So please Terry, call me Steve”. She didn’t get it.
Terry looked at me and smiled. “ How is it again that I might assist you, Steve?”.
Terry was still holding the coin between her thumb and forefinger (Terry is right handed, by the way). She had not even glanced down at the medallion, but rather, had kept her eyes in contact with mine. With a questioning look on her face she asked “You saw you purchased this piece from Cheryl on Saturday? Cheryl’s not hear today, she only works on the weekends. I work Monday thru Friday, unless it’s a busy weekend. Then I might come in to assist Cheryl. Most weekends my husband and I go to our weekend house in Ingleside. We have a cottage near the Ingleside Yacht Club, there in the Ingleside By The Bay development. Do you know where Ingleside is , Steve? It’s directly across the bay from downtown. On a clear day you may be able to see where the development is. Even on a hazy day, you could recognize where they construct those large platforms. John, that’s my husband, John tells me they build those platforms to use like oil rigs out in the ocean or Gulf of Mexico or someplace out in the water. God, they are so big. John took me by the construction area one weekend to see what they looked like. I had been asking him ‘John, what are those things?’ We live on Ocean Drive and you can see those things all the way from our house. They are so big. John and I are members of the Yacht Club, did I mention that? We’ve been memb…”
“Yes, Terry, I know where Ingleside is. And I’ve seen those drilling platforms you’re talking about. Do you know, Terry, I’ve even been to The Inside Yacht Club, it’s very nice. Casual and comfortable and close to most of it’s members (Ingleside-By-The-Bay population 75, all members in good standing of The Ingleside Yacht Club). My former wife’s former employer and her husband have a weekend cottage there also. You might know them, the Smiths, Ted and Joyce Smith. My former wife, Edie. Worked for Joyce for several years. We spent one weekend with them and Joyce had the last company party we attended at the yacht club. ‘
‘Anyway, Terry, as I was saying…Cheryl couldn’t tell me anything about this medallion. There wasn’t even a price sticker on the piece (piece?). I paid Cheryl $5.00 for the item, which we both agreed was more than fair (probably about $4.00 more than fair, but hey, it’s only money, right? Right.) . You see, Terry, this medallion is an award that’s presented to members of an organization that I’m a part of for certain levels of achievement. You see the Roman numerals there on the bottom of the coin?” I asked, turning the coin over so that she could actually see the “XXVI”.
“Yes, what does that mean ?” she asked.
“Well, that signifies that the owner of the award had completed 26 years of consecutive participation within our organization. 26 years is a long time. Hel.., sorry, heck,Terry, 26 years is a long time for anything, even a marriage. So when I saw this piece it interested me and as I said I purchased from Cheryl on Saturday. I asked Cheryl if she knew how you came to…”
“John and I recently celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary. 40 years. Can you imagine, Steve? Oh, we’ve had our up’s and downs like all couples do, but we stuck it thru. John and I have 3 lovely children. Thomas, he’s…”
“Excuse for interrupting, Terry, but as I was saying, this medallion means something to members of our organization and 26 years is quite an accomplishment, so other than just the medallion itself, I was interested to see if I could find out how it came to be in an antique, here in your antique shop. Do you happen to remember, Terry, from whom you purchased this piece?”
Looking a bit distraught that I had not allowed her to provide me with the complete genealogical history of her immediate family and still unsure of exactly why I was interested in this piece, and why pray God would I pay $5.00 for it and what exactly was it I expected her to assist me with, Terry ask me “ This organization, is it like the Lions Club or Rotary or something? John was a member of…”
“Yes, Terry, something like that. It’s actually Alcoholics Anonymous. That particular medallion says that it’s owner did not take a drink of alcohol for 26 consecutive years” I tried to explain.
I could see it in her eyes “Oh my God, you’re an alcoholic and I purchased this piece from an alcoholic. I would never knowingly do such a thing. And, you, Steve standing here in my shop…you’re an al…, an alcoholic?”
Terry smiled, but said nothing.
“Anyway, I was hoping you might remember where it was you got this or from whom. Did it, by chance came in from an estate or might you have picked it up at market. Cheryl told me that you personally select each piece in the shop, so I thought you might remember how it was you acquired it or from whom.”
Terry gave me a look that said “ Yeah, right”.
“Well, I do select most of the pieces on display in my shop. However, items will come in as part of an estate that, how can I say this, that are grouped together. Jewelry and such Do you know what I mean? I am making myself clear? We do want to present only the best pieces for our clients, and I do personally select most of the pieces. Do you understand what I’m saying , Steve? You say that there was no pricing sticker attached? How odd. Well, sometimes these small items slip into inventory unnoticed. Not often, but occasionally.” Terry explained and gave me a look that simply said “ sorry, Charlie, haven’t got a clue. No can do.”
“Terry, I realize my interest in this medallion is crazy. And asking you to remember where and who it came from is like finding a needle in a hay stack. But, I am interested. I don’t know why. But, I am. The very fact that we came across it seems so strange, almost as if I was supposed to find it and find how and why it came into my life. Please don’t laugh”. And with that I related the story of Kimberly and I , and coming in on Saturday not waiting until Sunday, and Kimberly noticing the medallion and calling it to my attention. I even included the parts about our Sunday together. “You know” I continued “ this is a very unique item . I bet, Terry, that I could go to all the antique shops in Texas, maybe even the whole United States, and not find another XXVI year AA medallion. How and why was it here? I don’t know. I do know that finding it’s origin means something to me. Since my divorce I’ve been pretty despondent. Lonely. Then all in one weekend I meet Kimberly, our friendship begins to develop and I stumble across this medallion. Terry, I truly believe there’s a reason for it.”
She gave me a smile and one of those motherly looks. “Well, let me see…”
“We came across it over here” and with that I started strolling her towards the corner where the carousel was located. Hoping to keep her attention, I attempted to make small talk “ I told Cheryl that, in my opinion you have the nicest shop in this area. You’ve done a good job of acquiring your collection of furniture items and I especially appreciate some of the china collections. My mom and Dad have some beautiful china. I don’t remember when they purchased it, but I know that it’s probably 40 to 50 years ago.”
“Really?” she responded. “Well, if they ever…”
“The medallion was on the third shelf of this small carousel” I explained. “ Mixed among that jewelry, right next to the selection of men’s cuff links. I remember when cuff…”
A light seemed to come into Terry’s eyes. Bingo!
“This medallion was grouped among those items in the display?” Terry asked.
“Yes, there on the third shelf.”
“You know, Steve, I believe I do know how that piece came to me. Jackson, Harold , Harry Jackson. He’s a friend of my husband’s. He was insurance business here in Corpus. Are you from Corpus, Steve?” she asked.
“Yes, born and raised. My Dad has an office supply business downtown. He’s moved here in 1939.”
