Dad! Your Burning Down the House

In 1967 we were living in Springfield, Ohio. My mom worked at a Ford factory making Mustangs, and my dad drove a truck hauling cement. He hauled a lot of the cement that was used to make Interstate 70 that runs through the center of Ohio.

I was eight years old, and in the second grade. My sisters were seven, six, and four years old. My brother was one. Life was good at this time, except for my dad.

He started drinking a lot, and I always thought it was my fault. I don’t know why. My father was a good man. He had a heart of gold and would help anyone in need. The only problem was, he didn’t know he needed help the most. He became an alcoholic. A working alcoholic. In other words, my dad could get drunk at night and still get up and go to work early in the morning. There are different types of alcoholics. Some can’t do that.

It’s hell living with an alcoholic. When my dad drank, he became a different person. It was almost like Jekyll and Hyde. He was a very kind man when he was sober. However, when he drank, he was very belligerent. He loved Calvert’s whiskey. He was a whiskey drinking man. If he could not get Calvert’s, he would buy Kessler’s. I spent a lot of time pouring his whiskey down the sink. I don’t know what he would have done to me if he had known what I was doing.

I used to watch him sit and watch television with his glass of Coke and Calvert’s whiskey. After a few hours he started having a conversation and there was no one else in the room. His head would fall slightly forward, and he would jerk back quick. Then he would start talking again, but there was no one there. It was very sad to see my father like that, and I always wished I could help him. However, alcoholism is a disease, and if a person does not want help, there is nothing you can do.

When my mother was at work and my dad was home, it was like I had to babysit him. I would watch him slowly get drunk on his Coke and whiskey. Then the talking started, and I had to watch because he would smoke cigarettes too, while he was drunk. Many times, I watched the cigarette burn down until there was a line of ashes waiting to fall on the floor. I would gently take the cigarette from his hand and put it out in the ash tray.

I always thought that maybe one day I would wake up, and he would never drink again. Of course, that never happened. It only got worse. One Saturday night my mom was at work, and my dad was drinking again. It was around 9 p.m., and he told me and my siblings to go to bed. So, I made sure they all went to bed. I got up and peeked around the corner to watch my dad. Then I went to bed but could not sleep.

After about an hour, I noticed there was a fog in the bedroom. I could not figure out what was causing the fog. It was like a blueish tint in the air. I started coughing, and I noticed my siblings were coughing too. I thought, “Oh no. That is smoke.” I jumped out of bed and looked in the living room. My dad was passed out. He dropped his cigarette down in the chair. I saw flames shooting out from the chair. So, I told all my sisters to get up and run outside. I grabbed my little brother and carried him outside and told my oldest sister to hold him. I ran back in the house and grabbed a big pot. I filled it with cold water and ran into the living room and poured it all over my father and the burning chair. My father shook his head wildly and came to his senses. I yelled, "Dad! You're burning the house down.” I ran and grabbed another pot of water and poured it on my dad’s pants because they were still burning. By the Grace of God, he did not get burned, but the chair was a total loss. It was burnt beyond repair.

I guess one of the neighbors called the fire department because they came, and the house was still full of smoke. I was able to put the fire out. I opened the front door and blue smoke was pouring out. My father was wet, but still drunk. The firemen took the chair out of the house and sprayed it down good to make sure all the fire was out.

We sat outside until my mom came home. One of my mom’s friends, who lived next door, called her at work, and told her what happened. So, she rushed home to find us all sitting outside, and a house full of smoke. She was mad at my father, and when I told her what happened, she was afraid to leave us again to go to work. However, I told her that I was always watching dad, and it was alright to go back to work. If anything would happen, I would call her.

It was easier watching my four siblings, than it was watching my father. I remembered when I was six years old on Christmas day, my father drank three bottles of Calvert’s whiskey and was still conscious. That much alcohol would kill some men. He was a tough man.

My mom and dad divorced when I was 10. Mom said, “She just couldn’t do it anymore.” She told me, “I still love your father, but I can’t live with him anymore.” I understood what she meant. I too, loved my father dearly. However, watching him all the time was a real chore. My mother was always pouring his whiskey down the sink too. That was almost a full-time job.

I did not get to see my dad as much when they divorced. When I did see him most of the time, he stayed sober, but he would tremble and shake. I knew he needed a drink. He would stay sober until we left, and I am sure he headed straight for the bar. I realized he did not mean to hurt any of us. He had a disease, and I understood that too. He really could not help what he did. I always felt bad for him, and wished he could have gotten help.

I always thought for sure the alcohol would kill him somehow. Maybe a car wreck or something worse. However, it was the cigarettes that killed him in the end. He died of lung cancer four days after his 68th birthday. I was 40 years old and deployed off the coast of Colombia with the U.S. Coast Guard. I didn’t even know he died until I got back 41 days later. When my mom told me he died, I cried for a week. I still love him and think about him. And most of all, I wished I could have helped him. It’s not easy living with an alcoholic.