Alcohol: The Conditioning(Exploits of a Drinking Man) doc

Alcohol: The Conditioning
(Exploits of a Drinking Man)
Clips of a Truth
John Gabriel Mc Donald
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012, John Gabriel Mc Donald
Smashwords Edition License Notes:
This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it
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Happy trails . . . smiles . . .
John
Part 1
Hidden Wisdom
“Just sit down . . . no need to be going anywhere,” the man said.
I did not want to listen but somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew there was some
wisdom to the words. He went on as though he were introducing the powered essence of
an epic play and, to be truthful, he might well have been for all the stuff that was taking
place in my life— his too. But he was drunk as a rambling lord and I was as sober as a
confused cemetery headstone. And I might well just have been because I was stuck
between two roads leading towards the same place— a dead-end. Somewhere along the
line I took a wrong turn and that turn led to the place known to many folk as hell’s last
acre. I arrived dead on time, all my miseries locked tight as a drum to me although I
wanted nothing to do with the stuff. But over the years, it just piled up like dust on a mid-
west American cabin floor during the great dust bowl of the ‘20s, making it difficult to
wash off. Eventually, so much built up that I got used to haulin’ it around, like one gets
used to pain, at times feelin’ like I was cycling a bike across the Sahara desert; a bike
without tires— just the bare rims. The man lit a cigarette, drew in a mighty lung-filler,
then slowly released a gray stabbing jet of smoke towards the high bordering on the
kitchen wallpaper, then continued. “Sure you don’t have anywhere important to go . . .
just sit down and relax.”
A long time would pass before I got the message of his words but when I did, it stuck

like oatmeal to a starving man’s innards. The truth of the matter was that I did not have
anywhere important to go but it irritated me to no end that a person whom I had met for
the first time, drunk out of his skull, was telling me how to handle my life. Still, I had
respect for the man because he took time out of his busy world of drinking to impart to
me his thoughts on the matter of life— “if you are not sure what to do— do nothing.”
And I sat down much like a child in a school classroom governed by a strict teacher and
took in what the man had to say: “there’s no sense rushing off to someplace when there is
no purpose to it . . . doesn’t help the old noggin’ one bit.” He held his talk while he eyed
his smoke stick, then continued. “See this cigarette,” he said in that tone of mystical
certainty which only the greatest of poets have a bearing on. “This cigarette was perfectly
new just a couple of minutes ago but take a good look at it now— it’s all burnt out and
wasted and that’s what will happen to you if you don’t learn to sit down and enjoy the
moment.”
His cock-sure attitude annoyed me considerably but he had me cornered and there was
bugger all I could do about it. The truth is that I wanted to do what he was doing but I had
just finished a roaring bender and was doing the best I could to stay away from the booze.
Cigarettes were ok with me but I did get his message about his smoke stick because that
is exactly how I felt and probably looked like too. He still held the floor as one might
command center stage during a critical drama performance and, to be sure, there was a
great play going on— one that was to destroy body, mind, and soul, or see the victim rise
above the withering blows of John Barleycorn’s pummelling— but the latter proved
relentless in his pursuit of physical and spiritual carnage.
Outside in the blackberry bush, a songbird sang the evening in as the orator went on,
bearing down his profundities upon his captive, which was me. It all seemed so odd— the
calming ease of evening being ushered in by the melodies of the songbirds, while a sober
drunk listened to a drunken drunk. Strange indeed it was but that is the image the drunken
orator seared upon my mind. But I don’t want to remember him like that. I rather
remember him for the kind and giving person he was. He died from alcoholism not long
after.
Part 2

