Acquainted With Grief

By James Hopkins

Acquainted with Grief" is a deeply moving non-fiction Christian book that presents the riveting life story of a Marine Corps veteran who experiences the ravages of childhood trauma, PTSD, and alcoholism. This gripping narrative is a beacon for adults grappling with childhood trauma, painting a vivid picture of its profound and lasting effects.

Growing up in a household marred by alcoholism, the author found solace in the structured environment of the Marine Corps, where he was able to channel his frustrations. Dispatched to Vietnam, he faced the horrors of the Quang Nam Province, taking the lives of hundreds of North Vietnamese soldiers while wrestling with the Christian injunction to love one's enemies amidst the carnage of war.

The author's experience in jail marked a turning point, where he embraced Christianity. He strove to save himself through the Christian ministry, seeking an escape from the trauma and pain he'd endured. However, a decade later, he suffered a mental breakdown. This setback triggered a 25-year-long spiral into alcoholism, interspersed with three divorces, two bankruptcies, and the haunting shadows of the Iraq War.

"Acquainted with Grief" offers guidance on how to help a friend with alcoholism, making it an invaluable resource for those trying to understand and assist loved ones on the difficult road to recovery. For adults confronting childhood trauma, it provides a stark, honest look at the long journey toward healing and redemption.

A striking testament to the resilience of the human spirit, the book shows how, in the depths of despair, the author finally surrendered his struggles to the Lord. This surrender marked a crucial transformation, in which he discovered that the grace of God is always available, regardless of one's sorrows or grief.

Ultimately, "Acquainted with Grief" illuminates how to practice the presence of God, providing insights on experiencing the peace of God, even in the throes of addiction and trauma. This inspirational narrative encourages readers to trust in God as their strong tower, the shield of faith, and eternal salvation, reaffirming the belief that God will never forsake those who surrender to Him.

This book is a must-read for anyone seeking understanding, compassion, and hope amidst personal turmoil. Its compelling narrative reaffirms the power of faith and the enduring capacity for redemption and healing in the face of life's most challenging trials. It is a beacon of hope for those struggling with PTSD, addiction, and the lingering effects of childhood trauma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665507288

Book preview

ACQUAINTED

WITH GRIEF

JAMES HOPKINS

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2020 James Hopkins. All rights reserved.

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

Published by AuthorHouse 09/07/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0729-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0727-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0728-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020922122

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. [Biblica]

Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

CONTENTS

1 Beginnings

2 NEW PARADIGMS

3 A Place to Call Home

4 Spiraling Out of Control

5 Accepting the Plan of God for My Life

6 Becoming a Marine

7 Infantry Training

8 The War

9 I died for my friends and fellow Marines

10 Winning the War by Counting the Dead

11 The End of Killing

12 Returning Home

13 The Calling

14 First Signs of PTSD

15 The Ministry

16 As for you, always be steady, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministry. II Timothy 4:5 (RSV)

17 If I die before I wake…

18 Going Shoals

19 Keep Working My Way Back

20 Wind in the Face

21 September 11, 2001

22 The Final Fight

1

BEGINNINGS

Joy’s recollection is no longer joy, while sorrow’s memory is sorrow’s still. ~ Byron

O ver the years I have shared a thousand memories with people about growing up in a family plagued with alcoholism, domestic abuse, divorce, self-inflicted poverty, and unbridled violence among family members. Most of my friends could not relate because their home lives were at the other end of the familial continuum and stood amazed that I didn’t end up in prison or dead.

My story is not just about me; it includes my parents and my siblings, who also bore the hurt and sorrow inflicted. Sadly, the grief and disappointments that festered in our home were the products of alcoholism; a disease, an illness that isn’t caught like the flu, only inherited. But one can deny an inheritance, if desired.

Some might think my stories lean more toward fiction or that I embellished for the sake of entertainment. I wish they were fiction or stories embellished. I envy the individuals who have lived the so-called normal lives that were filled with peace and unselfish love that did not hold conditions to its occasion.

I am telling my story because my children asked me. They have struggled over the years trying to understand my logic, my reasons for being like I am. Of course, much has mellowed with age; better yet, age has disabled my desire for the fight. I am still the warrior inside, but now I am the man who will compromise after the fight, the person who will agree to disagree after the fruitless disagreement.

The hurt has healed and forgiveness, but the sorrow continues with the memories. Tears still fall when an old familiar song resurrects a day’s heartache, a wrenching goodbye, or the parting of a beloved pet. The joys and laughter of the few good times I’m able to cherish like the brush of angels’ wings while knelling in the presence of God. They arrive so infrequently that when they do; I hold them ever so tightly so not to forget any detail of the happiness enjoyed if only for a few moments.

FIRST BORN OF THIRD HUSBAND

My story began on January 27, 1950, when I was born at St. Anthony’s Hospital in a medium-sized town named Pendleton in Northeastern Oregon. It is near the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, comprising the Cayuse, Umatilla, and Walla Walla Tribes. My birth certificate states I was born a full-blooded Indian, although my father was a full-blooded white man. I learned later in life why; I was a bastard child, the product of an affair. The story is not bedtime material for kids.

