Opening a Can of Words

By Eddy Egoski

As a practising alcoholic for 25 years and a recovering alcoholic for 28 years, I have a wealth of experiences in both camps and feel that others will be able to identify with my story. I see myself as a common, everyday garden variety alcoholic who has somehow managed to live soberly with an illness that continues to claim the lives of so many other people.

As well as being an alcoholic, I am also a member of Al-Anon - a group that helps people who are affected by another’s alcoholism or drug addiction. In this community I am learning how to be a caregiver rather than a caretaker of other people.

As a practising Catholic, I have combined the Alcoholics Anonymous and Al-Anon Twelve Step programs with my faith tradition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781982294236

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Copyright © 2022 Eddy Egoski.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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ISBN: 978-1-9822-9422-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-9423-6 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 03/23/2022

CONTENTS

Introduction

Early Memories

Arrival and Settlement in Australia

Adopted Family

Friendly Visitation and Illnesses

Sibling Arrival and Early Education

Mental Illness and Sceptre of Addiction

Religious Impact

Army Reserves and Teachers’ College

Path of Early Alcholism and Drug Addiction

Teaching Profession

From Scavenger Hunt to Love Discovered

Early Romance Overshadowed

Drinking Wine in Moderation!

Growth of Family

Dark Clouds of Alcoholism

Family Growth and New Career

Cat and Mouse of Alcohol

Alcholism: A Family Illness

Ball and Chain of Alcoholism

Christian Meditation, The Trinity and Communion of Saints

New Work Beginnings

Radiating Anger

Crossroads of Alcoholism

Flashback to Germany

Near Restful Waters

Alcholism Continued

Schooling

Parental Goodbye and Mental Illness

The Penny Drops

Al-Anon Discovered

The Serenity Prayer and Aa Slogans

Step Three

Step Four

Lost Friends

A Moral Inventory Continued

Step Five

Step Six - Divine Surgery

Step Seven

Step Eight – Who Have I Harmed?

Step Nine – Making Amends

Step Ten - Growing Into Sobriety

Step Eleven – Prayer and Meditation

Step Twelve – Carrying The Message

Spreading the Message of Recovery

Freedom from Alcohol, Freedom for Life

Tertiary Education Continued

Community Service

Friends Remembered

Remembering Alcoholics Anonymous Members

Female Support

Early Sobriety

Grandparent Challenges

Dementia - Decisions

Higher Power Help

Robert’s Journey

Overseas Trip

Deteriorating Health

Saying Goodbye With Catheter

Robert’s Journey

From the Rhine to the Danube

Home Again to Regensberg

Trip to Cairns

Canberra Trip

Alcololics Anonymous – Interstate Meetings

Animal Support

Community Support

Al-Anon Continued

Ongoing Recovery in Al-Anon

Dementia Challenge

Bookending Sobriety

Relapsing

Letting Go And Letting God

Making Space for Others

Acceptance is the Key

The Cross of Alcoholism

Dry Drunkedness and Emotional Sobriety

Ongoing Sobriety

Reflection on Alcoholism

Zoom Meetings

Matt Talbot

Amazing Grace

Mr Eternity

Anzac Day and 10 Field Ambulance

Sobriety in Retirement

Sharing Experience, Strength and Hope

A Long and Fortunate Life

Pencil-Pine Perspective

Buddy-T

Conclusion

References

INTRODUCTION

Recently, a friend of mine in Alcoholics Anonymous completed some kitchen renovations after a lengthy delay. To complete the work, he bought a can of paint and incurred great difficulty making a start. Procrastination had reared its ugly head and he was left with a full can of paint but had no motivating desire to spread it on the wall!

I have been in a similar situation where I have had a bucket of words but no active desire to spread these over a computer page. Over many years people have, from time to time, suggested that I write a book. I have shrugged this idea off because it seemed an implausible suggestion offered to someone who has always admired other people’s writing but has never been confident about his own experiences. As a practising alcoholic for some twenty-five years, I was well-versed in procrastination and it is only now, after 28 years of continued sobriety that I have put keyboard to Word document.

As a retiree, I have had the opportunity for further reflection on my life and have decided that my bucket of words could possibly be shaped into a work with the title Why Don’t You Write a Book? or better still Opening a Can of Words. I can rely on over 74 years’ experience living on this planet and bring to bear some of my thoughts about life on earth with all its fortunes and misfortunes. They say that when a person is drowning, their life flashes before them. A memoir is a shooting star of memories that traverse from one side of the brain to the other.