“Matthews Office Products? My husband used to do quite a bit of business with them. He was a purchasing agent for Valentino Refining. He was with Valentino up until last year. John retired after 37 years with the same company. John’s a few years older than I am. They gave him a huge par…”
“You were saying, Terry, about Mr. Jackson?” I interrupted .
“Oh yes. Poor Harry. Well, Steve, if you’re from Corpus you may be familiar with the Jackson’s. Harry was in the insurance business here in Corpus forever. He’s retired now. Has been for a number of years. Harry must be in his late 70’s or early 80’s by now. John, my husband John, both he and I used to carry a number of policies with Harry Jackson. He was with Jackson & Smith, but I believe they sold out when Harry retired. Let me see, it’s name now is HRO or HRH or, anyway it’s “H” something. We still have those policies. John, that’s my husband, John always says you can’t have too much insurance. And those policies will someday …”
“So Terry, you remember taking my medallion in from the Jackson estate. Had Mr. Jackson passed on?” I asked. “ If so, his family may not have realized the significance of this award. I’m sure they might like it back. I’d be glad to…”
“No my goodness, as far as I know Harry’s still alive and well. He lives over off of Santa Fe, on Morningside. Although I can’t remember off hand whether it’s South Morningside or North Morningside. South I believe. Do you know where I’m talking about, Steve? There, right off of Santa Fe, a few blocks from the bay?”
“Yes, Terry I do. That’s pretty much my old neighborhood. I grew up on Texas Avenue, not far from there.”
“Well, anyway, Harry’s wife passed away, oh probably 3 or 4 years ago. Cancer I believe. She’d struggled with it for a number of years. Yes, it was cancer, but I don’t remember what kind, maybe breast, oh I don’t remember. Anyway, Harry called John, that’s my husband John, one day and ask if I was still in the resell business, can you imagine “resell business”, but John knew what he was asking. John told him that ‘yes, I still had my antique shop’. Harry wanted to know if John thought I might be interested in looking at some of the stuff, Harry called it “stuff”, even John got a laugh out of that, anyway Harry asked John if I might be interested in some of the items that were his wife’s, her name was Mary, in some of the items that he had kept that were Mary’s. John told him I might be. John doesn’t really understand my business, but he knows I like to personally select most of the pieces I resell.’
‘Anyway, John mentioned it to me that evening at dinner. He said that poor Harry had had those memories of Mary there in the house with him since she passed. Harry had told John at first that was ok. It was good. It kept Mary close to him although she was not “with him”, if you know what I mean, Steve. Anyway, but over the last year or so they seemed to just be making Harry more depressed. What with all the old memories and everything, and Harry just wanted them out of the house. Would I be interested?’
‘I told John sure, I’d see if there was anything I might be able to do. I’ve always liked Harry. And Mary was a sweetheart. They have two children I believe, but neither or close by. His oldest, his daughter, I don’t remember her name, she lives up east, New York state I believe. And his son, he’s the younger of the two, well I don’t believe anyone knows where he is. He disappeared back in the 70’s and I don’t believe anyone’s heard from him since. He, I can’t remember his name either, he didn’t even come back for his mother’s funeral. John told me know one knew how to reach him or where he was. Not even his own sister. Can you imagine, Steve?” she asked. “From what I understand he, the boy that is, was in Viet Nam”.
Not wanting to be rude and finding new bits of information as she rambled on, I responded “ I know the Jackson’s. I went to school with Danny Jackson, that’s the son’s name, Danny. He and I played baseball together. In fact, Terry, in little league we were on the same team for a couple of years. I spent the night with Danny a few times and he spent the night over at my house. Last time I saw Danny was in the early seventies. Yes, he was in Viet Nam. If I remember correctly, he spent 2 tours of duty over there. It really changed him. Danny had a hard time adjusting when he came back.”
“Well” said Terry “ I was told he was into drugs or something. Perhaps that’s his medallion you have.”
“I don’t think so, Terry” I replied.
“I don’t know’ she said. “but that group of cuff links were Harry’s. And those necklaces were Mary’s. I took them on a consignment basis. I do that occasionally. Harry had some lovely pieces. Furniture, jewelry, clothes, even a few old pictures. Most of that has moved pretty well. I’ve had these items for over a year now, maybe two. I can’t remember. Time does get away from us, doesn’t it, Steve?”
“Yes it does, Terry” I said. “ So you believe that this medallion might be from the Jackson’s?” I ask.
“I believe so” she replied. “ If it was there with the cuff links, yes I believe so”.
“Thank you, Terry, you’ve been most helpful. I appreciate the time you’ve taken with me.”
“Steve?”
“Yes?”
“ Do you suppose that’s Harry’s award? I mean is Harry an …?”
“ Terry, I still don’t know whose medallion this is. And I wouldn’t begin to speculate on anything of that nature. If I find out something, I’ll let you know (yeah right)”.
“Steve” she said again.
“Yes, Terry?”.
“The day I went to Harry’s house, you know to look at the items…”
“Yes?”
“I’m pretty sure he’d been drinking. I could smell it on his breath and, and, there was a bottle out in the kitchen. In plain view, I wasn’t snooping, right there on the kitchen counter”.
“Oh”.
“And Steve…”
“Yes”
“It was rather early in the day. I went to Harry’s before lunch. I remember because I met Sally, that’s my friend Sally, she has a shop downtown. You know by those restaurants downtown.. . anyway I met Sally for lunch after I visited Harry. Steve, do you think Harry’s an alcoholic?”
“I really don’t know, Terry”.
“Do you think that might be his medallion?”.
“I don’t know that, either, Terry”.
“Ok. Nice to have met you Steve. Please come back and visit our shop again. Bring your new friend, what was here name?”.
“Kimberly. And again, thank you for your help. We will come back. You have a lovely shop”.
Danny Jackson. That takes me way back in time.
Harold “Harry” Jackson. 300 block of South Morningside.
Was this your medallion Harry?
Were you drinking again?
What happened after 26 years.
Why did you give away something you spent so many years earning?
Maybe the answers to those questions were why the medallion came to me.
Maybe.
Chapter III – Harry
It was 4:15 P.M. when I heard the soft bell “tinkle” for the second time as the door closed behind me and I left The Antique Shop. My time with Terry had been well spent I thought. I had enjoyed Terry, even with her rambling off in so many directions during our conversation. My former wife used to say I was a recluse, I should have been a hermit, and that she felt I hated people. In fact, I like “persons”, it’s “people” I don’t particularly care for. With the “person”, the individual, you are able to talk. With a friend, or even sometimes with a stranger, I can talk. Tell my story. I have little problem discussing what’s happened or what is happening in my life one on one. And, I expect, maybe I should say “respect” treatment in kind. I’ll tell you about me, you tell me about you. With “people” it’ seems to be all about the “fluff”. Only the good, don’t mention the bad. I felt Terry had been as open with me as she knew how. Hey, I knew about her husband and her children and she had given me a little insight into herself. Also, she had provided me with a starting point. A place to begin in my quest to find out about my medallion. Harry Jackson.