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Dad was up from Arkansas to work on a wheat farm in Eastern Oregon during the Spring planting of 1949. Unable to enlist in the military because of his flat feet, dad left home when he was 17 years-old, partly to get away from the embarrassment and to start his own life. He was familiar with the wheat fields, having worked in the wheat fields of Kansas every spring and summer as a boy. It paid better than working in the cotton and rice fields of Arkansas, so he went with other family members.

He ended up in a small community named Stanfield; small in population but big in wheat fields, owned by a few families who had pioneered the area years before. During the war, Hermiston, another community ten miles northwest of Stanfield, was home to a subterranean ammunition dump and 1,700 Army personnel. When the war ended, many of the Army families remained in the area and settle their families.

For entertainment, the town of Stanfield put on a dance in one of several grange halls every Saturday night. There wasn’t anything else happening in the area unless you wanted to travel to Pendleton 60 miles down the highway.

It was at one of these Saturday night dances, dad and his buddy got into a fight with a couple of former Army guys. It wasn’t long in the fight when dad realized his friend was bleeding from a knife stab. Dad screamed for someone to call an ambulance, but it would come out of Pendleton, 60 miles away. Dad carried his friend outside and was trying to slow the bleeding when, out of the corner of his eye, there was a pretty Indian woman kneeling by him with some towels. It was my mom, Irene Mae Slow.

Mom came to the dances whenever her husband was out of town for the military. That’s why my grandparents, her parents, Asa Old Thunder Slow and Narcissa Slow would escort her to the dances, because she was a married woman with children. Plus, grandpa and grandma lived in Stanfield, so mom would just stay there on the weekends.

Here they were, two strangers kneeling by a dying man, both trying to keep him alive. But it was no use. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was already dead. He died while dad and mom were at his side. Whether they realized it, their souls connected spiritually when dad’s friend died.

My mom married a man who was in the Air Force and stationed at Pendleton, which had been a training center for airman during the war. He was a white man named Robert Bannick and was making a career in the Air Force. Unfortunately for him, the Air Force kept him away most of the time, which didn’t make my mom’s heart grow fonder. That was the beginning of me; she and my dad started seeing each other whenever they could. Even though she was seven years older than dad and a mother of four, Billy Earl had fallen in love.

Of course, with any affair comes the drama; when mom got pregnant with me, dad didn’t believe I was his child. It was simple, mom was sleeping with her husband and when he was away, she was having the affair with my dad. Who wouldn’t have some doubts about the origin of me? Undoubtedly, it became quite an issue because dad was not present at my birth. Since there was no man present making claim, the hospital staff simply identified me an Indian on the birth certificate.

The entire ordeal must have been hard on everyone concerned. Dad was making plans to head back to Arkansas and try to forget mom. Mom’s husband Robert Bannick, who was my sister Susie’s birth father, asked mom to stay with him; that he would adopt me, and they could live happily ever after.

Well, someone informed dad of Bannick’s proposal to mom. He showed up at the hospital and laid claim on me and my mom. Obviously, that convinced mom to go with dad, the Irishman. It was a little late to change the birth record, so I remained a full-blooded Indian on paper, and mom and dad didn’t live happily ever after.

FROM THE BEGINNING, AGAIN…

Right out of the gate, the brand bastard labeled me in many arguments between mom and dad over the years. To hear my dad voice his doubt about my birth and his fatherhood of me influenced my psyche in ways I still don’t fully understand. It was only one item in a plethora of verbal weapons that mom and dad hurled at each other over the years. At what cost, I ask as I look at my siblings’ sad lives and their untimely deaths?

I honestly believe my childhood environment made me, formed my mental fiber, and established the initial behavioral templates that forged the road to my survival. After my four years of study in psychology, early childhood development, and educational pedagogy, I have concluded not just from the textbook theory but by observation of actual human behavior; our environment has more of an impact on a child’s brain development than our parents’ genetics.

After the first three years of our lives, our brains fine-tune themselves. Parts of the brain used more often become stronger, while it eventually eliminated the parts not used regularly. This is a normal process called pruning. It’s what makes our brain more efficient. The experts also referred the process as building brain connections. It’s like building muscles: use it or lose it.

Studies have shown that babies and young children who grow up in safe, stable, and nurturing environments will be healthier and more successful in school and in life. Unfortunately, the opposite is true as well. Young children deprived of caring interaction do not develop as many positive brain connections. Hunger, neglect, abuse, and exposure to family violence are factors that negatively impact a child’s early development and, subsequently, their future.

THE ONLY GOOD INDIAN…

My family is not an easy tale to explain, but I shall attempt to describe those who surrounded me and contributed to the colorful fish tank world in which I grew up. You have heard the saying, It takes a village to raise a child. The reality of that saying is that not all villages are the same.

Our village was a mixture of good and evil, laughter and tears, love and hate; producing a grief that always remained in the hearts of our souls. The most frequent medicine used by all those grieving was alcohol and drugs. This is their part of my story.

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THE SIRE

~ Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves have poisoned the fountain.

