December arrived and it felt as if Port Aransas moved even further out into the Gulf of Mexico. The island became even more quiet. There was no word on jobs either. Looking back, there were plenty of local retail places I could have applied at and made a respectful minimum wage which at that time was somewhere right around $3.50 per hour. My nineteen-year-old limitations not really letting me see it.
Our house was warm with the creative cooking of my father's. I find it amazing that I could be around so much good cooking in my life, my Mom's, Grandmom's, and Dad's, and yet at this point in life, it never occurred to me to try it for myself. I now realize that this is how life is for people who cannot cook, because, I was one of them. The more time passes, the funnier it gets.
There were a couple of intense points in December that stand out in my collective memory. One of these was Saturday, December 15th. Dad was turning 39 the next day and we decided to have a few friends over. We went into this day knowing it was going to be a big one. Rum and Cokes, Vodka and grapefruit juice, and beer were flowing by noontime. This was gonna be a long one.
I will not go back into the details of this day as I did elaborate on the events later on in a previous chapter. In the aftermath of mess and blood and coming down, we enjoyed a week of quiet nights watching TV and just hanging out.
On Friday, December 21st, we were ready to go back out again, so we went to the Gaff. Again, this story is told in the previous chapter about a sweet little Texas bar. I called my father out that night. Every feeling I ever had about why he did not do what I expected him to do, what I needed him to do. We broke through that night. That night and the morning after really showed the human side of both of us. He shared some things that really shook him and he did not try to use them as excuses, he only wanted me to know why he really did not know what to do. Sometimes, you have to just lead with your weakness.
This weekend really led to about a week of some pretty deep conversations. I recall one in which Dad told me a story about being a teenager. He and his friends had been drinking all night. They all crashed in his car at Lake Compounce in the parking lot. In the morning, they were surrounded by the police. The police were trying to coax them to open the doors, but they all knew, that if they did, the cops who all had their clubs drawn were going to beat them senseless with them. He described it as a potentially explosive negotiation. In the end, after painstakingly establishing some sort of report with the officers, they were able to get out of the car and have a long talk with them. But first, they somehow had to prove that they were not deserving of the treatment that was initially coming. He said this type of thing was pretty normal back in the early sixties.
New Year's Eve was on a Monday night. Dad and I had our usual weekend and by Monday, he was happy to just go to bed at 10 PM. I was staying up. MTV was doing the New Year's Eve Party and Joan Jett was the featured artist. I recorded it on the cassette stereo as everyone back in 1984 had their stereo hooked to their cable line so you could watch MTV, but have the sound coming through your home sound system. The cable company would set this up for you for a fee, we of course did not need a cable person to do this for us.
New Year's Eve, 364 days later. I awoke on January 1st in Waterbury Connecticut with a feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach. 2,279 miles later I was sitting here in Port Aransas, Texas with many things only just beginning. The last 3 months felt very introverted, but in reality, they were not. I sat on the couch, writing and watching the concert contemplating the contrast of two very different lives I lived this year.
On January 1st, I knew I was going to see my Dad this year, but I could not imagine what that would be like to see him every day. All I had at that time was my last memories of him from 1980. My 14-year-old Junior High School Graduation in which we had a crazy few hours, driving around Connecticut finally ended with the police arresting his friend Wayne, who then kicked out the back window of the police car and I ended up driving home. This Dad, despite momentary lapses, was a more calm and mature person. He was respected by his peers and loved by his friends who really were a diverse group of people.
At the beginning of the year, I had no limits when it came to the partying life. Here at the end of the year, after some crazy drinking days and nights, here in Port Aransas and back up north at Lone Oak in East Canaan, a deep set knowledge was there, rising into view, telling me that I would not be able to maintain this way of life indefinitely. I questioned it deep inside and most of the time, my glorious denial made it seem like there were no doubts within me at all.
It also became clear to me that Dad needing alcohol to make it easier to communicate, to show emotion, and to socialize was spot on to my own situation. The hereditary nature of this worried me in the darkest places of contemplation because I did not know how a person could get out of such a place. My Dad was 20 years older than me and he could not seem to find an escape from it. I suspected there could be a way in my writing, but I was not sure how to utilize it.
Even more unsettling about the likeness was a difference that I noticed. Although we were similar, Dad still retained a good deal of moral compass during different levels of alcoholic phases, me, not at all. I mentioned this to him in 1989 about a week after I quit drinking for good. He laughed, "Don't let that get out that I have morals, I have an image to maintain."
In the coming years, I had some of the biggest mistakes of my life to still make, but there was a lot of foundation set here in 1984. In just a few days, Jeri and I did get hired at the refinery. The social restraints and tides that I learned this year resonated with me and caused me to refine my outward person. 84 and the realigning of the things I missed from 14 to 18 were quickly accessed and applied in the places that I thought they should be.
If at first, I thought that the contrast in my life experienced here in 1984 was merely because of the crossing over from high school to adult life, I would learn that my life would become a series of endless dramatic changes that were so different, it was hard to believe that it could all happen to just one person. In each phase, different places to live, different jobs, careers, and people around me. It has been like living different lifetimes.
Here on December 31st, two of the most impacting events of my life were just a few weeks away. Like a trail of dominoes, they would first change the course of my life and then fortify me with a shift-on-the-fly armor that I would live for years using.
This was really the last quiet month. After this, I was always chasing something or being chased by something. Life never returned to the calmness that existed here in 84. I have to believe it is because of 1984 and not an alternative to it.
I lost my Dad when he was 50 in 1996. He always wanted to make it to New Year's Eve 1999. Admittedly, after the night of December 15th, 1984, I was a little scared to see what would happen. Overall, my Dad was a quiet man. There was turmoil inside and aside from brief detours into easing the things that bothered him, he kept it to himself. In that quiet reserve, I have learned so much.
To this day, I am still learning from him, even though I lost him over 27 years ago. I appreciate that so much because it gives me more time than I really had. His humanity was an excellent teacher, or at least an unclouded mirror that allowed me to see my own.
1984. Regan was the president, MTV was in its heyday, space shuttles were launching in record numbers, and computers became a household appliance for people who had more money than us. The world was changing. USA Night Flight aired overnight on the weekends and gas was $1.07 a gallon.
There were so many other things that happened in 1984 in my life. In a peculiar way of access, writing about these is slowly bringing those memories to light, and maybe I can eventually tell those stories too.
Why did I write this? For the reason mentioned in Chapter One, someday, if I am no longer here, or no longer can remember, these stories will go on. If my grandparents or parents ever did journal anything like this, I would treasure it. I hope that in taking this journey, I have given something to my children that will make them feel closer to me.
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