It was a wonderful day in January for the twelve-year-old boy. He was home from school on an unexpected snow day. Was there anything more wonderful to a boy a half century ago than an unexpected holiday from school?
The boy sat on the three lower steps of the old farmhouse in which he lived with his mother and father. Those three steps were in the living room, next to the Warm Morning stove that heated at least that portion of the house to toasty perfection. The remaining nine steps of the staircase led to the bitterly cold upstairs, a place just as cold or even colder than outside.
The boy was playing with an oil-based “paint-by-numbers” kit his older sister had given him for Christmas. The boy remembered thinking that this was most likely originally intended as a gift for his niece, a very artistic girl. The boy had so little talent that his picture looked like a moldy meatloaf when he finished it.
But this mattered nothing to the boy. It was just a way of whiling away the beautiful snow day. As he looked out the frosted windows at the half inch of snow covering all the blemishes of the earth with its glistening white blanket, he took comfort in the absence of responsibility that childhood provides when parents are present to provide for all of life’s necessities, although the extent of that provision might have been noticeably less than many of his classmates would have experienced.
The boy’s father sat on the couch reading, or at least looking, at the newspaper. The boy, who did quite well in school, realized that he had never heard his father read aloud, though he had witnessed him reading the newspaper since he could remember. The boy knew his father had only gone to, not through, the second grade. He also knew his father could only write in large capital letters, and that the words, spelled as they sounded, ran together on the page.
The boy’s ever patient, loving mother was there as well. There was both similarity and contrast between she and his father—his mother had gone to, not through, the third grade, but she read exceptionally well and wrote in very neat cursive. Not only did she read stories endlessly to the boy when he was younger, she read her Bible every night before going to bed. The boy realized that his mother was a highly intelligent woman, even if fate had not provided her the opportunities to demonstrate it that the other mothers who attended their church were afforded.
As the boy looked down the road, he saw a figure approaching from a distance, coming down the hill just above the landlord’s comfortable brick home. The boy knew immediately that E. S. was walking down the hill.
The boy had learned from his mother that many years ago E. S. had been driving a car with his left arm hanging outside the rolled-down window. E. S. was possibly, even probably, intoxicated. Somehow his arm became snagged, and the resulting injury cost E. S. the loss of that limb. The boy had seen E. S. many times—though he was a one-armed alcoholic, the boy did not fear him. Many of his father’s alcoholic friends had been very kind to the boy throughout the years. Though the boy knew alcoholism was not a good thing, the uncomplicated simplicity of youth allowed the boy to nonjudgmentally accept these people just as they were.
When E. S. reached the family mailbox, he turned and walked down the path his father had shoveled from the front step to the road. The boy said, “Dad, there comes E. S.”
The father, who at that particular time was “on the wagon” for God only knew which of how many times, was not eager to have his “former” drinking buddy show up. The father expressed his displeasure to his son and wife, but opened the door and allowed E. S. to come in out of the cold.
E. S. was in a jovial mood, exchanging pleasantries with the boy and his mother, and beginning to speak conversationally with his father. It was evident, even to the boy, who had seen his own father in various stages of intoxication throughout his childhood, that
E. S. had been drinking. The boy would learn later in life that E. S. was “buzzing”.
After a few minutes, when the boy’s father had judged that E. S. had sufficient time to warm by the fire, the father asked, “E. S., have you been drinking?”
Most of the alcoholics the boy knew were truthful, and E. S., who was no exception, replied that yes, he had been drinking, though he was not drunk.
The father said, “Then I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ve quit drinking, and I don’t want that around my boy and wife anymore.”
The boy was only twelve, but even he knew that this was not the reason the father asked E. S. to leave. The father just didn’t want to be bothered by an uninvited, unwanted guest that day.
E. S. did not make a scene. He apologized to the boy and mother, said a cordial farewell to his former drinking buddy, then left the warmth of the living room to trudge once again into the cold, ankle-deep snow. A wave of shame for his father’s hypocrisy and sorrow for E. S.’s hurt feelings deeply affected the boy. As E. S. was leaving, the boy went to the door and hollered after him, “Bye, E. S.”
E. S. turned with a tear in his eye, but with a smile said, “Bye, honey.”
That was the last time the boy ever saw E. S. Before the snows could fall during the following winter, E. S. had passed away.
For the remainder of his life, even half a century later, the boy occasionally thought of E. S. when a snow would fall. He would wonder how many others like E. S. were hypocritically turned from their friends’ doors. Like E. S., the boy bore no ill will toward his father, for having lived so intimately with a drunkard for most of his youth the boy understood perhaps more than a child his age should have.
Sadly, the father did not survive his drinking pal even by five years. The boy wondered if the father, before he passed, ever thought of E. S. and the way he had turned him from his door on that bright, cold winter day.
Perhaps even sadder, there would come a day that the boy as an adult would encourage unwanted visitors to leave his house during a significant snow storm. He would silently regret that for the remainder of his life, realizing that he shared with his deceased father some unsavory traits of character. There were many times throughout the boy’s maturity that he came to realize just how much he was like his very own father, minus the alcoholism.
Exodus 34: 6-7 (KJV) says:

And the Lord passed by before him, and proclaimed, The Lord, The Lord God, merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abundant in goodness and truth,
Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children’s children, unto the third and to the fourth generation.

Many adults spend a great portion of their lives trying to overcome their upbringing. Everyone has a past, and sometimes the greatest challenge in life is the conquering of that past.
I leave you with a thought I learned from the old Family Channel many years ago. Perhaps this slogan can be our guiding mantra:

Accentuate the positive.
Eliminate the negative.
Tune in to the affirmative.

I can’t change the past, but I can live for the future. So, let’s raise our glasses (of fruit punch) and give a toast to a brighter future for all.

ANSWER TO QUESTION OF THE WEEK # 31
How much did a man tell me he enjoyed reading my articles? ANSWER: Im”Mince”ly (Thank you Chris Robbins, Assistant Principal, Union County High School, for this bit of inspiration.)
QUESTION OF THE WEEK # 32
Who do most married people say has made their life worth living? (See next week’s article in historicunioncounty.com for the answer.)

Email Thoughts:

To me, "drink responsibly" means don't spill it.

I envy people who grow old gracefully. They age like a fine wine.
I’m aging like milk: Getting sour and chunky.

Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me. I want people to know 'why' I look this way. I've traveled a long way, and some of the roads weren't paved.
--Will Rogers on Growing Older