A Boy Named Jim

By James A. Lynch

The silence and reluctance of author James A. Lynchs youth has been left behind; he has become a storyteller in the true form of grandfathers everywhere. In A Boy Named Jim, he provides a look into slices of his life.

This memoir presents the true story of Lynchs journey from the innocence of childhood in a small midwestern town; through the rollicking good times of the teenage years, college, and navy life; through thirty years of the dark depths of chronic alcoholism; and finally through the process of recovery and sobriety. A Boy Named Jim tells of Lynchs heartbreaks and failures, as well as the miracles and faith that brought him back to reality to live the life of a spiritually peaceful and gracious old man.

That morning I finally realized what I had become, what I was, and what I probably would always be: a hopeless, helpless drunk. I didnt amount to anything, never had, and never would. I feared I would probably die in a drunken stupor somewhere, or I would be permanently institutionalized. I didnt realize until sometime later, lying cut and bruised in a strange basement, I had been granted two important things: a moment of clarity and the gift of desperation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Aug 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458200204

James A. Lynch

James A. Lynch was born in Waverly, Iowa, and has spent most of his seventy-eight years there. He still lives there today.

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Copyright © 2011 James A. Lynch.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0021-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0020-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011913190

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Printed in the United States of America

Abbott Press rev. date: 8/18/2011

Contents

Introduction

The Dark Years

My Family

A Collection of Friends, Characters, and Others…

The House Where I Lived

Early Boyhood Years

The Teenage Years – Junior High And High School

The College Years

The Navy Years

A Fantasy Lived

The Working Years

A Love Affair With a Ball and a Stick

The Greyhound Years

Our Trips And Travels

The Sounds and the Silence

This, That, & A Few Other Things

In Conclusion

Acknowlegements

Dedication

TO MY WIFE DIXIE for her unwavering love from the beginning, who has endured and suffered and enjoyed many of the tales found in this little book, and has supported and encouraged me to write the story.

Introduction

The reasons for undertaking this task are not entirely clear and perhaps not even terribly important. I suspect they may be somewhat self-serving, but they may also serve the curiosity and interest of others, present, and yet to arrive. Or, perhaps, it’s the stirring of the genes coursing through my blood to exercise the journalistic talents of my Great-Grandfather. Perhaps, it’s just a yearning to write.

An experience in the not too distant past prompted me to begin. In February, 2001, following open-heart surgery, I had just completed a rather rigorous cardiac rehabilitation program which included as one of its elements, " Emotional Healing." I was encouraged to prepare a Road Map of my life’s journey. It became an enjoyable exercise and aided me in eventually beginning this project.

During the spring and summer of that year, I began a genealogical research to learn what I could of my Lynch heritage. I was able to trace the Lynch branch of our family tree back to the original immigrant from Dublin, Ireland, Peter Lynch, Jr.

Along the way, I came to realize how little we knew of these people other than names, dates, and places. How valuable and interesting it would be if any of them had left their story for us. So, this is my effort to provide that look back for my children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and those who have yet to arrive.

This is not intended to be a literary masterpiece, but rather, my recollections, thoughts, beliefs, and hopes, and a better understanding of who I am and who I was. I’ve chosen to call it A Boy Named Jim because a bit of that boy that was, still remains. Evidence of that truth exists in the playful relationship I enjoy with my great-granddaughter, Molly.

And now, a disclaimer. This is an incomplete and unfinished work. It is subject to error and speculation, and is shrouded in the mist of folklore, along with a questionable and fading memory. The comments and descriptions of any person or incident represent my own perception of that person or incident, and are not necessarily accurate. Accept it accordingly.

A PROLOGUE TO THE DARK YEARS. I have chosen this story as the lead chapter of this book for a reason. Although it specifically covers the years between the ages of 18 and 48, the blanket of alcoholism has covered every aspect of my life’s activities, sometimes with a subtlety that is barely visible, other times like a vicious, armed invader. It is present in many of the episodes and experiences of which I write. The disease of alcoholism is persistent, patient, and progressive. It is many times fatal. My purpose here, is to give hope, and to tell a story of recovery. Those who have experienced the condition, or those who have an understanding, will be able to recognize its influence. Others will not.