I had 45 minutes before the rush hour would begin and being only 2 o 3 miles from South Morningside I decided to give it a drive-by. I wanted to see what I would find. Would there be an old car in the driveway or a new Volvo station wagon? (I might mention that this area of the city has over the last 10 years or so become sort of The Place for the up and coming generation to live. An older part of town, close to the bay, close to downtown. Older homes that may be purchased at reasonable prices and re-modeled). Would there be a “For Sale” sign in the yard or might the house be vacant? Was Harry Jackson still living in his home of so many years, there alone? Or, had poor Harry moved to where his daughter was, or in a condominium in Florida, or in a nursing home alone?
From The Antique Shop I had three streets which would take me to South Morningside.
The Antique Shop fronted onto South Alameda and I could go North down Alameda and turn East, on Texan Trail, then North again on Santa Fe, drive a quarter of a mile and on my left would be South Morningside. Or, I could go via Roberts Drive, which was at a right angle to South Alameda, and I would intersect with Santa Fe. My third option was to drive down Roberts Drive a few hundred yards further and I would dead end into Ocean Drive, which runs parallel to Corpus Christi Bay. The first two choices would mean I drove either down a more commercialized area (South Alameda) or, via Santa Fe, an affluent neighborhood. Since I had plenty of time and all three of the avenues would allow me to reach my destination in relatively the same amount of time, I chose to go by way of Ocean Drive.
As I mentioned, Ocean Drive runs parallel with Corpus Christi Bay and, by far, it offers the most attractive view of the city. There are a few condominiums which were built back in the 70’s before the city cracked down on their zoning ordinances to preserve “The View”; and there a number of large, beautiful homes along the bay side up to a certain point along the street. Then, the city fathers in there wisdom and to their credit, had established an unbroken open park area with bike and walking trails. From this part of Ocean Drive you are allowed a beautiful view of the skyline of downtown Corpus Christi with it’s skyscrapers (some of which are 26 floors tall) and the Corpus Christi Marina, as well as a picturesque look a The Bay. On a clear day you can see across The Bay to Ingleside (where Ingleside-By-The Bay is located; remember Ingleside-By-The Bay?) and Port Aransas, both of which are about a 30 to 35 mile drive over land, but probably closer to 15 miles directly across the water. Ingleside used to be a sleeping little fishing town of a couple of thousand residents, supported primarily by the shrimping industry . But, since the enforcement of some new netting laws (which required a more open weave to the net itself in order to prevent dolphins and other larger fish from being caught along with the shrimp) that business had moved to the Louisiana coast. For a while during the early 90’s Ingleside had declined. Then in the late 90’s the U.S.Navy had established a naval base for docking and repairing mine sweepers, ships which do exactly what the name suggest, they sweep the water ways for mines floating in the water. That base and the growth of weekend home developments such as Ingleside-By-The Bay had caused significant growth. Port Aransas has always been pretty much Port Aransas. A small community populated by a few hundred “locals”, numerous “weekenders” and hoards of tourists during the Spring Break period and the summer months.
To digress for just a moment, I mentioned the beautiful skyline of downtown Corpus Christi, and true it is a beautiful view from afar. In actuality the downtown area is full of old, vacant buildings just like so many other downtown areas across the nation. Corpus Christi’s economy has always been supported by a few major industries – oil refining, support offices for the oil & gas production business, the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station (air flight training facility for fixed wing aircraft), tourism and The Port of Corpus Christi which is the 6th largest exporting port in the United States. It’s economy had been hard hit back in the mid 80’s when the oil & gas business had suffered it’s downturn. That and a natural progression of retail businesses to the southside residential areas had caused a rapid evacuation of the downtown area. But now it was slowly being resurrected with more tourist oriented establishments such as bars, restaurants, antique and gift shops, etc.. My dad’s business is located in the heart of downtown. He owns the building where he is (built in 1906) and has occupied it since 1954. All around him are vacant buildings and he insists there will be a resurrection of the downtown area “someday soon”. Maybe he’s right.
Anyway. Where was I, oh yes. As I drove along Ocean Drive on a clear summer day my mind wandered back to the 1960’s and my childhood days. Jane Twigg (my first love who later married a preacher, Bob Simms, who we both had grown up with), Mary Black who became a nun, Tracy Clarke who moved away after sixth grade (her dad was an Epscopalian minister), Tommy Elder (the all round American boy, who became a doctor and died in his late 30’s), Rick Madison (the big bully who grew up to be a truck driver and whose son was a good friend to my oldest son, until he committed suicide while still in his late teens. Not my son, Rick’s), and Danny Jackson. Memories of hot summer days and warm summer nights playing baseball. Little League. The smell of a leather baseball glove; the feel of a wooden baseball bat; the taste of the grass from the baseball field (in my anxious energy I would pick blades of grass and chew on them – hey, I was too young for chaws of tobacco). My God, where had the years gone. Back then time seemed to pass so slowly. Now it had seemed to flown by and Life seemed to have passed me by. If only I could go back and change some of the choices I’d made along the way how would things be different from how they were? How? But, “you can’t go home…” and there is no going back. I’d lived the life I had lived. And now, after my second divorce, I was beginning a new chapter. Was Harry Jackson to be a part in my book?
In my mind’s eye I had a clear picture of Danny Jackson and me. As I had mentioned to Terry at The Antique Shop, Danny & I had played together on the same team in little league. The National Little League. The team was the major league Phillies and we wore white uniforms with green pin stripes, green ball caps with a white letter “P” in script lettering embroidered on the crown. For three years, from the time I was 9 years old until I was twelve, I had played third base and Danny was at first base. Because my dad had coached my older brothers for many years I had been exposed to baseball for as long as I could remember (they always told me that when I was a baby I ran around the base path after my brother’s games with my diaper dragging in the dirt. Maybe I did. But, baseball had always been a part of my life). My dad and my brothers had instructed me well in the fundamentals of the game. I had learned to play baseball. Danny was a natural. Tall and slender, with long arms, he made for an excellent target there at first base. Our last year, when we were twelve, we had both made all-stars, although we got knocked out in our first series. I still have my all-star trophy. After little league Danny and I still played baseball but we were always on different teams and our friendship seemed to fade. We ran with different crowds. And, although there was still a nodding acquaintance between us, those summers had passed.