~ Locke (1833-1930)

Billy Earl Hopkins was born January 30, 1927, in Arkansas and raised among the cotton fields and country farms outside Little Rock in the country towns of Marlton and England. He was of Irish decent with playful green-hazel eyes. When he was young, his hair was a wavy brownish red with a high forehead that eventually receded even further with age. His life was one of poverty and hard work, like so many others in his generation. The depression had taken its toll on dad’s family and anyone in the family old enough to work contributed to the welfare of the family. It was a necessary way of life in order to survive. He had one older brother named Cecil and one younger brother Buddy.

Billy Earl with his Grandma Blalock Their mother died in 1936 when Dad was nine years old, Cecil 11, and Buddy six months. These three brothers set the original molds for the Hopkins’ philosophy. I wish I had taken notes when they told their stories of growing up. All they knew was survival and poverty. Even the smallest pleasures in life became special and notable.

Having one pair of shoes each year was one of those pleasures. Dad told me they usually fit too tight and without socks (they didn’t wear socks) they hurt his flat feet constantly. He would just go barefoot and only wear them to church or when they went to town. He described how his feet got so calloused that he didn’t need any shoes to work in the fields or walk on any terrain.

Hunting was also a way of life for basic food supplies back then, and Billy Earl had become a champion at it. Not only did it supply food on the table, but it also provided money from the sale of the various hides. With his single shot 22- rifle, Dad claims to have made more money each month from hunting than his father did working an eight-hour day for President Roosevelt’s Depression Recovery Work Program. Of course, he had to turn in his money to his father but kept a weekly allowance of $.10 cents.

One of dad’s favorite stories was when he and other family members went up to Kansas to work the summer in the wheat fields. He was twelve years old. On the outskirts of the field near one barn, dad found an old Model-A car that had placed on wooden blocks. When dad finished work in the evenings, he would play on the car until the sun went down.

The owner of the farm noticed my dad always playing in the car and jokingly asked dad if he wanted to buy the car. To his surprise dad replied yes and made an offer. Instead of paying money for the car, dad offered to work the entire summer for the car, but only, if it came with some tires. It did, and he did, got the car that is. A twelve-year-old kid working all summer for an old used car on blocks; it was the birth of one of the most notable skills dad had; his ability to Jew people down, as he would say.

They got the car running and drove it back to Arkansas. Here was a twelve-year-old boy with a car, but no money for gas and no place to go. So what do you do with an old Model A in England, Arkansas? You trade it for a good huntin’ dog, dad would say. And that’s exactly what dad did.

He was the best damn huntin’ dog I ever had, dad would tell me. He described their relationship as if the dog were human and said they were inseparable. Every day he and the dog were earning money and food for the family. Kids carried their hunting rifles everywhere back then because you never knew when a critter would cross your path. Dad would brag about how he could take the head off a squirrel at 50 yards and not spoil the meat.

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A box of 22-rifle shells cost little back then. Dad would turn his dog loose and wait until it got a scent of some critter and then take off to shoot it. He and his dog made the family about $30 dollars a month in hides, not counting the meat for eating. The most amazing thing about dad’s entrepreneurial venture, he made as much money each month as an adult male working in Roosevelt’s New Deal Programs during the depression.

We didn’t have time to be boys in those days, dad would sadly tell us. Being a kid didn’t last long. We had to eat, so we either worked the fields or hunted. I hunted. I could see the pride in his face when he told me. Me and my dog, we kept food on the table.

Dad never knew he was in poverty, not until the Depression. When people talked about the Depression and how folks became poor, we really didn’t notice we were poor until the others got poor.

His oldest brother, my Uncle Cecil, left home at age 16 to join Roosevelt’s Civilian Construction Corps that was in California. Dad was only 10 years old when he left and described how lonely he was. It was only me and Buddy, and he was only about 2 or 3 years old. School was not that important to Grandpa Hopkins, but I went anyway.

Dad told us that the highest grade he completed was the fifth grade, three times. The school didn’t offer any grade higher than the fifth grade, and after the third year, he had memorized most of the schoolbooks and simply got bored. He remembers being somewhere around 12 or 13 years old when he, as he described, when I graduated. As soon as he was old enough, dad left home and headed to California to live with his older brother.

By this time, Grandpa Hopkins had married again to a hardworking Arkansas girl named Bertha (Bert) Densmore, who also gave birth to two children named Alton and Maureen. Grandpa had developed a severe case of arthritis in his neck and back and became disabled. That left only Uncle Buddy to work to provide food for the family.

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Uncle Buddy had written to dad explaining how he couldn’t go to school, only work. It wasn’t long after that, dad returned to Arkansas to get his little brother Buddy. The way Dad told this part of the story, I had to actually kidnap him to get him away from Grandpa Hopkins.

My daddy, your grandpa, kept Buddy working out in the fields and wouldn’t let him go to school. Dad felt responsible for Buddy’s predicament. So Billy Earl drove back to Arkansas and kidnapped little Buddy and brought him to the sunshine state, California. Folks back home were not happy about what I did, but I did it and didn’t give a damn what they thought.

Uncle Bud finished the eighth grade; and when old enough, started driving a commercial truck with the help of older brother Cecil, who was already driving. They were very close brothers ever since they lost their mother. I remember seeing a picture of the three after their mother passed. Dad at nine years old and holding Uncle Buddy in his arms with Uncle Cecil standing to his right. I wouldn’t doubt they agreed to take care of one another, since Grandpa Hopkins wasn’t very good at it.