Drownin’ of Sorrows
When Grandma died, many people came to our house to drown their sorrows and
many pretenders did likewise who claimed they knew Grandma “way back”, but all they
wanted was free drink. After their “filling” they went their way never to be seen again.
Wailing and weeping and storytelling went on for days, and then some, leaving the house
smelling strong of Guinness porter and burnt, stale cigarette tobacco. Then after the
“drownin’ of sorrows”, Mum opened the doors to allow the wind to blow through taking
with it the nauseating odors— even the wind did not escape the going ons.
It was a rare occasion for people to gather in our house and drink porter and the likes.
Mother was very strict about who came into the house— sober or drunk. “I don’t want
you bringing home any of those characters from the bar,” she would tell Dad, and if Dad
didn’t listen well enough, he found himself talking to the hens in the chicken coop with
his drunken buddies. Mum was very protective of us kids and did not want drunken talk
in the house, especially the foul language. That stuff and its bearers were sent to the
chicken coop without cigarettes and matches just in case the straw caught fire. And if
Dad and his buddies didn’t listen well enough, which was often the case, Mum waited
until they were snoring, then she would sneak in and remove the matches from their
pockets just so there was no cremation. After all, we were Catholic and cremation was
forbidden under all and any circumstances, most particularly in a chicken coop.
One day Uncle Joxer came and ranted that he should have inherited the house from
Grandma. He went on and on inside the house and outside the house until the neighbors,
and their neighbors, and their neighbors came to listen to the one act play, which in no
uncertain terms did not lack the spirit of a powerful drama. “He should get the Academy
award for that disgusting display of irreligious behavior,” Mum said after the sensational
indoor/outdoor show. “Hollywood is just a joke to that kind of lunatical performance.
Indeed, Peter will keep that one in his books to toss in his face when he shows up on his
knees at the Holy Gates, begging a pardon for his Churchy behavior.” Mum referred to
Churchill as Churchy because he was always drunk on French brandy and was forever
preaching about the wrong doing of other nations while his kicked the crap out those
nations that were ripe for his “empire’s interests. “He’s just a bloody hypocrite like that

Churchy,” she would say, a huge sigh preparing the continuation, then contemplating on
the more notable orator, she would add— “and ugly too”.
Dad would say in a kindly way that it was just the drink . . . that he wasn’t himself . . .
that he would be back to apologize about it later. And true to prediction, Uncle arrived to
beg forgiveness and that it would never happen again and that he was more ashamed than
Adam and Eve for their “carrying on” in the sacred garden. And true enough, it never
happened again until he had another drink— and that was often.
I remember clearly Mother’s finger pointing at her husband who was feeding his face
with potato and corned beef. “If I ever see him in this house again, I will have the police
come and take the pair of you away.” And she went on. “That drunken fool, Delaney
Muttonface, (Delaney’s face sported a big whitish/grayish beard that mirrored a sheep’s
behind) God love him, is but an angle compared to that brother of yours.” And that was
the first time my mind edged in on the negative ramifications of the world of the drinker.
My instincts were awakening to the unusual behavior brought about by the partaking of
alcohol, but in an accepting way: moments before, all were happy and singing and
chatting, and moments later, some were squabbling about “this and that”. I still didn’t
grasp the meaning but, then again, it seemed no one did. It was just a natural outcome of
drinking and all was settled amiably after the happy and unhappy effects and happening
passed.
Part 3
Collecting Pig Feed
I was five and my brother Larry six when Uncle Joxer took us to collect pig feed from
around the city but instead of collecting the feed, he raced over sidewalk, the flowerbeds
in the parks, and drove the wrong way on the one way streets in a big hurry to get to the
next pub, whereupon he would leave us kids with the horse and cart while he filled
himself with whatever he was filling himself with. In those days almost any behavior was
acceptable as long as nobody got hurt. “Hold on tight,” Uncle would say as he snapped
the reins down harsh on Tessy’s rump, making her bolt into God’s knows where. Larry
and I were too young to realize the serious danger we were in and too busy holding on to
the side of the cart so we didn’t fall out into the street or on top of the wheels.