A person’s life is very short as a trip to a graveyard shows. Here lies Teodor. 1922 – 1990. Or here lies Thomas,1974 – 1984. The dash indicates the life of a person from birth to death and it does not vary in length from someone who has lived for 68 years, like my father, or for one of my best friends whose son, Thomas, died at the age of 10 years. My life of 74 years+ will only be a dash in time!

EARLY MEMORIES

My earliest memories are of silver trains, dark tunnels, an endless expanse of water, a ship gangplank, sitting on a white ceramic potty in a cabin, a Dad with mustard over his eyes to get rid of an infection, playing with a blond-headed girl on a sandy shore next to a lake and the feminine presence of my Mum. These memories came clearer into focus as I moved beyond the toddler stage and arrived in Tasmania from migrant camps in Newcastle, Singleton and Albury.

When we first arrived in Australia in November 1949, I was only 22 months old. Already I had travelled from Regensburg in Bavaria, through the Italian Alps and then on to Naples where we caught the Norwegian boat the Skaugum to Newcastle. We sailed through the Suez Canal, into the Indian Ocean and then over the Equator to the east coast of Australia where we disembarked at Newcastle. We moved to Greta nearby and had our first experiences of living in Australia. I can only imagine what Mum and Dad must have felt coming from Europe where conditions were so different.

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Dad was born in Dwernik, in the Lemko territory of Southern Poland, in the Carpathian Mountains region, and Mum was born in Bavaria, Southern Germany. Both my parents suffered under Hitler and Stalin. Dad jumped a train on his way to Siberia and managed to find his way to Bavaria where he met Mum in Regensburg. As I write this, I realize how little I know about my father and his family. Like many people who had gone through the terrible experiences of war, he spoke very little about it. Dad carried a worn, faded and well-fingered photo of his mother, Katarina, whom he left at the age of 17 years and to never see again. His father, Vasyl, went to the United States when he was young and never returned. They had another child, a girl whom I have called Lara, who died of diphtheria when she was five. Dad mentioned a time when they were so hungry in Dwernik that they were eating the ice on the windowsill. I try not to fill in details that I really don’t know about, but it is tempting to picture what life must have been like in Dwernik during the 1920s and 1930s. The Lemko people who lived in the Carpathian Mountains have had a difficult time over the centuries which culminated in their dispersion from Southeast Poland after World War II to Ukraine and the Western regions of Poland. Effectively, they were displaced from their homelands because they were seen as a threat to the Communist Party after one of their generals was killed in their territory. Dad was unable to return to Dwernik after I was born, and Regensburg was bereft of family accommodation. One of Dad’s friends, Jaroslav, who jumped the train with him, had gone to Australia and encouraged Dad to follow. Emigration seemed to be the only option left for Mum, Dad and me and we could have ended up in Canada, the United States or South America! Jaroslav won out and we finished up taking the boat to Australia.

As I reflect on my early beginnings, I am surprised at the risks my parents took in locating a place they could call their home. World War II created an enormous upheaval for millions of people, and we were the product of these destructive years. I really don’t know how they managed to negotiate their way around the decisions they had to make to find safety and security.

ARRIVAL AND SETTLEMENT IN AUSTRALIA

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Dad had to work off our passage to Australia after we arrived and was sent to cut sugarcane in hot and humid Charlerville in Queensland. After a time, Dad and his companions complained about their conditions which were difficult for people who had come from cool, temperate regions and who also had families back in Sydney (Singleton). In short, they rebelled, and were threatened with deportation! Finally, it was decided that this group of troublemakers would be sent to Hobart where they could find work and a climate that was more suited to them. They almost mirrored the unfortunate individuals who were banished to Port Arthur for their wrong doings in England.

I have a very early memory of greenish water, beneath a gangplank of the ship that took us to Hobart from Melbourne. As a three-year-old, I ended up with Mum and Dad at Springfield in a rented room. Dad worked for the Hobart City Council at nearby Lenah Valley, laying pipes for the new sub-division. Mum worked at the IXL Jam factory on the wharf - a double-decker tram bus-stop was only minutes away from where we lived, and this took us to Hobart. They were both trying to save up for a block of land in Springfield. They didn’t have to spend any money on child-care because I travelled with Mum and somehow managed to amuse myself at the Jam factory. Tragedy struck, when the money Mum and Dad had saved up for a block of land was stolen from the flat at Springfield while they were away at work. This was simply devastating and caused untold grief. My parents had a good idea as to who the thief was but were unable to prove this. As I write this from the scene of the crime a kilometer away, I wonder how that individual managed to live a life of quality after such a despicable deed carried out on displaced people.