Even as adults living in different states, they called each other on the phone about once a week just to stay in touch. They fought like cats and dogs once in a while and have almost killed each other occasionally. But their love was never severed, even with an occasional fistfight.

Dad was well liked by his friends and wherever the party was, he was at the heart of it. He always had a joke or two for every occasion and, of course, he always had a drink. I have no memories of my father being without alcohol, except for the final two years of his life. That was only because he was unable because of his kidney dialysis treatment. It was the first time in fifty-seven years that I had conversations with a clean and sober father. I considered it our parting gift from God.

I enjoyed my sister Susie’s description of dad and mom and what she experienced as a stepdaughter and a young girl surrounded with violence, love, alcohol, and heartbreak. Being older now, whenever Susie and I share our experiences, I realize how much she carried on her shoulders and hid in her heart. I also realize how instrumental she was in shaping us boys to become men. The following story is her view.

"I will generalize on what it was like growing up in this household, mostly when we were in our childhood. My brother Jimmy wants me to help him with a book of our lives. I hope I can be of help with a fresh perspective and insight on how our parents shaped our individual lives.

Although Billy Earl Hopkins wasn’t my biological father, he was the only dad I ever had. When our mother met him, he was young, handsome, and full of life. Mom said he had a quick smile and a lively step.

How or why they fell in love, we never really understood because they came from such different worlds but fall in love they did. As Jimmy described dad’s history, he had a tough childhood that he survived with humor, common sense, and hard work. It all shaped him into the man he had become.

Dad was never sure how to be a husband or father. He was the all-essential male chauvinist reared in the South who learned along with all other males of his generation that the man of the house was the final say, in everything. Not that the south had the monopoly on this trait back then.

Dad, being the true Southerner and mom with her education and lady-like demure, started an unlikely relationship that would be full of love, laughter, disagreements, and unfortunately, domestic violence for seventeen years.

Dad never learned much from his father except the ability to survive. Although the middle son of three, he took on the role of the dependable son and brother the family could depend upon for help. He always sent money to Grandpa Hopkins up until he died. He had a terrible case of arthritis, which had crippled him to the point he couldn’t work.

Dad’s money allowed Grandpa Hopkins to buy moonshine so he could wash down the aspirin for his pain. Billy Earl was always quick to send money to his brothers and sister when they needed it as well. This didn’t mean they didn’t have their problems as siblings.

I remember how fast they could fight each other as if they were strangers; when they got mad, it didn’t make a difference. They would almost kill each other and then sit down afterward, laugh, and finish another fifth of whiskey. The one phrase that was never spoken in the Hopkins’ household was, I’m sorry.

You got drunk together, fought together, and the next day, all would pretend that the cuts, bruises, and black eyes didn’t exist, and everyone got on with life. It was the way they were. As a father, it was this same rule he carved in stone for his own sons. His motto: ‘you always fight, no matter what; to be a man, you must fight.’

It was a cruel lesson that was taught to our brother Gary. He was 7 years old at the time and had come home crying. Dad had found out that three boys had mistreated and bullied Gary. Instead of fighting them, Gary ran home crying. Dad gave him a whipping with a belt and told him next time he better fight.

The next day, he and Jimmy beat the crap out of those boys. It was a hard lesson for two young boys to learn but learn they did. They carried the skill with them into their adult lives, which was to their detriment more often than not.

Dad was also a loving father. He liked to tease people, be the life of the party, and tell jokes. Being the only girl, I didn’t always get these jokes. He always made us laugh and could be full of fun and merriment. As an ironworker, he worked hard for his money and always made sure we had food to eat and a roof over our heads. He would always buy the cheapest roof; but it was a roof.

If you had looked up the word frugal in the dictionary back then, dad’s picture was probably there. It was an obsession with him, and probably because of his upbringing. He made sure we had the necessities of life; but it was the definition of necessity that was the difference. He provided what he felt was necessary, but if we wanted more, we got jobs and paid for it ourselves. We learned to live with dad’s frugal ways and as we grew older, it became a joke between us kids.

Billy Earl always provided us with toys at Christmas and with used bicycles. It wasn’t as if he was totally void of generosity. He did the best he knew how. Some of the more enjoyable memories were when dad would turn on the radio and we would dance. Dad would sprinkle salt on the floor so he could slide his shoes easier when he danced; they were lively times. Dad and mom could cut a rather good rug, especially when doing the Dirty Boogie.

We also played games as a family. He and mom taught us how to play poker, throw dice, and play word scrabble. Although scrabble wasn’t a favorite of dad’s because of his poor spelling, he always joined in to be with us. But it always caused disagreements between him and mom.

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This is just a glimpse of what it was to be a daughter of Billy Earl’s. Was he a good father? I think dad did the best he could. Living with my brothers and the events of our childhoods obviously shaped our life choices as adults. Some good, some not so good; some we have overcome and some we haven’t.

Did dad have any regrets in how he raised us? I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. I know he loved us; and that is important to anybody’s life.