I could also see Danny Jackson the last times that we had seen each other. I was 20, married and going to the local junior college, Del Mar. Danny had been drafted when he was 18 and had spent 2 tours of duty “in country” – Viet Nam. As I understood it, his job there had been to be sort of a lone commando. He would go out with a dog, at night, and sneak into enemy camps or seek out enemy sentries with the objective of silently slitting throats. I remember him telling me, or maybe someone else did, that just before the end of his first tour of duty the dog that had been his companion throughout had been killed during one of those incursions. Danny had been so upset that he “re-uped” for another tour. The sole purpose being to get revenge for his dog. After his return to the States he had a hard time adjusting. Actually, I should say he didn’t adjust. He couldn’t adjust. There was too much death in is mind. You could see death in his dark, sunken eyes. He drank too much, used drugs too much, and he was inclined to fits of anger or periods of deep morose. Soon after that my first wife and I had moved to Austin, Texas so I could attend The University of Texas. I had not seen nor heard of or from Danny Jackson since December of 1970. I wondered “Where are you, Danny?”.
I turned left off of Ocean Drive into Hewitt Place, a small very affluent neighborhood with privately owned streets and only maybe 20 houses or so located on large lots. This had been “The Neighborhood” when I was growing up. Back in the 60’s, 70’s and even today, it was occupied by wealthy peoples. Here, too, memories came back. Reid Reagan (a real jerk. Then and now), David Hohn (football player, jock, played the drums in a small band when we were in junior high school. David had been killed in a shootout with the Dallas police, on a grassy knoll by a freeway. Some drug deal gone bad. That happened in the late 70’s). There’s a small park in the middle of Hewitt Place where we all used to play football. Danny was usually there.
Through Hewitt Drive I reached Santa Fe, turned left, then made an immediate right onto South Morningside. The 300 block, 3 block from Corpus Christi Bay. I didn’t remember the house number but I remembered the house. It would be on my right about half way down the block. A white house with green trim & green shutters; a concrete covered porch across the length of the front; a white picket fence surrounding the front yard. It seemed to me, in my memory, that it was always kept immaculately – the yard trimmed, the house, the trim, and the fence freshly painted. As I drove slowly down the street I could see the picket fence (it was the only house on that block with a fence along the front sidewalk). Yes, the fence was there and the house was there, but it had all changed. The fence needed painting and was in disrepair, the house too needed to be painted, the white having faded in some spots almost down to the natural wood. One dingy green shutter to the left of the front door hung precariously askew, dangling at about a 20 degree off center to it’s left. The yard was grown up with weeds. The grass was high, what grass there was, and looked dry from the hot summer sun. There were spots where there was no grass, only hard, cracked, dry dirt. In the drive a 1988 faded gold Oldsmobile 88 sat parked, covered in dust and rusting from the humid salt air from the bay.
My original purpose had just been to do a drive by. To see what I might find at 314 Melrose (that was the address). To see if Harold Jackson still might occupy the same house where Danny had grown up. Now, as I drove by the house, I spotted an tall older gentleman, with stooped shoulders and thinning hair, bending over slightly to fill a dog’s water bowl with a water hose attached to a water faucet along the right side of the house. An old goldenish, grayish colley dog was pacing close by, wagging it’s tail and looking at my truck as I passed by. The dog gave a low, guttural bark. Not a bark of alert, simply a bark of acknowledgement that it knew I was there and it wanted me to know that it knew. Having filled the bowl, the old gentleman (who I immediately recognized as Mr. Jackson, even after all the years) straighted and turned to turn off the faucet. The dog slowly paced to the bowl and began to get a drink, still eyeing my truck and me.
Seeing the dog had reminded me that Danny had had a golden colley. The dog’s name was Duke and Duke would go with Danny where ever Danny could take him. Duke would chase us around the yard and Danny & I would laugh and throw a ball or a bone for Duke to fetch. But, that was too long ago for this dog to be Duke. No doubt Duke had passed onto Dog Heaven long ago and this was just an old companion that Mr. Jackson kept around now. Since his wife had passed on, his daughter was far away and Danny was off somewhere unknown this might well be Mr. Jackson’s only companion. Somehow from his stance, the look of the house and a certain feel of the two of them there I sensed that dog was all Mr. Jackson felt he had left in this world.
As I approached the end of the block, which dead ended into Lawnview Street, I realized that perhaps a decision need to be made. I now knew that my medallion most likely had belonged to Mr. Jackson or some member of the Jackson family. I knew, too, that Mr. Jackson still lived in Danny’s old house and that Mr. Jackson was at home – right now, right at this moment. If I was to pursue my quest for the story behind my medallion what better time than right now? Mr. Jackson was not only home, but he was outside. He was approachable. No phone call with an unseen voice. No knocking on a closed door hoping there would be an answer. No not knowing.
I turned right onto Lawnview (I before e except after c, right, wrong), then right again on Melrose, to Santa Fe and again a right.
As I circled back onto South Morningside thoughts have just exactly how I was going to approach this situation raced through my mind. What do I say? How do I begin? What might Mr. Jackson’s reaction be? Fortunately, I didn’t have too much time to think about the answers to those questions. As I pulled up to the curb in front of the house I could see the old gentleman, his back turned towards me, slowly but carefully curling up the water hose. The old dog saw me again. Only this time I had stopped there, in front of his or her house. Once again the dog began to bark a deep hoarse bark. Only this time it coughed out the sound in slow repetition as it plodded towards me. Still, it’s bark did not sound angry or threatening and the fence stood as a barrier between the dog and i. Mr. Jackson didn’t seem to hear or see that I was there, at least he in no way acknowledged my being there.
I turned off my truck and opened my door. As I was getting out I glanced at the dog, who was by now standing stiffly erect and uttering a continuous stream of profanities at me I was sure. Then I looked up to Mr. Jackson, who still had his back to the street and he was hanging the coiled hose on the half moon shaped hose holder attached to the side of the house partially hidden by some scraggly old withering brownish green plant. “Hush Lady” I heard Mr. Jackson call. “ Be quiet”.
“Lady” so that was the dog’s name. A female. A bitch. No wonder she was barking at me.
“Hey dog!” I said softly hoping to calm her fears and quiet her gruff barks. “It’s all right” I tried to reassure her (although, in honesty, I was probably trying to reassure myself as much as I was Lady).
Mr. Jackson must have heard me speaking to his dog, or perhaps he just sensed someone was there, because he slowly swiveled his shoulders around, ducked his head to look over a pair of old glasses, and gave me a stern questioning look. “Huh?” I heard him say to himself just under his breath. “What?…Yes?…Do I know you?…Yes, may I help you? Lady be quiet.” He stood a little more erect, although his shoulders were still sloped down from his age. His lips were slightly parted as if he wanted to say or ask something more, but the statement or the question had slipped his mind. So he stood in silence waiting for my response.