The Dark Years

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…a pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization.

It is sometime between dusk and dark. I am alone, again. It seems to be in the area of West Madison Street in Chicago, amongst the dirty, dark, and smelly bars and the rundown hotels and flophouses. It’s Chicago’s Skid Row. I turn into a somewhat familiar alley, searching for my normal place. I wander down the alley-like corridor, lined on both sides with coffin-like, open-end structures, housing countless corpse-like forms of drunks and derelicts reaching out to grab me. I am following a faceless, nameless figure, touching his shoulder much like a blind man following his guide. I am looking for my coffin-cubicle and I can’t find it. I wander aimlessly until I finally wake up.

Such was the reoccurring nightmare over the last years of my alcoholism. I awoke each time, not with a sense of fear as with so many nightmares, but with a sense of sadness. Sometimes I awoke with tears in my eyes as though I had just had a vision of my destiny.

I am an alcoholic. A recovering alcoholic.

I don’t know at what point over a nearly 30 year period that I passed from being a recreational, socially accepted drinker, to a heavy drinker, problem drinker, and finally into chronic alcoholism. The progression was steady and certain.

To fully understand this story, I must start at a point very early in life. Throughout my young, formative years, and even beyond, I was a boy who was very dependent upon others, primarily my Mother and brother, who was only thirteen months older than I. At a very early age, I developed a feeling of being less than, less liked, less intelligent, less promise. I felt less liked than our mutual friends. I didn’t achieve at the same level in school as my brother and younger sister, therefore less intelligent, with less promise. Among our closest friends, they seemed to be my brother Dick’s friends, and I was merely a tag-along. One of those friends had a father who was an attorney and former Mayor, another, a prominent dentist, and yet another a father who owned a retail business on Main Street … a five-and-dime store. My father carried mail on his back. We were less than.

Of course, I never expressed these feelings to anyone. I nurtured those feelings until I developed a deep inferiority complex and a serious case of low self-esteem, perhaps even depression. I don’t know the reasons for this development, or lack of, nor have I spent any amount of time searching for answers. I was a member of a seemingly normal middle-class family, loved and well cared for. We had no real hardships, or so it seems.

My family; Mother, Dad, my brother Dick and sister Mary Ann, displayed very little emotion. Oh, there was the occasional angry outburst from someone, the brother-to-brother battles, the sister baiting and teasing, and the once-in-a-while noisy and always upsetting arguments between Mother and Dad. I don’t recall much, if any, outward expression of love among us. It seems as though it was never expressed vocally. I don’t remember Dad ever uttering the words, I love you, to any of us. Later in my life, after I was married and had a family of my own, I remember Dad and I sitting on my front porch one evening having a few drinks, and I asked him to tell me that he loved me. He either could not, or would not. He sat in silence, then got up and walked the short two blocks to his home. I mourn that to this day. It seems so easy, now, to say I love you.

Dad was a mail carrier. His route was the entire east side of Waverly, both residential and business. As a boy, I would sometimes wait for him at our house, and then walk with him the rest of the way. He would let me take the mail to the mailboxes on the porches, and I felt good that I was helping my Dad. When I got older, the Post Office hired me to carry Dad’s residential route during the Christmas rush. I had extra money for Christmas and felt good.

Dad’s job was not easy. The weather was sweltering hot, freezing cold, driving rain, and blizzard-like snow. I never heard him complain about his job. Sometimes about the people, but not his job. He usually finished his job around mid-afternoon. Sometimes, after his work, he would go to the newspaper office where he served as Sports Editor, and do his writing. Frequently, he would tour the taverns and clubs in town, and arrive home late for supper. His drinking caused some problems at home, but I don’t ever recall seeing him staggering or falling down drunk. He truly loved the camaraderie in the places he visited, seemingly more so than time at home with his family. Later in life, he seemed to be home more often and earlier. Dad was a heavy drinker and there were drinking-related problems in our home, but I have never looked upon my Father as an alcoholic, and I would not make that judgment today.