THE HEARTBREAKER

The mother’s heart is the child’s schoolroom. ~ H.W. Beecher

Irene Mae Slow, my mother, was born September 27, 1920 in the state of South Dakota. Because she was a full-blood Indian, one-half Lakota Sioux and the other half Cherokee, she was not a legal citizen of the United States at birth. It wasn’t until 1924 that the Snyder Act passed by congress allowed all American Indians to become citizens. Her father, Asa Old Thunder, became a citizen when he joined the Army in 1918 during World War I. This was a standing policy of the U.S. Government for American Indian males who volunteered for service in the military.

Mom was a short, 5’3, beautiful Indian woman with long, thick black hair. Her laugh and smile were contagious to all, and no matter where she was, she was the center of attention. She was one of three daughters born into the Slow family. Her mother, Narcissa Smith, was a full-blooded Cherokee woman born November 1, 1897, in Rose, Oklahoma. Her father was Asa Old Thunder Slow, a full-blood Dakota Sioux born on July 31, 1884 on the Crow Creek Reservation, Fort Thompson, South Dakota.

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If ever two tribes differed from one another, it was our Cherokee grandma and our Sioux grandpa. Grandpa lived in typical Indian time; grandma lived on a daily schedule that kept everyone hopping except for grandpa. Grandpa had a big heart and was always giving his earthly possessions away to friends, visitors, even strangers. Grandma was just the opposite. She always had a job and made sure the cupboards had plenty of food.

Everyone in town loved grandpa, of course Chief was his nickname. He walked his dog Joe every morning on the same route and who saw him. When people in town addressed grandma, it was Mrs. Slow. Grandma didn’t give charity unless the people really needed it; and she took very little charity from others.

Both of my grandparents were staunch Republicans. Most likely because they were Mormon. Grandpa was baptized into the Mormon Church in 1940 and grandma in 1954. They didn’t like the government and didn’t want the government in their business. After being forced to attend boarding schools, and the treatment received while attending soured their view of government. They wanted nothing from Uncle Sam. It was a big bone of contention with mom and dad who were diehard Democrats. Talking politics always ended up in an argument.

Now when I look back, I can see how mom took after grandma more than grandpa. When it came to work habits and keeping a schedule. This always depended upon if she was drinking. Everyone loved mom, she was popular at all the taverns and seldom had to buy her beer. She was a very intelligent, pretty, well mannered, and highly skilled Indian woman. Mom did not lack self-confidence or self-esteem.

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All her training in vocational school was in business secretarial. She typed 80 words a minute on the old manual typewriter and dictated shorthand at 100 words a minute. She kept her shorthand up to speed by dictating television shows. Sometimes, I would sit next to her just to watch her write in shorthand; she was incredibly fast.

Then there was the mean streak; mom could start a bar fight in the blink of an eye. One thing she did not allow anyone to make was derogatory statements about her race, family, or her. She got Dad into more fights because of her curt words and sharp tongue. I lost count of the fights dad fought because of mom.

I witnessed many; I even remember mom getting in the middle of one of dad’s fights. She kept jumping into the fray and kicking this guy on his head; the only problem, she was wearing her moccasins and hurt her toes. Dad didn’t need the help, but mom wanted to get her two bits in.

She also knew how to push Dad’s buttons. First, she was a flirt, and Dad was a jealous man. Mom’s motive was simple, more alcohol, to get someone else to buy the booze. Dad didn’t see it that way, and 9 times out of 10 a fight ensued.

Second, mom made fun of dad’s lack of education with one little phrase; You’re nothing but a dumb Arky. Dad knew he lacked a formal education and always felt bad, but when mom dug it in, the fight was on. One of those occasions I vividly recall.

We were eating dinner at the table one evening; dad asked politely if mom could pass the black pepper. Mom retorted, Why do you call it black pepper, there’s only black pepper on the table?

Dad then explained, I call it black pepper because there are other kinds of pepper that aren’t black.

Well, there’s only black pepper on the table, so you don’t have to call it black pepper. Mom knew exactly what she was doing, baiting dad into an argument. I cautioned mom and asked her to drop it, but she wanted to argue.

Dad then started shouting, There’s red pepper and there’s white pepper. That’s why I asked for the black pepper!

Mom wouldn’t let it go, But there is only black pepper on the table, so you don’t have to say black pepper.

The next thing I knew, the table was being flipped up into the air with all the food trailing behind it. She had let dad know how dumb she thought he was. He drove away and left us kids with the mess. I was 12 years old then.

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As her oldest son, I possessed all the firsts a mom experiences with her oldest. My sisters, Pat, Jeanie, and Susie had different relationships as daughters. I wasn’t aware of much that went on between the women folk because of my naivete and the fact that they were older.

My memories of any face time with mom usually surrounded one of three environments: sports, family, and alcohol. My relationship with her took on a caretaker role. I was always trying to protect her from herself. When she drank, she would always look for a fight with dad; my job was to keep her from antagonizing him. I failed miserably, but that’s how it was supposed to happen in an alcoholic home.

Mom wanted freedom to drink whenever she wanted, and dad was in the way. He wasn’t working out of town anymore like before. Her drinking binges had stopped. That was the power of her addiction and the path to her premature death. When Irene Mae was sober, she was funny and a loving mom. It was a ride on a wild pony. They filled the early years with lots of love and fun, but there was also lots of alcohol and heartache.