“Oh, Mother of God,” Auntie Lizzie would say to her husband who now and then took
time off from his racing pub crawl to feed his face and have our Auntie make cheese
sandwiches for Larry and me. “Leave the children here in the name of God before you
get them killed.” But Uncle Joxer was very hard at hearing, and with cheese sandwiches
stuck in our mouths; once again, he tossed us back into the cart to gallop off in stampede
fashion into the unknown. And it was just as well Larry and I did not know what the
unknown was. Our lives were seriously endangered by a good man who went crazy when
he tossed “Arthur Guinness” down his throat accompanied by a short of “John Power’s”
volatile Irish whiskey. From a kind, caring gentleman, he went to that state of behavior
where an asylum, insane or otherwise would take off running if he came in sight of it.
The nation was at his mercy and his mercy was not the heavenly kind— but he did not
know that because “Arthur Guinness” told him differently.
Auntie Lizzy appeared one day at the door. “May,” she cried desperately to Mother.
“Don’t ever let the children go with that lunatic, which, of course, was her husband. “In
the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he will get them killed with his rodeo racing around
the streets . . . it’s a wonder they are not already dead.” And Mother took the warning to
heart. Auntie Lizzy was very scared for our safety and made it clear that we were never to
be seen with Uncle Joxer again, particularly in a feed cart.
That warning was only added to Mother’s troubles because Dad had been smitten with
tuberculosis and was sent to the infirmary for three months. During that time, Mum sold
some of the pigs for two reasons: that they did not starve to death because of Uncle
Joxer’s inability to collect the feed, and that the family didn’t starve to death. In those
days, one had to be nine tenths in a grave before the government allowed a bit of
assistance to the dying and starving. But we survived because St Vincent De Paul gave us
clothes and the odd hamper of food, and the neighbors, all of them, came to our aid.
Tessy, our horse was also more than relieved when the voice of Uncle Joxer became less
and less frequent— she, too, would live.
Still, the business of drinking was, too me, far from understood. The hard work and
efforts of Dad sailing right into “Arthur’s” bank, while the winds of shoddiness blew
heartily into our lives was but a natural occurrence to my uncorrupted mind:— the

laughter— crying— the arguments and endless sighs—the empty food shelves.
Part 4
The Pacifist Boxer
Lugs Brannigan was a well respected policeman. He was a well known boxer and also
a referee in the same sport. He took no lip from anyone but he was fair and square to
those who made a try to improve their lives. He converted an old building into a
sports/boxing club. Dysfunctional family life, usually brought on by alcohol abuse saw
many a kid wind up in correctional homes. Lug’s figured if kids had energy to spend in
the wrong way, then he could help them spend it in the right way and put a bit of pride
into them. He trained them in the skills of boxing whereupon they were entered into
boxing competitions. His success in turning kids away from the crooked and wide was
enormous. However, at one contest, which I was privileged to attend, there was a certain
chap that did not adhere to the rules of the square ring. Dressed in the usual boxing sports
gear of the day, after Lug’s instructed the fighters in the rules of engagement, Lugs’s
trainee lay down on the floor— without being hit— refusing to get up. When asked what
might be the matter he said that he didn’t want to hurt anyone and he didn’t want to get
hurt either. Lug’s, on the other hand, was mystified— actually, we all were but
everybody loved the kid for being truthful. Some thought that he may have had a vision.
He got a standing ovation and he went his way. The fellow next to me said that if armies
had the courage to do what the kid did then our world would be a great place to hang out
in. He was right but it was a pipe dream.
Part 5
The Air Cadet
Auntie Lizzie scraped enough money together to head off to England with her
husband. But her life was rough. She was an angel and did not deserve what she got in
life . . . I guess neither did her husband but some cruel winds come into one’s life and
don’t blow by fast enough. I never saw my lovely Auntie again.
Dad was back in health again, and again, with Larry and me set off to collect the pig
feed, which was usually Tuesday and Friday nights. Some nights went fast at the
collecting and some slow depending on the length of social stops Dad made, but his stops