Lady kept on “Ruff, Ruff, Ruffing” in my direction. The expression in her eyes and her body language were quite clear. “Who the hell are you and what do you want at my house?”
“Mr. Jackson?” I questioned just to be assured my ID had been correct.
“Yes” Mr. Jackson responded. “Do I know you?” he again asked, this time loud enough so that he knew I heard him clearly. “May I help you?”
“Mr. Jackson, I’m Steve Matthews. You probably don’t remember me but I grew up with Danny. We played ball together. Steve Matthews. My dad’s Buster Matthews. Matthews’ Office Supply, downtown.” I said.
“Matthews? Yes, I know some Matthews. Buster? Yes, what can I do for you? Danny’s not here. He doesn’t live here. Don’t know where he is. Off in California or someplace last I heard” he stated. Then a sad distant expression crossed his face. Even at the distance of a few yards I could feel the loss. The lost, in the old man.
“Mr. Jackson I’m not here to see Danny, I know he doesn’t live with you. I’m here to see you, sir.”
“Me?” he asked. I could sense he was questioning in his mind “why?” would I be there to see him.
“Yes sir. I wanted to ask you about this” I said as I reached into my pocket and brought out the medallion. “ I was hoping you might tell something about it.”
“What is that? What have you got there?” he questioned. As he pushed the glasses frame back up on his nose, his eyes squinted in the bright afternoon sun and again he ask “What is it you want?”
“It’s a medallion, Mr. Jackson. A 26 year medallion from AA. I wanted to ask you about it. Terry Taylor out The Antique Shop told me that she thought it had been from your family. Among some of the items she had on consignment from you, sir”
His face still maintained a cautious questioning look. His shoulders sagged a bit as he slowly turned and began to walk towards me. He shook his head. “I don’t know…” he said to himself more than in response to me. “I don’t know…” again he repeated without completing his thought.
Figuring that now was not the time to say anymore, I stood silently, patiently (actually impatiently) as he trod the 20 or so feet towards the street, the fence, Lady and me. Once or twice he glanced up and then quickly his eyes averted to the ground in front of his next step. “I don’t know…what is it? Taylor? Something of mine? I don’t…What is it?” he mumbled. He stopped several feet from the fence line and looked up at me with a questioning, but stern expression.
Lady sat down on her haunches, still close to the fence. A low, deep bass of a rumble echoed from her chest. Not a bark. Not a growl. Just a cautionary sound of her alertness and her protectiveness.
As I held the coin out in my open palm for Mr. Jackson to see I repeated “This medallion, Mr. Jackson. I wanted to ask you about it. It’s a 26 year medallion from Alcoholics Anonymous. Terry Taylor from The Antique Shop, out on South Alameda, said she thought that it had come to her among various items which you gave her about a year or two ago to sell on consignment. She told me you had given her some nice old furniture, some chinaware, some old clothes and some odds and end like cuff links, tie pins and that she thought this medallion had been mixed in with those items. I know that this probably sounds strange and I don’t want to bother you too much, but you see I’m a recoverying drunk myself, I’ve only been sober for a couple of months this time, but I’m more serious, more active, with the AA program now. And, well, when I came across this medallion in her shop it caught my attention. For some reason it intrigued me. I wanted to know more about it. How and why had it ended up in a antique shop? So I bought it. Then I ask Mrs. Taylor, Terry, how she had come to have it. So here I am. Like I said I don’t mean to bother you and I certainly respect the anonymity of the program, but I just want to know about this medallion. To know some of it’s history, if you can understand what I mean.” I paused, trying to think of what to say next.
But Mr. Jackson interrupted me. As he stared at the coin in my hand he said “I understand.” In a somewhat reluctant manner he continued “It’s hot out here. Let’s go inside.” He turned and headed to the front door. Still rumbling, and with her eyes still on me, Lady followed in his footsteps. I walked over to the gate and passed through. Little did I know at that moment that passing through that gate might symbolize passing thru a gate into a new chapter in my life.
The house on the inside was as rundown and unkept as the house on the outside. The Venetian blinds were closed, the drapes were drawn. The only light came from an old lamp sitting on a side table between a dingy brown couch and a sagging arm chair which was set at a right angle, facing the doorway’s entrance. The lamps shade was faded and torn. A 60 watt light bulb provided a sparse view of the living area. The couch ran along a long wall immediately to my left as I entered, the armchair faced me. To my right was a very old console TV, tuned to “Wheel of Fortune”, channel 6, NBC. The TV was set at angle facing the chair, in a corner by a bay window, although with the drapes drawn there was no light coming into the room. Still on my right was a shorter wall, which was interrupted by an open doorway into a hall. I seemed to remember the bedrooms, three of them, and two bathrooms were down that hall and further off to my right. Behind the armchair was a dining area. Although where I remembered the dining table and chairs there was now just empty space with a few card board boxes stacked along the left wall. Past the hallway door was another short wall, then the entrance to the kitchen area. Against the back wall of the house, in the kitchen, I could make out another door exiting into the back yard. An uncovered window filled the upper portion of the door and the afternoon sun shone brightly thru, illuminating a smokey haze that seemed to linger in the kitchen’s air. Indeed, the whole inside seemed to have that smoke filled haze and smell. The air was dank and stale. Then I noticed it’s source. There on the side table, by the arm chair was a large glass ash tray over flowing with dead cigarette butts. A pack of Kools and an old Zippo lay by the ash tray. A glass tumbler, with a small amount of amber liquid in the bottom, sat by the cigarettes, closest to the arm chair. Over the back of the brown couch a gold and orange crocheted quilt lay at a somewhat peculiar angle. The cushions on both the sofa and the chair were old and soiled and pressed down from the weight of the bodies who had rested upon them. The arm chair had a high back, and where the head would rest was soiled with hair oil and with time it’s material had worn thin. Threadbare. Like Mr. Jackson. That was Mr. Jackson’s chair. That was “His Place”.
As we entered he walked over and turned the sound down on the TV. He did not turn it off.
“May I offer you something to drink?” he ask. “I’ve got a beer, or scotc… no I don’t suppose you would like either of those. I do have soda or I’ll make us some coffee.”
“A soda would be nice. Thanks” I replied.
He walked over and picked up his tumbler. “Get me a refill” he remarked as he walked to the kitchen. You don’t mind if I drink” he more or less stated, with his back towards me.
“Not at all, Mr. Jackson.”
“Have a seat on the sofa” he grunted.
Lady had led the way into the house. She now lay next to the chair, her legs tucked under her body, her head resting on the floor and her eyes looking warily at me. I could still hear a slight rumble in her chest. Maybe she was just old and her body was somewhat hollow from age. Like Mr. Jackson appeared to be.