After a time my parents managed to secure a plot of land in Springfield and, thanks to the Glenorchy Council’s foresight, people were allowed to build shacks on their properties with the minimum of regulations. Dad built a two-room structure where the bedroom was divided by a curtain and the kitchen-dining area could just squeeze in a table and chairs. The toilet was outside, well away from the shack and water was available from a tap that was a ten-minute walk away. The road was virtually a dirt track which only a tractor could negotiate when it was wet. Electricity was non-existent so the primus stove was the main vector for heating food and oil lamps were used for lighting. A galvanized-iron bathtub struggled to keep us clean and a copper over a fire took the place of a washing-machine for our clothing. I have visions of Mum stirring the bedsheets and clothing with a wooden stick as the steam rose from the boiling water. No bugs would have survived in that cauldron! This was our home for 7 years until a ‘proper’ 3-bedroom house was built adjacent to the shack. This had such mod-cons as electricity, running water and windows that opened and shut with ease.

The block of land around the shack left enough room for a garden and an assortment of animals from geese, hens, a crabby rooster, pigeons and even a rabbit that had been rescued from a hunter. Many of the native animals also reminded us that we were on their land and that it as a good idea to tread with care. I remember being intrigued by a Jack-jumper’s nest and getting bitten when I ventured too close. Goannas and snakes also made an appearance from time to time and the latter were given a wide berth. One of the joys we had as children was an expedition to find tadpoles in the many ponds around the neighbourhood. Blackberry picking was another occupation that kept us entertained and fed. We became very adept at throwing planks over the prickly bushes to reach the inviting fruit. Once or twice, I lost my balance and experienced the joys of being prickled! Once the bleeding stopped everything was all right again.

Dad was an Eastern Rite Catholic and I remember him securing an icon of the Virgin Mary and one of Jesus Christ to the wall of the shack. Mum who was a Bavarian Catholic tucked me into bed with a prayer to my Guardian Angel – Caritas is actively still with me to this day! The prayer was in German and indicated that this was our home language until English invaded our lives. Dad spoke Ukrainian as well – along with a host of other languages that he had acquired on his travels. I remember him carrying a notebook and using this as a word dictionary in his efforts to negotiate his way around English. Mum said that when they first arrived in Australia, they had to flap their elbows at the butchers to indicate that they wanted to purchase a chicken.

ADOPTED FAMILY

While we lived in a bush-setting, we were fortunate to have some wonderful neighbours. On one side were a Czech and German couple who had three children: Peter, Rosemary and Robert. The couple were my adopted uncle and auntie, and their children were my brothers and sister. Uncle George and Auntie Rosalie took me on camping trips, allowed me into their home time after time to watch television on their newly acquired colour T.V. as well as playing endless boardgames. A Hungarian and Tasmanian couple and their daughter, Lina, lived on the other side in a little brick shack which would have withstood an earthquake. Dad and Gula spent many hours playing draughts in between work shifts and the laughter could be heard around Springfield. As an only child, Lina tended to keep to herself, but she did join in with some of our games. A Polish couple occupied the block on the other side, and they had a son and daughter who I didn’t have that much to do with. Our United Nations’ neighbourhood was completed with the arrival of an Austrian couple across the road and their six children. Two doors down from us were a couple with four children whose father was Dutch and who had lived near Anne Frank in the Netherlands. There was another neighbour who befriended me and took me bushwalking in some of the most spectacular places around the Great Lakes and National Park. I thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful scenery and the companionship of this man who took me to places where Dad never could. We returned home one evening and visited George’s place. While he was out of the room, this neighbour reached in and pulled out his penis to my utter shock! I can’t recall what was said, but I turned and ran all the way home. I was livid, confused and outraged at what had happened but could not tell anyone about it. This man knocked on our door two days later to take me for another excursion, and I slammed the door on him. I felt I had been used and groomed for his pleasure and felt utterly betrayed. This man had a wife and a son and was a friend of George’s so it appeared to me inconceivable that he would act in this way. I had a lot to learn about immoral and damaging compulsive behaviour.