were benign compared to Uncle Joxer’s. But I tell you, no matter how well prepared one
is to ward off the unwanted, life has a dirty way of upsetting the apple cart, which was in
our case, a pig-feed cart. “Here,” said Larry. “Have some of these . . . the Italian man
gave me a nice bag of fish and chips.” The Italian man was a nice man. Often times when
we went into his fish and chip shop to collect the pig-feed, he would slip us some piping
hot chips doused in salt and vinegar. Nothing in the world tasted as good as those chips,
particularly if the night was cold, and wet, and windy, which they often were. And as we
sat behind Tessy’s rear-end feeding our faces with delicious Italian fish and chips, the
most incredible happened
On each side of the cart, the lamps flickered but not as strongly as in the darkness of
an unlit street. We were parked beneath a street lamp himmmmming our praise of the
belly satisfier when suddenly our munchies went flying out across Tessy’s behind. The
bang was fierce. Into the cart flew a man in a helmet accompanied with bottles of
“Double Diamond”, a drink just as productive as “Arthur Guinness’s”. Fortunately for us,
Tessy’s intuition fell upon “full horse sense”— she did not bolt. If she had, the story
would have hit on the international air waves and broadcast on the disgusting TV
reception that was as clear as the dark side of the moon. TV reception was just in its
infancy and had a long, long way to go before it found its legs.
“Oh, Jesus, Jesus!” The air cadet cried as he landed smack into the pig-feed, his
bottles of “Double Diamond” clinking up to him. And lucky for us the bottles did not
break; the pig feed would have been destroyed. Dad had been collecting the feed from a
supplier and missed out on the action. And I say this with full certainty: when he returned
and found a man with a helmet sprawled in the pig-feed in the back of the cart with
bottles of beer snugging up to him, he was lost for words, to say the least. The air was a
bit tight for a few minutes; then, the astronaut spoke. “Why in the name of God didn’t
you have rear lights on your cart?” In the meantime, Larry and I got around to picking
our scattered fish chips from the street and also the ones that lay across Tessy’s back.
They were too delicious to leave to the birdies and doggies. Dad went back into the house
of the supplier, got on the phone and called the police. A policeman came on a bicycle,
told the man to go home and have a good bath and the next time he was riding his motor

bike, not to be crashing into parked vehicles, particularly those parked beneath street
lamps that were clearly visible. In the meantime he “arrested” the bottles of beer because
it was illegal to be riding on a motor bike with a parcel of beer as a passenger. Still, the
registering of the negative consequences alcohol brought about was by-passing me by a
long shot, and for sure, I wondered how Uncle Joxer was doing in the Churchy’s land.
“Mum, will uncle Joxer ever come back?”
“I don’t think so, son . . . wont that be a blessing?”
“Where in England is he?”
“He’s away in Coventry to wash down his troubles.”
“Where is Coventry?”
“It’s in eastern England but he’s not far enough away as far as I am concerned,” and
added. “Your poor auntie Lizzy . . . that blessed angel . . . she didn’t deserve the likes of
him— no one did— maybe England doesn’t deserve him either.”
And it appeared that everyone was happy that uncle Joxer had gone away, and Mum
hoped that he fell into the company of Churchy— beccause he, of all people, should be
subject to uncle Joxer’s rebel song singing and ear bashing. Still, the unqualified
horsemanship potentials that Uncle Joxer daringly and drunkenly displayed, apparently
resided in the lifeblood of his brother— my father.
Part 6
The Midnight Rider
A knock came on our door around the midnight hour. “Madam,” said the visitor.
“Your husband is beneath his horse out in the street,” he said with controlled alarm, then
went on. “I am not sure if he needs medical attention but he is asleep beneath his horse,
which is also asleep.”
“Jusus, Mary, and Joseph! What in the name of God happened?”
Well, the story goes: Dad was washing down his troubles but apparently the troubles
were much and he needed much wash to wash them away. That amount of wash did
something unusual to his thinking. He had been out alone collecting pig-feed. When the
chores were completed, he went to his drinking hole and overstayed by a long-shot.
When he left the pub, the oddest thing entered his head: he decided to unhitch Tessy from