As Mr. Jackson went for my cola and his “refill “ I sank into the old couch. The cushions were so soft I felt my bottom hit bottom and my knees raised up slightly higher than my thighs. I sat at the end of the sofa nearest the arm chair. The arms of the sofa, like the head of the chair, were worn and soiled from body oils. I looked around the room discreetly. Over the sofa, behind my head, was a large picture in a wooden frame. It was a print of a forest scene in fall colors, oranges and browns and gold, to coordinate with the browns of the chair and sofa. My parents had a very similar picture in their den. 1960ish. Further down that same wall, hanging centered in the dining area hung another large picture. This one framed in an imitation gold frame. I had to lean forward a bit to make out it’s features. At the very back of the room, along the back wall, was a double window and although the blinds were closed. The drapes drawn in the bright summer late afternoon sun shed light upon the scene. “The Last Supper”. I remembered then that Danny and I had been raised of different religious denominations. I couldn’t remember, but it seemed to me he had been Catholic or Methodist or Episcopalian or something. I remember, too, how strange that picture seemed to me. I was brought up in the Church of Christ and such items that depicted Mother Mary, or the Disciples or even Christ were considered somewhat idolatrous.
Although I was brought up in “The Church”, I had separated from it as soon as I could. Which when, at age 19, I married my first wife. Then I was nothing I suppose. I studied various philosophies and philosophers, Zen, Hinduism, the Moslem faith. I even read some on witchcraft. It seems, looking back, that I was always searching for some spiritual center. My first wife was Methodist so at one point I was Methodist. Then we became independent “Charismatics”. Then I was nothing again. My second wife was Baptist so for a short time I was Baptist. Then nothing . Except an alcoholic. AA, with it’s offering of a Higher Power, a God as I understand Him, for the moment anyway, seems to have met my quest for a more spiritual, if not Biblical entity.
On the wall directly across from me were two 5X8 framed photographs. The one closest to the hallway entrance I recognized as Mr. Jackson’s daughter. Her name was Elizabeth (Liz everybody called her). She had been a couple of years older than Danny and me. It was a graduation picture, with her in her cap & gown getup. She was really quite beautiful. Her features favored her mother, whose picture hung beside hers. A long slender nose, straight jaw and full lips (especially red in the photo), with fair skin and freckles across the bridge of her nose and on her cheeks. Her hair was long, dark and had a natural curl. A photo copy of her mother, except for her eyes. Her eyes were dark brown and penetrating, like her dad’s. Her mother had blue eyes. Brighter than sky blue. I could remember Danny’s mother when she would smile or laugh her eyes literally seemed to light up and sparkle. She had a melodically pleasing laugh. Mrs. Jackson laughed often.
Mrs. Jackson’s picture hung to the right of her daughters. The two pictures were not centered on the short wall. Mrs. Jackson’s frame was centered, but to her right was a vacant area. Looking closely in the dim light of the room I could faintly make out the outline of what had probably been another picture frame. A slight shading difference. A fading discolorization – 5X8. Maybe Danny’s picture had once hung there.
The carpet was, like everything else old, soiled and dusty. It had been a very long time since that carpet had been roughed up by a vacuum cleaner. The obvious paths were worn down. Front door to chair…chair to TV. Chair to hallway. Chair to kitchen. TV to pass the day away. Hallway to bed to sleep or bathroom to do what bathrooms are for. Kitchen to eat. Kitchen for drink. Most definitely the chair was the center of all activity. It was Mr. Jackson’ chair. It was Mr. Jackson’s center of existence.
On top of the TV set was a large crystal flower vase. It looked quite expensive. It had a thick coat of dust covering it’s surface, but still I could make out an ornate block cut pattern. It was empty.
As I was staring at the vase, Mr. Jackson reentered the room, walking along his designated path. He noticed me looking at the vase (although I could have been lip reading “Wheel of Fortune”).
“That was my Mary’s favorite vase. She would grow roses in her garden in the backyard, cut them with long stems and put them in that vase. She was a gardner. My how Mary loved to dig in the soil. She had a real green thumb.” He reflected. I could see the love and the sadness in his eyes as he talked about “his Mary. “All different colors of roses she’d grow. Pink, yellow, white and red. The reds were her favorites. She knew their names, you know what there formal names were. I never did care much. She’d put the flowers in the vase there on the TV, it’s always been on top of the TV. Same spot. I’d watch television and Mary would watch her roses. Somehow I couldn’t let go of that piece when I gave John’s wife the other stuff to sell. It was too much a part of my Mary. Too much a part of me. I couldn’t give that up.”
“How’s your dad?” he asked. “Is he still living?”
“Yes sir, he’s still alive and kicking. Still goes down to his store everyday although there’s not much to go down to. His business has all but dried up. Too many discount suppliers now. He can’t compete. And too many of his long time customers have retired or passed on. But, his business is his life. I don’t think he would know what to do with his self if he didn’t have his work to go to everyday.”
“I retired in 1990. I was 70 years old. Too old to fight it anymore. So I sold my business and came home to be with Mary. At first it felt strange, after so many years, not to put on a suit and tie and head out for the office. But Mary got me interested in some of the same things she had always enjoyed. I’d piddle in the yard with her or we’d go for walk along the bay. Go grocery shopping. She even got me interested in playing bridge. Taught me how. We’d go to Lindale recreation center on Tuesdays & Thursdays and play all afternoon. We made quite a formidable couples team. Then she got sick.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent.
“I used to do quite a lot of business with your dad back in the old days. I was in insurance you know. Jackson Insurance. We bought all our pens & paper, our office supplies from Matthews. Most of our typewriters and office equipment too.” He continued with an effort to distract his mind from where it had begun to wander…back to Mary. Back to her getting sick,. Back to her dieing.
“Yes, Mr. Jackson,” I said “ he’s been around a long time. Back in the 60’s Matthews was the largest office supply house south of San Antonio. I remember my dad talking about ‘million dollar’ years. That all pretty much dried up back in the mid 80’s when the bottom fell out of the oil business.”
“That’s a shame. That slump hit me too. Looking back, I suppose that was what tired me out and got me to thinking abut retiring. Too many long time customers in oil & gas folded on me.” Mr. Jackson explained.
As he was talking my eyes inadvertently looked to the vacant spot across from me on the wall. The glance was unintentional and had nothing to do with the empty space that was there. Actually, I was trying to figure out how to get back onto the subject of the medallion.