Chronology and dates of events for children of alcoholics are a confused and overlapping mess. Imagine looking back at your life through a kaleidoscope of memories. They’re meshed together, twisted and entwined as one image, yet many. Time is hard to assess.

Often when my sister Susie and I started reminiscing, I would have one piece of the memory and she would add what she remembered. Eventually, we’d end up getting a more complete picture of what actually happened. So, it was with my childhood memory bank.

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Some historical and personal facts about my mom; she graduated high school and a two-year vocational school. Mom was the oldest of three sisters but was not the dominant of the three. She became a mother of seven children from four different husbands, and one relative who raped her. She died at 56 from drinking too much alcohol. Her liver just gave out. I was 27 years of age when she died.

Her childhood was both traditional and modern. The Slow family were full-blooded Indians and never gave up their identity. Grandpa held tightly to his tribal traditions but also made sure his daughters received a strong education. When they were young, they would help grandpa Slow when he worked with the Boy Scouts of America, teaching the Indian Lore and Traditions at the scout’s summer camps.

Mom shared stories of how grandpa would tell the stories and legends around the campfires and she and her two sisters would provide the dances that went with the legends. The three sisters also sang for the scouts, singing traditional native songs with a drum, and the standard folksongs with guitar.

Mom and dad were both singers and filled our lives with music. Everywhere we traveled, we would sing. Mom taught us songs that grandpa taught her, and then dad would sing the country songs about cheating, fighting, breaking up or getting ready to cheat, fight, and break up. They were the good times.

Mom was also a splendid cook. She was like a lot of folks from her generation who could make a meal out of practically nothing because they had to. And bake, boy I mean, she made homemade bread and rolls to die for. Those few precious times I can remember coming home from school and smelling the baking bread; and then being served a big hot fluffy bun dripping with melted fake butter.

Cooking a meal was not a matter of throwing things into a microwave or peeling plastic sheen off a pre-made pan of lasagna. Mom cooked from the beginning. I watched her many times make chicken and dumplings or cook a big pot of ham-hocks and beans with cornbread.

The Hopkins clan spent a lot of time in the kitchen, mom cooking and all of us cleaning. We washed the dishes by hand, of course, each with our assigned task without complaining. We learned to share in the burdens, as well as in the blessings. Mom believed in us and loved us. Love was never an issue; I always felt the love. It was the drinking that was the problem. When she drank, she got lost; lost in her past, her pain, and then she would self-destruct.

Grandma Slow was all about self-sufficiency. She worked tirelessly and expected her daughters to do the same. She showed her love by what she gave her family and did not caudle her children or grandchildren. I have no memories of being hugged by grandma. I have lots of memories of being embraced, cuddled, kissed, our hands held, and laughing with mom, but none with grandma Slow.

Both mom and dad infused into my brain the same self-sufficiency principle, but mom taught the actual lessons. For example, wherever we landed and there was a fruit or vegetable to pick to make money, we picked it. From Hood River where we picked pears and apples, to California where the green and purple grapes were plentiful; then to Arkansas where we became cotton-pickers, and then back to the Northwest where we picked strawberries, domesticated blackberries, boysenberries, raspberries, blackcaps, pole beans, bush beans, potatoes, and finally the fields of torture, cucumbers.

The biggest lesson I learned from all the field work was that I never wanted to make a living working with my hands. Seeing all the people working in the fields because they had no choice was heartbreaking. I vowed to finish college so I would never have to be in that position.

By the time I reached the age of twelve, I had set some lofty goals for myself and the first one, I would never pick fruit for a living; never, never, never in a thousand years. The second, make sure my mom didn’t have to either.

The people mom always made friends without in the fields were the alcoholics, no big surprise. Then she would bring them home where the drinking would begin, continue, and eventually, come to a close when they would pass out on the couch or the floor. Most of these people were habitual liars who had woven such elaborate stories about their previous lives. They were only picking fruit because they were in between jobs. Of course, they had homes in some other state with fancy cars, clothes, and famous friends.

We learned at an early age not to believe a word that came out of their mouths. We were polite most of the time. There were some who were just sorry cases of being nothing but a drunk. When they got mean to us kids, we sent them walking down the road. If dad was home, we did not invite these types into our home.

One thing mom thought important to teach me was table manners and proper eating etiquette. She said I would need to know proper etiquette so that when I became a famous professional baseball player, I wouldn’t embarrass myself. She also taught me how to dance the two-step so I would know how to dance with the ladies at the important dinners I would attend.

She learned while she was in college and always kept us in check at restaurants so we wouldn’t appear as dumb Indians. These training sessions were fun because mom made them fun. She would lie out a complete dinner setting with our mix and match cutlery and dinnerware. She would then teach me how to dine like the rich people. I learned to never slurp my soup, to always slide the soup spoon around the edge of the bowl slowly where it would be cool enough not to burn my tongue.

That’s why people slurp. Their soup is too hot, she would instruct. Never hunch over the plates, always sit straight; and lean slightly inward when putting the small bite into your mouth. Chew the food at least 20 times per bite so you don’t eat too fast and appear like a pig or a starving poor person. Small bites allow you to carry on a conversation without showing food in your mouth, if you need to talk while chewing.

