The Woodie Chronicles: My Journey Through America on the Road to Recovery in a 1949 Woodie Wagon

By Gregory A. Raymer

Greg Phoenix has a problem.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> His drinking cost him his friends.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Has landed him in jail.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> And now the angry Judge Hooton wants to
throw the book at him.

Facing serious prison time, boot camp or a unique
community service job, Phoenix chooses community service, thinking it will be a
breeze.

But the universe has a different plan.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Through a chain reaction of events, Phoenix
lands a 1949 Woodie Wagon, and spends several weeks travelling from Nederland,
Colorado to Key West, Florida
fulfilling his community service obligation, facing danger and peril at
almost every turn.

Along the way, he not only finds his sobriety,
develops an appreciation for old cars, drive in movie theaters and vintage DC-3
airplanes, but begins his spiritual journey as well.

While life is bittersweet, Phoenix learns, his
second chance in life gives him the courage and desire to go on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 21, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410759160

Gregory A. Raymer

Greg Raymer was born in Denver, Colorado march 21st,  1961. As a high school student, Mr. Raymer was introduced to old cars by his buddies, Erik Brauer and Michael O'Brien.  His affection for vintage cars and americiana continues to this day. An avid student of history, Mr. Raymer, along with his wife, Bonita have undertook several projects with historical themes over the years.  Mr. Raymer also is a recovering alcoholic.  The Woodie Chronicles is his story of hope for the still suffering alcoholic/addict, their families and loved ones. 

Book preview

The Woodie Chronicles:

My journey through America on the road to recovery in a 1949 Woodie Wagon

By

Gregory A. Raymer

Illustrations by

Bonnie DiRito

Golden, Colorado

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

©

2003 by Gregory A. Raymer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4107-5916-0 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4107-5915-6 (Paperback)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2003094231

1stBooks-rev. 08/19/03

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

SPECIAL THANKS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

To all those who I have hurt through my alcoholism, and those who are still suffering, I dedicate this book.

SPECIAL THANKS

To all parties involved in helping me write this book, especially Bonny Raymer, of Golden, Colorado, Don and Joan Raymer of Westminster, Colorado, Erik Brauer of Akron, Colorado, Mort Perry of Grand Junction, Colorado, Stephanee Killen of San Diego, California, Bonnie DiRito of Golden, Colorado, Captain Hank Shaner of Marathon, Florida, and all those wonderful folks along the way who were friendly, helpful and patient.

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May 28, 2002-Boulder, Colorado

I am not quite sure how it happened. One minute I am taking pictures for a friend’s daughter at the citizen’s race of the Bolder Boulder, and the next thing I know I am in the Boulder County poky for a bar fight.

The guard said that I did things that I do not remember doing last night. Pretty scary. What’s worse, he says that I have been cited before for alcohol-related offenses, and I am in real trouble since Boulder County has been getting tough on drunken behavior.

It is now 8:08 in the morning, and I am on full throttle hangover. My head is pounding; I feel horrible that what started out to be such a beautiful day watching a grown up Shannon run her first Bolder Boulder race turned out to be a nightmare. I wonder at what point I got separated from my friend and began drinking.

Shannon’s dad, Bill, has told me over the years that I should watch my drinking. I wonder what rationale I used to convince him and myself that I was okay to just have a beer. And what event made me get involved in a bar fight. A bar fight? I have always been a lover not a fighter. What’s with that?

I wonder if little Shannon knows about my predicament. I really feel like shit now. This was to be her day. Her dad and I go way back. We were childhood friends. We were inseparable in high school, weathering adolescence together. We were there for each other’s weddings, Shannon’s baptism, where I got the honor of being named her godfather, our subsequent divorces, and now Shannon’s first Bolder Boulder.

I am not sure what is worse, my pounding head, my thirst, my pungent body odor, or the thought that I just took a crap on my best friend and his daughter.

All I can do now is wait in the detox section of the Boulder County jail and wait for something to happen. This place is hell. I am faced with the constant moaning of suffering drunks and the caustic smell of stale vomit being replaced with the odor of freshly generated upchucks-complete with its own horrid sound effects.

I wish I were out of this place.

Bill has posted my bail. Coming out, I attempt to shake his hand, and he very begrudgingly extends his hand.

On the very long ride to my cabin in Nederland, Colorado, Bill says that our friendship is over. He tells me that there is no way he can go on with me setting him and his daughter up for hurt by my drinking. I can feel the vibes of Bill. He wants to talk; he wants me to listen.