“That’s my Mary’s picture there on the right. The other one’s my daughter, Elizabeth, in her high school graduation outfit. She graduated in 1966, from Ray High School. She’s married now. She and her husband have 3 children. My grandchildren. Thomas, Daniel & Lizzie. They live in New York state. Not in the city, but close to it. He works for IBM. Some kinda ‘ computer engineer. He must be pretty good they pay him a lot of money and Elizabeth doesn’t work. Their kids are grown now, except for Lizzie. She’s still at home. But, I think she gets out of high school this year. They usually come down to visit at Christmas time. At least they used to. I haven’t seen them in a couple of years. Their kids, the two older ones, are married with children of their own, so they spend the Holidays with them. And, since Mary died, there are not really too much for them to come home to, I guess.” I could hear the sadness in his voice, I could see the loss in his eyes and I could feel the loneliness in his heart.
“Danny’s picture used to be there on the right. First his graduation picture. Then his picture in his Marine uniform before he went over there. To Viet Nam. Before he went to that war.” He continued. “That war changed him.” Mr. Jackson went silent. His shoulders slumped and he let out a heavy sigh. “Damn war.”
“It was a damned war, Mr. Jackson. It changed us all. It changed our whole country. For better or worse we all changed after Viet Nam. I think we lost our innocence there.” I said. “I didn’t go. I was married and in college at the time, so I got a deferment. The last year we were involved, in 1972, I drew a high number in the draft and they never reached me. Mr. Jackson, I marched in the streets against that war. It wasn’t so much that I was against stopping the communist as it was that I just never thought we were there to win. They called it a ‘police action’, but it was a war. And we lost. We lost that war and we lost a lot of good people too. Some were killed and some just came home ‘lost’ to the life they had known before.”
“That war changed Danny” he stated flatly. “He wasn’t the same when he got back. He was angry all the time. Distant from his mom and me. From the whole family. He drank all the time. And the drugs, my God the drugs. He got married when he first got back. Did you know that, Steve?” he ask.
“Yes sir, I did. I saw Danny at Del Mar right after he came home. I even went to his apartment a couple of times. I met his wife there, but I don’t remember her name or much about her. Danny had changed. I was a hippie, a druggie too. And I drank a lot. But Danny scared me. I …”
“Mary” he said. “Mary, same name as my Mary. But, her nick name was ‘Tinker Bell’. That’s what she wanted everybody to call her, ‘Tinker Bell’. Can you imagine a grown woman. ‘Tinker Bell’. She was a pretty girl, in an odd sort of way. She used drugs too. Both of them, Danny and her, stoned all the time. And drunk. Danny tried college but he flunked out after the first semester. Never went to class, too stoned and drunk to get up and go. Then he couldn’t or wouldn’t hold any kind of steady job. Kept getting’ fired for not showin’ up. Same thing, too drugged up to get up and go to work.”
“They divorced after a couple of years. She ran off to California or some place. Danny took it pretty hard. I think he loved her and the divorce made him feel all that much more of a failure. Their relationship never stood much of a chance if you ask me. Not with all the drugs and the booze. They never got to know each other. They never got to struggle together and to come out on the other side. Danny was too messed up from that war. He needed some kind of counciling after all that he’d been through. We tried to get him to go. I even offered to pay for it. He needed help. But, he wouldn’t go.”
“Mr. Jackson, where is Danny? Do you know? Do you ever hear from him?” I ask, although it was none of my business and probably the wrong question to ask.
“I don’t know” he said dejectedly. “Last we heard he was out in California looking for his ex-wife. That was 12 or 13 years ago. He didn’t even come home for his mother’s funeral. We didn’t know how to get in touch with him to tell him she had died. At first he stayed in touch with his sister. She’d get a letter or a long distance phone call every once and a while. He was usually drunk when he’d call her she said. Late at night, called collect…rambling about one thing or another. Then even that stopped. Nobodies heard from him in about 10 years. God, he could be dead for all we know.”
I didn’t know what to say, so once again I said nothing. The silence hung heavy in the air for a few moments. Then Mr. Jackson continued.
“In 1987, it was Christmas and Elizabeth and her family were here, Danny showed up at that door” Mr. Jackson said, pointing in the direction of his front door. “ He was drunk and stoned out of his mind. Stumbling, slurring his words. Dirty. Stank like he’d been lying in the gutter for a week. He wanted to come in and ‘see his sister and his nephews and his niece’. My Mary opened the door. I could hear the commotion he was making from the kitchen so I went to see what was going on. When Danny started through the door he went to hug his mother. In his stupor he stumbled and fell into his mother. She was knocked back and hit a coffee table we used to have here in front of the couch.” He explained, pointing to the area in front of where I was sitting. There was no coffee table there now. It was probably among the items he sent to Terry’s shop.
“Anyway” he continued “Mary fell back hit her head and the impact broke the skin. She was bleeding from her scalp. There in the back” and he pointed to the back of his own head. “Elizabeth and Tom, that’s her husband helped Mary up and took her into the bathroom to dress the cut and clean her up. The kids, my grandchildren were standing around in shock.. Wide eyed, scared, not knowing what to think or what to do. Lizzie started crying uncontrollably. I called to Tom to come and take the kids into the back room. Danny was so out of it he didn’t realize what he’d done. He couldn’t even get up off the floor by himself, for God’s sake. I was angry. Angry at Danny for being drunk. Angry at him for hurting his mother. I hoisted him up by his shoulders and told him I was ashamed of his being my son. I shoved him out the door and told him not to come back until he’d cleaned up his act. The last time I saw him he was walking towards Santa Fe. He had no car. He must have walked to the house from God only knows where he’d been. I watched his back as he walked away. I didn’t know then that might be the last time I ever saw my son”
“Was that when you started drinking again?” I ask. I don’t know where those words came from. I had made a presumption I had no right to make. I didn’t know if the medallion was his or not. Open mouth, insert foot.
Mr. Jackson looked me straight in the eye and a slight smile broke across his lips. “No” he said. “After Danny left and Mary was cleaned up, it had been only a small cut but it raised quite a knot, we all sat down for Christmas dinner. It was very unpleasant and it certainly wasn’t joyous, but we ate and tried to act as though nothing had really happened. After dinner I went to a meeting and talked about the incident. I knew I had done the right thing at the time. Right for the family. Right for Danny. I stayed sober. I just didn’t know …” and his voice trailed off.
Somehow this seemed to be the appropriate moment to approach the subject of the medallion. I knew it was his. He had earned it. 26 years without a drink and now he was sitting talking to me and drinking alcohol. What had happened?
As I reached into my pocket to bring out the medallion I realized, that without my really knowing it Mr. Jackson had taken the coin from my hand while we were standing out by his fence. He still had it.
With his right hand holding the tumbler he slowly opened his left hand. He was holding the medallion clinched in his hand. His gaze remained on the palm of his hand for several seconds. Then he glanced at his glass. “ I stayed sober thru all of that. For 26 years I didn’t drink any alcohol.” He paused.