the cart, leave the cart of pig-feed on the road and ride the noble steed home. And while
dad was galloping hell-bent homeward, our neighbor, Mr. O’ Hare, backed his Morris
Minor car out into the street just as dad was galloping by. Now, I say this with certainty:
dad was not trained in the art of horsemanship but the way his “Arthur Guinness”
thinking was working, to him, he was a champion equestrian rider and set about proving
his unmatched skills: the hurdle that suddenly appeared before him was but a minor one
and dad gave the command to Tessy to jump over it. Now, I say this with certainty also:
Tessy was not trained in the field of equestrian “know how” and was not possessed with
the “Arthur Guinness” thinking, but she did do her best— she belly-flopped across the
roof of the Morris Minor, thus causing some damage to the Major’s Minor, to herself, and
to her rider.
I knew exactly what was going on as I had stuck my head out the bedroom window
into a world of midnight quietness, the voices of Mum and the Major chatting as though
what had happened was not so an abnormal occurrence. “They look so peaceful, don’t
they, Mr. O’ Hare?” And true enough, they were peaceful, the moon’s radiant glow
adding a heavenly aura over the serene scene.
“I should call an ambulance,” choked the Major, but before the call was undertaken,
Mr. Crannigan, dad’s doctor came upon the scene. He had been out on a midnight stroll,
something he did on a regular schedule because he enjoyed the night air and the
quietness.
“Hang on for a moment,” the good doctor said. “He looks like he’s heading back to
us.”
And true enough that is exactly what happened. Dad headed back and woke up but
there was still the matter of his heavy horse blanket. Tessy was not heading back and that
was a big concern. Mr. O’ Hare went to a few doors and woke up a number of neighbors,
and he being a Military man, directed the removal of the blanket. That indeed was a dicey
bit of work because nobody in the country, as far as I knew, ever removed a sleeping
horse off a sleeping man. But they prevailed. Dad was taken into Mr. O’ Hare’s house
and fed French brandy. Mr. O’ Hare had fought in the 11 World War and was wounded.
Churchy commended him on his bravery and besides medals, he was also given a bottle

of Napoelon brandy— Churchy’s favorite. That is what was shared with the horse-
helping neighbors and dad that night.
Mum didn’t drink. When I was a child, she did have the odd bottle of Guinness and
smoked cigarettes. But as more children came, she quit both habits and steered whatever
money was spent on that stuff towards the caring of her children. She also never stood in
a pub. She detested the places and what they did to the victims of the “brewers”. No, she
never stood in a pub until I returned to my home after twenty five years absence from my
country. I had not had a drink in a long time but when traveling home from Canada, I
allowed my AA teachings to slip out of the aircraft and drown in the North Atlantic. I
purchased those “great tax free” attractives— booze and cigarettes. And I say to you in
all earnestness: I did try hard to shun the drink but after not seeing my family for twenty-
five years unnerved me a bit.
Back on Irish soil, I was not recognized by any member of my family, actually, any
member of my country but for that of an over zealous customs guard who demanded that
I open my guitar case. I told him that I couldn’t because the Canadians had wrapped it
with “secure tape” and that I needed a sharp knife to cut it open. His look upon me was
that which Dad had displayed when he saw the astronaut sprawled across the pig-feed in
the back of the cart. His arm stretched long— his finger rod-straight. “Go over to that
office and get the officer to take a look at what is in that case.”
I wanted to stretch my arm just as long and squeeze the life out through his throat but
that was against the law and I was exhausted. Also, he might have done to me what I
really wanted to do to him. I gave him the “strangling look”, then moved on to the next
stop of interrogation. “What can I do for you, Sundown?” the not-wanted-to-be-bothered
guard said, his head showing up from the paper before his eyes and a great heave
accompanying the enquiry.
I pointed back toward his work-mate. “He sent me over to have you open the guitar
case.”
His eyes went up. He pointed to the exit. “Just keep going, Sundown . . . welcome
home,” and then added.” He is a pain in the ass . . . and we have to put up with him year
in year out.”