It was during one of these brief training sessions she told me the story about a little girl whose mother taught her the same lessons. The little girl was invited to dine with a very rich family who always dined formally.

The mother carefully instructed her little girl which spoon, fork, and plate to use and when; what each glass was for and how to hold her hands properly at the table. The mother was especially careful to show her how to gently wipe the corners of her mouth with her napkin, like a little lady. It was all so serious, this instruction; the mother covering every little detail of how-to-eat like a proper young lady.

The mother than said, Now when you have finished eating, you politely dab the corners of your mouth and say, I have eaten abundantly and now I perspire, the little girl carefully nodded her head, taking in all details of her mother’s instructions.

The next evening came and the little girl was at her friend’s house enjoying her wonderful, fancy dinner. It was all going so well; she had remembered everything her mother taught her about the salad, the different plates, forks, and glasses; then she finished her meal. She paused, leaned back in her chair, trying to remember what her mother had instructed her to say at the conclusion of the meal. Suddenly she remembered, quickly sat up straight, tapped the corners of her mouth like a little lady and said, I have eaten a bumblebee and now I piss fire.

There is an old country song that mom enjoyed that had a line that said, Good night Irene, good night, I’ll see you in my dreams. Irene Mae said goodnight to her children in 1976. She died a sad woman but filled with love for her Lord Jesus, her children and her last husband, Mike Rogers.

They were in love. He was the only one who didn’t beat her. He loved her and took care of her. In her last few years here on earth, Mike ended up in prison for being an accessory to a robbery. It was one of those sad stories you might see in a cheap B-Movie.

Mom and Mike had invited some friends over for a small house party one weekend. The booze didn’t last long, so Mike said they could use his car to run to the store to get more beer. Mike went along for the ride only. While the two visitors went inside to buy beer, Mike stayed in the car. After 15 minutes of waiting, police surrounded Mike and the car. He didn’t know that his guests attempted to rob the place. He got five years in prison just for being with the guys. It was five years too long. The next time he saw mom, she was in a casket. I never saw him again.

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SISTERS UNKNOWN ~

What we have, we prize, not to the worthwhile we enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, why then we wreck the value; then we find the virtue that possession would not show us while it was ours. ~ Shakespeare.

I had two older half-sisters who were from mom’s first marriage to a young Indian man she met while attending business school. He was actually one-quarter French and went by the name David Shawanameta. The oldest was Patricia Ann, or Pat as I knew her, and then Davy Jean, or Jeannie. Pat was ten years older than me and Jeanie nine years older. Their Indian blood quantum was 7/8th. They were cute and extremely popular with the boys.

Patricia and Davey Jean were shadows of my childhood. They would suddenly appear to be part of the family and then, just as they had arrived, they would leave once again. They never knew their birth father. Mom divorced him after Jeanie was born. The major burden of raising them fell on Grandma and Grandpa Slow after they had left Stanfield and moved to Hood River, Oregon. But the times they lived with us provided fun and activities around the clock.

Pat was the more serious sister of the two. When we lived in Redondo Beach, California, I recall she was always concerned about school, her schoolwork, or what she would wear. I remember she dressed up one time in white pedal-pushers, a pink blouse, a scarf tied around her neck, and white shoes. I was fascinated with her rolling down her white sox to set just above her ankles and doing some dance moves to make sure the roll didn’t come undone.

Davey Jean was a ball of energy, always playing her 45 rpm records and talking on the phone. She was the boy chaser, or I should say, the attraction for the boys. These were fun times for the household. It was 1956; we lived close to the beach, and when you have good looking sisters you have all these boys over who drove movie-like hotrods.

A few of the cars had flames of fire painted on the sides, some had electric doors that opened with the push of a hidden button. There were a couple of convertibles. It was also a world filled with Elvis Presley and Rock-n-Roll. Mom and dad allowed us to go to a movie theater to see Elvis in his first movie, Love Me Tender. I was confused with all the girls crying when Elvis’ character died. Even at four or five years old, I knew it was just a movie and not real.

As long as Pat and Jeanie were with us, it was party time at the beach and at the Hopkins’ house. They played 45 rpm records on the front porch while dancing on the sidewalk in front of the house. I enjoyed all the joking around, and was curious about the necking, as they called it.

The girls purposely putting on red lipstick so thick their kisses would leave lip stamps on the boy’s faces. I have no memory of the girls getting into trouble because of these gatherings.

There was a fight once right in front of the house when some other teenagers walked by and made some rude comments about something; whatever was said, they were fighting words because all of a sudden; the fight was on. I vividly remember our guy who had to do the fighting was small compared to the bad guy.

That made little difference for our guy because he won the fight. The other guy had a bloody nose and looked pretty beat up. However, before he ran off, he broke one of the outside mirrors on one car. The lesson I learned from watching this display of testosterone was size didn’t matter in a fight. The smaller guy beat up the bigger guy because he knew how to box.

It was during this time that I had my first experience learning about Jesus and praying. People from a local Baptist church had come to the house recruiting us kids to attend Sunday School, but as far as I remember, I was the only one that started attending. It was close enough for me to walk there by myself and I recall the peace I experienced even as a 5-year-old.