“What happened, Mr. Jackson? Can you, would you please share with me why you started to drink again”. For a few minutes I shared with him my experiences with trying to get sober and stay sober. On the wagon, off the wagon….on the wagon, off the wagon…for 14 years I had gone around and around in that futile circle. I tried to explain to him that if I knew and if I could understand “why” he, after 26 years of sobriety, would start drinking again perhaps I would have some insight into my own behavior.
For a long time neither of us said anything. The silence echoed through the room. Finally he sat down his glass and looked me straight in the eye. This time there was no hint of a smile. His dark brown eyes seemed to penetrate my thoughts.
“In 1992 my wife was diagnosed with cancer. Cervical cancer. We had caught it in the early stages and the doctors were optimistic that with the proper treatment she would pull through. Mary had the surgery, and went the follow up chemo sessions. For the next two years it was hard, but I was retired so I could look out for her and Elizabeth would fly down when anything major was going on. We had no idea how to reach Danny. Mary seemed to be doing ok and getting stronger after completing the chemo. Then in 1993 the cancer came back with a vengeance. Mary was in and out of the hospitals and even when she was home she had to stay in bed all the time because she was too weak to move around. I would come home from the hospital to an empty house or I would stay up nights staring at the television, alone. Not knowing what to do. Knowing my Mary was dieing. That damn disease took 3 more years to kill her. I watched her wither away to nothing. The strong woman I’d known all my adult life became frail. She was in constant pain despite the pain medicine, unless they gave her the really strong stuff like there near the end. Then she just slept fitfully. Knocked out.
I couldn’t take watching her suffer. I couldn’t take the helplessness. I couldn’t take the loneliness. So I started to drink. Again”.
I nodded. I understood loneliness. In AA we have a simple little phrase “H – A – L- T” (Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired). Four warning signs that can alert an alcoholic that a “slip” (a relapse to drinking) might occur. Hunger & tired had never really bothered me. Anger & loneliness had. The last year of my marriage my former wife & I didn’t see much of each other (she was working 2 jobs to help us make ends meet). I was lonely. Then I got angry. All of a sudden it was easy for me to justify (make an excuse for) my drinking. And so I drank.
I got sober in 1968. November 26, 1968. It was just two days before Danny was due to be shipped out. He’d come home for a brief visit before his tour of duty began.
All of my adult life I’d been a heavy drinker. A functioning alcoholic. From all outward appearances I was a successful man. Successful business, happy family, went to mass on Sundays. No one knew that I drank myself into oblivion almost every night nor that my cocktail hour began with lunch.
My children had never seen me really sober. All their lives I had been a socially acceptable drunk. They had both grown up in a very dysfunctional environment. Mary had managed to handle most of the more overt problems my drinking had caused … finances, school situations and such. But my kids had never known a sober father. As Danny was preparing to go to war I realized that I did not want him to leave home never having known a real dad. If he were killed in Viet Nam I wanted him to believe that at last, finally, his father loved him enough to put down the bottle… to know that his dad loved him more than he did his next drink.
I’d heard about AA from some friends of mine who had joined the program years before. They never drank, their lives seemed normal and they seemed happy. Carl, one of those friends, took me to my first meeting right down the street from here at the First Christian Church. The Oso Group. It became my home group (the Oso Group was now my home group, also). Every Sunday, Tuesday & Thursday…rain or shine…even on Thanksgiving and Christmas if it fell on one of those days of the week…at 8 p.m. you could find me there. For 26 years. Then Mary got sick.”
Mr. Jackson stopped talking. He reached out to hand me the medallion.
“You keep it Mr. Jackson. You’re the one who earned it.”
He sat down his glass and turned to face me straight on. He smiled.
“You hold onto it for me. Ok? If I want it back I’ll let you know.”
I took the coin and just held it in my left hand. “You let me know, Mr. Jackson, and I’ll give it back.”
There was an awkward moment of silence. Finally I spoke up. “You know Mr. Jackson, I’m kinda’ like your Mary. I love to work outside in the yard. Dig in the soil, mow the grass, sweat my ass off. It seems to cleanse me somehow. I used to grow roses in my backyard for my former wife. She loved roses, too.
Anyway, since my divorce I live in a small apartment and I don’t get to do any of that anymore. Ahhh. , I was thinking. I noticed that your yard could use a mowing and a little cleaning up. Would it be alright if I came over, say this Saturday for awhile and helped clean your place up? I would really enjoy some hot, hard manual labor for a change.”
“Don’t think my lawn mower even works anymore. I haven’t used it in so long.”
“That’s ok. I can borrow the lawn mower and edger and the other tools I need from my ex. We still get along ok.”
“I don’t know” he said.
“How about you think about it. I’ll call you Friday and see if it’s ok. Ok?”
Wonderful, heart felt story... which an alcoholic can appreciate... I use to cherish all my "chips" 30 day, 60 day, 90 day, 6 month, on and on. I had them all up to five years. I made a "trophy case" for them. Then I realized, that they weren't my sobriety. Yes, I earned them... but I needed to give it away, to keep it... So I started giving these chips away to people celebrating the same milestone... I'd tell them, that maybe the strength the coin gave me, would be given to them. I no longer "worship" or cherish those coins... but I still have one on my key chain... it is a 24 hour chip... everyday is a celebration... my 10 years of sobriety wouldn't have taken place without 24 hours... one day at a time... and if I ever did slip, those ten years would be lost because of 24 hours... I cherish the amount of time I have acquired... but I honor those 24 hours... best wishes, with your recovery...
hI, THOUGHT PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE A NICE WORD FROM UK WHERE I AM FROM, BUT AM IN SWEDEN AT THE MOMENT.SO THE WORD WILL BE SWINGLISH.
I ENJOYED your story.
. you should keep going...it was "fun"
i have not got the time to read all the stories on this site,which is new to me, but i chose yours and i dont regret that,
Your comments here and there made me laugh too, that is your confidence that needs boosting a bit,,get the comments written in a note book instead and carry on with pure stories. you have got a style that is well worth improving ,
keep up the good work.
Best wishes from Rita ..I have just started out too.
Reviewed by M. B.
3/16/2005
This was great, Steve. I would have never known it was your first attempt. Your dialogue is smooth and realistic. Your characters are strong and easily visualized.
I say, keep writing those stories... you've found your niche!
This book presents a narrative story of one person's journey of transcendental Awakening and Enlightenment as guided by his two Sage companions. It is grounded in Zen Buddhist and Taoist perspective and uses the I Ching as its structural framework. T
Explains the realizations that have given the author the views of living life fully. The life each person dreams about.
You must take a look at yourself before dreams can be reached.
Deciding what is the core of belief.
This combined narrative dialogue and play is about the uncreated, unborn and undying transcendent Self of God-consciousness and Buddha-nature. It describes an odyssey of transcendent Consciousness Awakening and Remembrance.