I smiled. That was all I could do, then made for the exit and the bar.
At the bar I sat on the tall stool, pint of “something” alcohol in my hand. And for
sometime I sat there feeding my face with pints of “something” while waiting to be
found. And the more I swallowed the “something” the more relaxed I became. Then,
eventually, a delightful looking blond tapped me on the shoulder. It was my sister
Marien. She was four years old when I had last seen her. She was now married and had a
family of three boys. Her piercing blues eyes shot square at me. “Are you my brother?”
The “tax free stuff” did not last long. The party was continuous. Then I disappeared. I
had just come out of the Canadian mountains where I had been literally living for the past
seven years. I lived the life of a loner and I loved solitude— being around so many
people eventually got to me. And like I hid out in the mountains, I now found refuge in
the bars. For days my mother had not seen her son and her son was heading back to the
mountains within twenty-four hours. A family scout found me in the local “washing
down my troubles” and sent out the call. It was then my Mother stood inside a pub for the
first time in her life— to see once again her son before he disappeared once again into the
unknown.
Of course, all heads turned as Dad’s “Missus” stood in the “unholy”. And not alone
did she stand in the “unholy”, but she stayed all night and sang beautiful songs. My mum
was a professional soprano. Suddenly, Dad was something of a celebrity— a far move up
the ladder from the rung on which he was seen to been standing. Now it was ““Mr. Mac”
what is your pleasure?”— and not the usual “whatilitbe””. That was the first and the last
time my Mum stood in a pub. She did it for her lost son— and was I lost?
Part 7
River of Death
On a summer’s starlit night, two men stood staring into the ebbing tidal water of the
River Liffey that flows through the heart of Dublin city. Liffey is an Irish word that
means “life”— the “River of Life”. I often wonder what the man’s thoughts and fears
were when he realized that he could not win the bet he had made: the desperation in the
face of death as the tidal waters drained the last vestiges of strength from his weakening
body as he tried desperately, not now, to reach the far side of the river, but just to keep

his head above the now “river of death”. Was he thinking of his wife and children . . .
cursing himself for making the bet in a bar that overlooked the river that was to kill him?
God only knows, but for sure, he was a victim of that stuff that killed more people than
all wars combined. Of course, at the time, I thought that he was just an idiot to attempt
such a stupid thing but as time went by, particularly when I was unknowingly being
sucked into the powerful web of alcoholism, that night the River of Life swept the man
out into the Irish Sea burnt bright in the centre of my mind— because I too, was
beginning to wade into that same “River of Death”. I was just not aware of it.
On the east coast of Vancouver Island, some thirty years after that fateful night, I, too,
stood with a friend looking out into the Georgia Strait as the tide ebbed. My friend was a
tugboat man and an expert on the “ways” of the ocean. He was born by “old salty” and it
ran in his blood. We had just made a run down from Stewart Island, a small piece of
paradise nestled in the hub of the Gulf Islands. A week there saw us tanked to the gills
and in shape for an open plot in a cemetery; nevertheless, the seamanship of my friend,
drunk or sober was masterful; sailor Jack getting us through some rough navigation to the
small sea resort of Qualicum Beach. Mooring the speedboat at the dock, we made our
way to the local pub to “fill-up” for the remainder of the journey back to Nanaimo. After
the “filling”, we headed back to the boat which lay about two hundred meters from the
shore line. The waters near the shore line were too shallow forcing the docks to be
constructed out in deeper waters. Upon arrival from Stewart Island, the tide was out,
thereby allowing us to moor the boat and walk up the dry beach. But when we returned,
the tide was in.
Twelve hours was a long time to wait for the tide to turn. But that is the way it was
and I was prepared to wait it out— but not sailor Jack. It was a moonless night, a
southwest mild breeze teasing up from the sea, the smell of salty-oyster upon it. Along
that bit of seaway abounded the most sought after oysters in the world, particularly the
ones harvested around Fanny Bay, a tiny resort just a few miles north of Qualicum
Beach. From the lap of those beaches oysters found there way to the ritzy dinning rooms
of New York, Tokyo, and Paris. Out in the salty blackness the clockwork flickers of
distant lighthouses pierced the blackness giving a haunting feel to the setting. “I’ll just