My drinking began the summer following my high school graduation. A classmate of mine and I decided to drive to Waterloo on a weekend night. Neither of us had dated very much during our school years, and we wanted to try and meet some girls. I borrowed my Grandma Grawe’s car, dressed up in the only suit I owned, and we headed for the Electric Park Ballroom in Waterloo for the weekly Saturday night dance.

As would happen with many well-intentioned excursions, I recall very little good or positive about that evening. We didn’t meet any girls that I recall. We were under legal drinking age at the time, but during those years, a wave of an easily altered paper Driver’s License was enough to get served whatever one desired. I don’t recall how many beers I had that night, or if I had something more as well. I do recall falling down a wide, carpeted stairway into the lower level of the building where the restrooms were located. I remember falling down in a muddy parking lot. I threw up on myself. I remember my friend practically carrying me to the front door at home, and literally falling at the feet of Mother and Dad. Dad uttered a profanity, and Mother helped me upstairs, helped me get undressed and into the bathtub to get cleaned up. I recall Mother asking me what happened, and I replied through drunken tears, I don’t have any friends. As I write this, that memory is as clear as though it was last Saturday night.

The next morning as I appeared sheepishly at the breakfast table, neither Mother nor Dad said a word about the previous night. And not once did I say to myself or them, I’ll never do that again. I think, somehow, I knew that I would. It seemed that during the course of the previous night, I changed how I felt about myself. It seemed as though, suddenly, I belonged, and that magically, I was o.k.

Over the years that I lived at home – until I married at age 27 – there was never any pressure put on me concerning my drinking, and I was drinking heavily. Coming home at 6:00 a.m. and meeting Dad leaving for work was never an issue. It was as though everything was normal and that I was just another good-time young man doing what good-time young men did. We all believed that.

As I entered college and my drinking became heavy. I cut classes to spend time at the VFW Club and the Town Tavern while at Wartburg. I transferred to Arizona State where I went to join the golf team. While there, I was eventually called to the Dean of Students office and warned that if I persisted in drinking in the dormitory, I would be subject to dismissal. The next time, the third was final and if that happened I would be the first student in the history of the college to be expelled with a drinking problem. We took our drinking parties out into the desert.

Because of grade problems and the fear of being drafted into the Korean War, I transferred back to Wartburg where I had met a wonderful girl during our freshman year. We became seriously attracted to one another, and had stayed close in the year I was away in Arizona. By my senior year, we had talked of marriage, made some preliminary plans (she had already bought her silverware set with monogrammed initials) and we had met the minister of her home church. My drinking by now had become intolerable, my behavior and attitude toward her degrading, and she finally gave up, left Wartburg and Waverly, and we were never to see one another again. My drinking had reached the point where it was more important than any relationship, and I was unwilling, or unable, to give it up.

From Wartburg, I went into the Navy. The 12-week period I was in the Naval Officer Candidate School was the longest period of abstinence I would experience until reaching the age of 48. During my Navy years, I would frequently go off by myself to explore places of ill repute, and drink.

Typical of my drinking problem was during the Christmas season of 1957-58. Our ship had gone up the James River and docked at Williamsburg, Virginia for the holiday season. I managed to get shore leave for New Year’s Day, so that I could go ashore, rent a motel room, and watch the Iowa Hawkeyes play football in the Rose Bowl. I stopped on the way to the motel and bought a quart of whiskey to sip on during the game. I watched the game and sipped and sipped, and sipped. I came to the next morning having fallen off the bed and never coming to. I can’t tell you much about that particular Rose Bowl.

After the Navy, I went to work for the Schield Bantam Company in Waverly in the Sales Development Department. One of my responsibilities was to serve as Host for a series of Sales