At the end of his lecture, he said that I owe Shannon a big apology but that she wants nothing to do with me. Bill said that he is not sure if she is more hurt or angry, but at this time, she does not even want my name mentioned around her.

As the car turns onto Magnolia road, I open my mouth to say to Bill that I am indeed sorry for this caper, that I am in need of help with my alcohol problem, but that I do not really know where to go for help.

He tells me that after the courts get through with me, I will probably be cured due to the absence of alcohol in prison.

I ask him one last favor and that is that I be allowed to apologize to Shannon in person. Bill is silent. He says to me very coldly and curtly, I don’t know.

My journey has begun.

After experiencing the worst two days in my life, one would think that the horrid suffering I’d just endured would be enough. And the despair I’d inflicted upon those around me would put me straight on the wagon.

But the moment I slammed the door to my house high in the Rocky Mountains, I was looking for the magic juice that would warm my soul.

Being in a semi-sober state of mind, things did cross my mind that would communicate to me of this awful insanity. But those thoughts would quickly be shuffled away by the drive to find the fire juice that would take the edge off.

I called the places where I hid my stash of vodka oasis points, or ops. The first op was located in my freezer, below the ice cube trays. Nothing beats a real cold shot of vodka. But this proved to be two empty bottles, with only minute amounts of juice between the two of them.

I quickly went to my second op in the back of the cupboard only to find nine bottles completely empty. Not even a drop between all of them.

Starting to get panicked, I quickly went to ops three and four, my bedroom closet where an old pair of combat boots was stored-there I found a 750mm bottle wiped out-then to the downstairs basement, to an old dryer, where I’d strategically placed a flask. That, too, had been gleaned from its container.

I was now running out of options for relieving my stress. I’d originally placed these comfort juices for backup when my freezer op was out and for when my family would come over-no matter where they were on the property, I would have an oasis point I could go to without them knowing it.

Obviously, I was not maintaining the points properly, and now I was in critical mode.

The clincher came when I raided the last of my oasis points, the septic tank, only to find that the bottle had broken, and my lifeline to living had emptied into the foul sewage underneath.

With my car still parked at the harvest house hotel in Boulder, I was seven miles from the nearest liquor store. I was now beginning to plot my strategy to getting the stuff that makes me feel normal.

Simple math proved that if I walked, it would take approximately four hours to complete a round trip to Nederland. But now I noticed another problem. My cash was gone, my credit cards were maxed, and I did not have enough pennies in my wine bottle bank to buy even a miniature.

I got out a shot glass and emptied the contents of the two bottles from the freezer. I was able to get a tablespoon of vodka.

I placed a few drops under my tongue, waiting for the sauce to stop burning and start absorbing into my body. It was far from perfect, but I was getting a very small high off of it.

This bought me some time-enough time to go to plan B, and that was to call Margaret from Ward, Colorado to help restore my feeling of euphoria.

Margaret was the ultimate party girl. Partying made her world go round. And being with her made my world go round. Where else could I find a drinking partner who wouldn’t get mad at my insanity while, at the same time, taking care of my sexual needs?

I met her on a weeknight at the Millsite Inn in Ward many, many years ago. She was drinking Jack and cokes, chain-smoking her Kool menthol cigarettes.

She was a last call date for me that night; it was 1:40 A.M., and the last call had just been announced. I was drunk, I was horny, and Margaret was there.

Her core looks were nice, but her face had been withered by years of smoking cigarettes. Her nose showed road maps of exploding capillaries, and her skin was flushed red from years of partying. Her voice was gravely, although sexy in a kinky sort of way.

We went to her bungalow cabin just up the road from the Millsite the night we met where we partied until dawn, followed by a delicious round of lovemaking.

Margaret would probably turn most sober guys off with her raggedness. But her breasts were unusually large, and her legs, ankles, and heels were particularly shapely, making me very sexually attracted to her.

There was never a sober experience with Margaret. If you were with her, it would be to party. And party we did.

I was told by a friend of Bill once that I had probably been predisposed to alcoholism when I was born. Spending so much time with Margaret over the years only accelerated my condition.

Bingo! Margaret’s phone was ringing. Bingo! Margaret picks up the phone on the second ring!

Margaret?! Hey, this is Greg from Nederland. What the hell is going on? I said, trying to sound upbeat. I knew that I had to verbally seduce Margaret if I was going to get her to come down from her side of the mountain and save me from sober despair.