I didn’t enjoy going to Sunday School without an offering to give Jesus. I would ask mom for some money so I could give an offering in church and she would give me an empty quart beer bottle to take to the grocery store. I would redeem the bottle for three cents. I was oblivious to the stares and whispers. All I knew, I had my offering.

I would stand on the wooden pew in the front row with the three cents in my hand, eagerly placing my three coins into the offering plate. It made me feel good to give to Jesus, and I also felt safe. I can only imagine what people thought about this poor Indian boy attending church by himself.

When it came time to move back to Oregon, Jeanie announced she was staying because she was in love with a young man and they wanted to get married; she was 16 years old. Apparently, she won the argument because we moved without her. She dropped out of school and lived with the young man she was in love with.

It was about six months later; Dad got a short-term job close to where Jeanie was living and paid her a visit to see how she was doing. It took little convincing from Dad to get Jeanie to come home with him. The love had faded away. Paradise had turned into a prison, and Jeanie had come to her senses.

I loved Pat and Jeanie but never really connected with them because of the age difference. On occasion they would come to visit us and bring their children, our nieces and nephews. I watched their beauty fade with each year of hard drinking and poor choices of men. It wasn’t until after I returned home from Vietnam and started college that I developed a relationship with them. By that time, alcohol and bad choices had ravished their lives.

LIVES IN THE SHADOWS (KICHI UN NAGI)

William Asa Slow (nicknamed Billy) was my mother’s fourth child. He was the unfortunate product of a rape. His father was my mom’s brother-in-law, Jake Jackson, who was married to mom’s youngest sister, Franny. Billy’s birth was a travesty for the Slow family and would become the visible secret ever reminding them the curses of alcoholism.

Mom did not want to raise her first son. In fact, she didn’t want him at all. This was where things became complicated. Jake Jackson, my uncle and Billy’s birth father, apparently did not want him or could not take him because of Aunt Franny’s anger. He would live in the shadows of shame for the rest of his life.

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It would be the parents of Irene and Franny who would step up to try to fix things, my grandparents, Asa and Narcissa Slow. They adopted Lives in Shadows, and he became their son and grandson together, which was a major factor for Billy’s troubled life. He not only knew who gave him up for adoption, but saw her regularly raising her other children who, apparently, were the children she wanted to love and raise. Billy would have to live in the shadows of two families, never a part of either, and always viewed as a mistake.

His anger was revealed to us Hopkins boys on one of our many visits to Hood River. It occurred when we boys headed up to the local garbage dump to hunt for treasures and shoot the rats. It was about three miles outside of town up in the lower hills of Hood River. We would take grandpa’s small caliber 22 rifle to shoot rats or other varmints we saw on the way.

Billy always carried the rifle because it belonged to his father, my grandfather. Plus, he was the oldest of us boys, and he was our uncle by adoption. However, at this point we did not know Billy was the product of a rape by an uncle. We all knew he was mom’s child, but we never knew why grandma and grandpa adopted him.

On this visit to the dump, Gary and I were busily scouring through all the potential treasures in the heaps of junk deposited by folks. Since Billy had the rifle, I assumed he would hunt for the rats first. After a while, I stopped and looked to see what he was doing. He was just standing still, watching us. Then he fired the rifle.

I realized he was not aiming at rats, but at me. I yelled, asking him what he was doing. He fired again, only this time close to my feet. Billy had done stupid things before, but this was different. He still hadn’t said a word, which was getting somewhat scary. This time, he aimed the rifle directly at me. My heart was pounding, my eyes darting for a place to run. He then fired another round, and I heard it buzz by my head.

Then I got angry and told him if he was going to shoot me, then do it. Otherwise, put the rifle down. His shoulders relaxed, and he gave a half smile lowering the rifle. I rushed him, took the rifle, and handed it to Gary. Then I turned back to Billy and asked him why, why he shot at me. With tears running down his face, he explained how angry he was at mom and us for not wanting him; and how much it hurt him every time we came to visit.

It changed us, all of us. We hadn’t even thought about how much it had to crush him every time we came to visit; and then all leave to go to our home. He would be left behind again, watching us drive away. Our visits were never the same. Oh, we played our baseball games, went fishing and frog hunting, but never to the dump again. Not a word was said to the adults about what happened at the dump that day, and we never talked about Billy’s feelings again.

SUSAN FAYE ~ THE BALANCE WHEEL FOR US ALL

"Life is a burden; bear it.

   Life is a duty; dare it.

       Life is a thorn crown, wear it.

Though it break your heart in twain,

       Though the burden crush you down,

       Close your lips and hide the pain.

First the cross and then the crown."

       ~ Amos R. Wells (1862-1933)

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My next older sister was Susan Faye (Susie). Her biological father’s name was Robert Bannick, as mentioned previously. Susie was never around her biological father enough to know him as her dad. She never lived with him, mainly because he was a lifer in the Air Force and was seldom home. After mom began a life with my dad, Bannick disappeared out of Susie’s life.

Occasionally, she went to stay with her Bannick grandparents, but we were always on the road, as well, so visitations were sporadic. In fact, I didn’t know she had a different father until some strange people came and took her to be with them for a