I mentioned before that my adopted uncle and auntie George and Rosalie who were our next -door neighbours, would take me on camping trips around Tasmania. They were a wonderful couple who took me under their wing especially after Dad was ill. Thanks to them I had some wonderful experiences as a child during the school holidays. Camping at Boat Harbour on the Northwest coast near Wynyard was incredibly memorable. We explored the rock pools when the tide went out and discovered an incredible array of sea-life. Hours were spent plunging into the surf as it rolled into the white sands. George was a wonderful role model for me, and I tried to be like him when I had my young family. The only problem was, George was not an alcoholic, but I was, and that prevented me from doing so many fun things with my children.

I resented Dad’s mental illness and could not understand then how someone who was such a life of the party, could have changed so much. There were times when I really resented Dad and wished that I had another father who could be like Uncle George. I really did not understand mental illness and how debilitating it can be. As a young child I grew up with Dad playing his violin, button accordion and mouth organ. Our home resounded with music, and I contributed to this cacophony when I was learning the piano. While Dad played by ear, I had to use sheet music to perform my repertoire. We also had a record player and a range of thirty-three and a third records covering Ukrainian, Polish and German music. Dad also had a Kriesler radio where he tuned in to European stations where he heard the news and listened to music. I was so fortunate in having this exposure to music which has remained with me throughout my life – even when I was smitten by alcoholism. When I was training to be a teacher, I took up the guitar and it became my companion for a number of years until my intake of alcohol created the discords that separated me from this interest.

After a time, Dad acquired work at Cadbury’s chocolate factory where he alternated with a day, afternoon and night shift. I have memories of him arriving home with bags of scrap chocolate which he was allowed to take home – to my delight! Mum left the Jam factory and secured work at Silk and Textiles in the nearby suburb. There were times when I was allowed to accompany her and watched how she picked out the flaws from the material. However, there were other times when I was locked in the shack and left to my own devises until Mum or Dad came home. Dad would obtain a sack of white sand from a building site and dump it in the middle of the kitchen floor so that I could play with my cars in it. I had heaps of other toys to keep me occupied but it got scary as night fell. I remember on one occasion being left alone with a severe stomachache and having no one to turn to. On another occasion, I thought I would be helpful by using my paints to cover a smudge on the wall. My parents were not too enthused with their budding Picasso!

FRIENDLY VISITATION AND ILLNESSES

On one occasion I was really quite sick with a very high fever. Mum and Dad had called the doctor and I received some medication which brought the fever down. During this time, I had a visitation of a little, black child who grinned at me and reassured me that I would be OK. This may have been my guardian angel or, it may have been a visitation from a Tasmanian Aboriginal child on whose ancestral land we were on. I still remember the pearly-white teeth and comforting smile of this apparition.

Another occasion that I remember vividly is when I developed an abscess on my bottom and ended up at the Royal Hobart Hospital for a month. I had just turned five and I recall dropping my pants and washing my behind in a dirty puddle in the street. I had an operation, and remember having an enema prior to it. We were still living in our shack, and my baths consisted of washing in a galvanized iron tub where the water was no more than 15 inches deep. When the nurses took me to the bathroom at the hospital, the bathtub appeared huge, and the deep water frightened me. Mum came to visit daily, and I received all sorts of toys and heaps of sweets. One day a whole bar of Cadbury’s melted on my bed making a dreadful mess. On another occasion, I remember tipping over a whole basin of water onto my bed. This stay in hospital occurred before my formal schooling commenced and it was my first time away from home. The experience was quite frightening, and it made me realize my vulnerability. I had two other stays in hospital when I was in Grade 5 and Year 7 at the commencement of Secondary School. I developed whooping cough twice and had another terrifying experience of not being able to breathe on both occasions. The nurses did their best to help me, but I just couldn’t get enough oxygen. I somehow survived but felt very weakened and helpless. By the time I had my tonsils out and then my appendix, I had found chemical assistance to help me to deal with the anxiety and worry of a hospital admission.

SIBLING ARRIVAL AND EARLY EDUCATION

When I was eleven, I remember helping Mum move our belongings from the shack into the newly built house. This was before the arrival of my brother, Jamie, who would never know what life in a shack was like! I was so delighted to see him in the maternity hospital in Hobart and was very protective of him. Jamie was 11 years younger, and I took great delight in taking him around our neighbourhood in those early years. Our little family of four was far removed from our extended European family in Bavaria where Mum was one of 10 children. I still remember the cavalcade of airmail-marked letters that arrived on a regular basis and the gifts of lebkuchen and chocolate which arrived every Christmas.

Dad had been raised with horses in Dwernik and worked on a farm in Germany with them. It came as quite a surprise when he acquired a driver’s license and bought a