Greg, is that you? Long time no hear! I thought you fell off the face of the Earth! she said, managing to sound both excited and cautious.

I could tell Margaret had been drinking by the ever so slight slur to her words.

She declined my offer, citing that she had to go into town to wash her clothes and eat dinner. Margaret’s cupboard was always empty, and she never cooked for herself. The only time she ate was when she was in town.

Margaret, I said in a somewhat authoritative tone, "I need a big favor from you. I don’t have a car, and I need you to pick me up some supplies. Pick up the goods from the store and drop them by here. I will wash your clothes and make you a nice meal. Plus, it will give me a chance to see you again. You know, it has been a long time."

I could tell she was slowly getting talked into it by my charm. I added that I would also work on her car (something was always wrong with it) and would make it worth her while if she came by. Within 45 minutes, I was back in business.

*******

The bender with Margaret lasted about four days. I lost count after two. The only reason it came to an abrupt halt was because Margaret had to go to address a legal matter in Boulder.

Margaret was funny that way. She could party until there was no tomorrow, and then switch gears and function normally like everyday people. I wish I could have done the same.

Margaret thanked me for the good time and left a present in the pantry. It was a case of vodka with one bottle missing. Taped to the case was a note saying the remaining IV (intravenous fluids) was hidden somewhere in the house, and I would eventually find it if I wanted it bad enough.

She also mentioned that she was looking forward to our upcoming date, explaining that she had never been there before.

I must have spoken in another state of unconsciousness. A guy at the Pioneer Inn bar told me once that these things are called blackouts, where you don’t remember what you said, what you did, or where you were.

Obviously, in my blackout, I did not offend Margaret, because she left me a gift and was excited about our next date. But at this moment, I had more pressing problems. I was coming off a four-day bender. Unshaven, foul-odored, and with a headache setting in, I noticed my ex-friend Bill towing my car into my driveway with little Shannon steering my car.

I was coherent enough to deduct that I did not want to see these two in this state of defilement.

I quickly lock the two doors, switch the sashes, and double-time upstairs to the attic where I can see through a small crack in the wood siding to know when the coast is clear.

Bill drives up the hill slightly, hand-signaling Shannon to brake and stop my car. He then disables the tow cable, and they both push my car backwards into the parking spot.

They both eye the house for signs of life, hampered by the fact that the window shades are drawn.

Do you think he’s in there? Shannon asks her dad.

He’s either here or at the Pioneer Inn.

Bill goes over to the garbage cans, jimmies one can open from the bear proofing, and exclaims to Shannon, Well, he is alive; he has fresh trash in here.

I hear Shannon ask her dad if they should go in and check on me. Her dad, seemingly uncomfortable about what to do next, pauses and says, No, let’s go to the Pioneer. I bet he’s there.

I watched Bill slip a note under the windshield wiper of my car before driving off.

The note is cold but still caring, saying that the property owners in Boulder were going to tow my car if I did not move it within 24 hours. Bill took it upon himself to get my car out of there to avoid a towing and storage charge. He said he really did not care to speak with me, but he would appreciate a phone call acknowledging that I’d gotten his note.

After they left, I called Bill’s cell phone. I knew it did not work in the mountains, so I was safe to call and leave a message. Usually, if it is only a few sentences, I can muster up enough sobriety to speak without slurring.

I called and said that I had been over helping a neighbor, and when I got back, I noticed that they had been there. I thanked them for their kindness and said that I would be in touch.

Knowing Bill like I know him, he wanted to talk to me. He missed me, and I missed him.

I knew that if he hated me he would have let my car get towed, and all the money I would have to spend to get the car out would be penance for my irresponsible behavior.

June 7, 2002

This is probably one of the worst days of my life (so far). I received a summons from the Boulder County court to appear Monday, June 17th for court on the charges of disorderly conduct, public drunkenness, and resisting arrest.

Failure to appear would result in a mandatory jail term.

You would think that just the fact that all of this horrible stuff is happening to me because of my drunken behavior would be a catalyst for me to go on the wagon, but all I could think about while holding that summons was how soon could I pour myself a glass of relief.

Margaret failed to include any mixers in the case of vodka she’d left, so I was forced to improvise my drink. Usually Coca Cola, 7-up, or orange juice would suffice for my vodka medications, but all I had anywhere was a little ice and some artificial sweetener. I concocted a rough glass of heaven.

By glass two of my homemade elixir, my edginess was gone, and I could calmly read through the packet of bad news.

Reality was beginning to sink in. I am not sure if I was sad, ashamed, mad, or just disgusted with myself. Whatever the feeling, I knew in my heart that I had no control over my habit.

I had heard stories about being in the lockup from Darrell, a neighbor to the north of me. He had spent eight months in the hokey where he was periodically raped by a fellow inmate. It was only after Darrell got violent that the rapings stop.

But there was another issue. What was I going to do about my job? While my work performance was passable, and I had some vacation time accrued, I could not withstand six months or longer away from my job.

Could I possibly work from the jail cell? Could I plead for a house arrest, where I could go to work, come home, and be detained in my home? A million scenarios began to circulate through my mind.

I spent the rest of the night drinking and thinking about my predicament.

June 8, 2002

It is a beautiful summer day in Nederland. The sky was royal blue, with stratocumulus clouds flowing over the continental divide. I enjoyed a brief moment of sobriety before my mind kicked into gear, running a million different things in different directions and making me edgy.

Before I could start my drinking ritual, I knew I had to get some legal advice. I opened the phone book and immediately looked for the Free phone consultation ads.

By the third phone consultation, I knew I was in big trouble. All three lawyers said that Boulder was cracking down on alcohol offenses. All the lawyers gave similar reasons: Boulder County lost a chunk of grant money from the feds because of its lack of alcohol offense enforcement; recent student riots at the University of Colorado gave Boulder a national black eye about its lack of enforcement; and probably most close to home was the fact that one of the Boulder judges had recently lost a son to cirrhosis of the liver brought on by alcoholism.

The third lawyer, Marty, asked me a series of very personal questions-mostly about my drinking habits. When I protested the depth of his questioning, he simply said to me, "Look, I am now a friend of Bill Wilson (of AA). Ten years ago, I had it all. I owned my own law practice; I had a beautiful wife, three nice looking kids, a beautiful house off of Mapleton Street, the whole nine yards.

"But with all that greatness, I had a dirty little secret. I was addicted to alcohol and cocaine. Hell, my wife didn’t even know I drank more than a glass of wine at parties. I was a great actor! And liar!

"Then the bottom fell out from underneath me. My coke habit began to take on a life of its own. What started out as recreational use at cocktail parties was consuming $1,200 a week of my wealth.

First, my SUV was repossessed. I was able to lie about that one. Two months later, my house was foreclosed upon. It was then my wife was enlightened.

But you are telling me about a cocaine problem. I am calling about an alcohol offense, I said.

I know. I said the same thing, Marty snapped. And I am not trying to lecture you either. I have been to hell and back. I never want to return again. I’m damn lucky to still be working as a lawyer after my fiasco. The man sighed heavily. I doubt if you can even afford me. You probably called this number just because it said it was a free consultation, right?

Yep, I said. You are right. So please continue with what happened to you.

Well, Marty continued, there were a lot of fireworks at the house. We were being evicted, we had to find a place to stay, then my buddies that worked for me ganged up and spilled the complete can of beans to my wife.

Was that so bad? I asked.

"It would have been better if I could have filtered the information to her in a timely way instead of her hearing it from a third party, when the sky was already crashing down on me all at one time.

Whatever you might have read about women in a self-help books, I am here to tell you that women do not want to hear the whole truth.

Why did your friends do that to you? I quizzed.

Well, I wonder about that constantly. Marty sighed again. "I know that one guy was always hitting on my wife whenever we were out with him. Another one was jealous of my success. To confirm my suspicions, neither one is my friend now, and the one guy ended up with my wife.

Look, Marty commanded after a brief pause, I am allotted twenty minutes for the free consultation. It has been over thirty-five minutes, and I know I will not bag a client out of this, so I have to push off. I hope you understand.

Yes indeed, I responded.

And one more thing, Marty said. Since you cannot afford counsel, I will give you some free advice to go into this entanglement. Do it precisely how I tell you, and I think you will be okay. But if you decide to do it your way, you will crash and burn. Now, get a pen and paper. You will need to write this down.

I did as he asked.

"First, by the answers to the questions I have posed to you, I have determined that you are an addict. You will have to acknowledge this yourself. Do not go to the next step until you have completed this one.

"Once you can whole-heartedly admit that you have a problem, come up with a plan for action. My suggestion is to find a self-help group in Nederland and dive into it right