head on out and get the boat and bring her in,” said the sailor as though he had just
telepathically had a chat with Old Neptune and was given the “go ahead” from the god of
the water world.
“You what?”
His hand ran across his chin slowly, very slowly as though it were a part of some
permissible ritual that eventually okayed the decision. “Yeah,” he said, a bit of hesitancy
in his voice but a hesitancy that was sizing up the chances of making it out on the
incoming tide to the Sangster— our carrier-on-the-waters . “Yeah . . . I reckon I can make
it.”
Now, believe me, we were good and drunk and the idea to get to the boat was a great
one— very inviting, but in the deeper parts of my mind the last words of the “Liffey”
man punched up . . . “Vincent . . . Vincent,” . . . and then to eternal silence fell as his
lifeless body sunk to the floor of the unforgiving river to be washed away forever as
Vincent, in retching shock, uttered his lost friend’s name: Toby . . . ah, Jesus have mercy
on your soul, Toby . . .”
I remained as calm as a coach might mulling over an idea to present to his team, then I
pitched. “It’s not a good idea, Jack.”
But Jack wasn’t listening. “Yeah, I reckon I can do it.”
Now, I say this with all earnestness that the thought of the man losing his life in the
tidal waters of the Liffey river jumped up in front of my nose as though to bite it off if I
did not persuade sailor Jack to change his mind. The tides that moved through those Gulf
Islands moved as though some nasty sheriff were on their tails— even some mighty fine
powered fishing vessels had a tough time of it when the tides turned one way or the other
— no one messed with those tides and won. Many a big ship found itself at the bottom of
the ocean because of a brave, daring and foolish captain.
Drunk as I was, a huge amount of sobriety seemed to appear from somewhere and put
upon me a state of mind that was to remain unchangeable.
Inflexibility carried in my voice. “You aint goin’ Jack . . . I aint goin’ to see you
drown.”
Now, to be truthful, I knew for certain that Jack’s hearing was flawless and it

perturbed me to no end that he was either ignoring me or he was just not “tuned in”. I
sized him up on the spot; particularly his jaw— but he did not know that. The one thing
that bit at my mind was the “choice”:— should I tell him that I was going to smack him
on the jaw or should I just pull a “dirty” and level him right there and then. But other
thoughts began to drift into my head: what if Jack were an able fighter? What if he turned
the tide on me? And I did have some genuine concern because back in my homeland
because of the not-so-safe neighborhood that I had to navigate through, on many an
occasion, I was attacked by bullies. I became guarded and defensive. I fought back. I
learned how to fight and I got good at street fighting but I was a fair fighter. I used only
my fists. I got to be able to handle myself so good that I fancied myself as a world
champion in the makin’. Encouraged by a bystander who was witness to one of those
“donnybrooks” because I was guarding a bag of groceries my Mother had sent me to
shop for. I was afraid but I stood my ground against three attackers. They hadn’t a clue
how to fight. What they wanted was the bag of groceries. I backed in by a street lamp.
Placed the bag behind me, then eyed the three. Their strategy was to lure me out from the
post and while they were laying a licking on me, one of them would snatch the bag and
take off. The confrontation dragged on and I was getting weary. My arms began to ache
and I found it increasingly difficult to hold them up in a defensive position. Fortunately, a
friend of my Dad came cycling by. He put the run on the trio and then told me how brave
I was and that I should join a boxing club— that I would make first rate boxer. He fed my
ego real good and off I went to join the St. Dominic De Savio boxing club.
“Now,” said my trainer, as he prepped me to go fort and demolish my opponent.
“Watch for his right cross. He is very good with it . . . and don’t forget to keep him off
guard by jabbin’ with your left.”
I nodded as all great boxers do when they get strong advice from the coach, then the
bell rang and out I went to fame and dreaming. I did what the coach said: I kept a good
sharp eye on his right but I should have done that bit of viewing on his left. I have no idea
how hard I hit the ground but the sleep that came on me was instant. And just like in the
movies: I was looking at a spread fingered hand and someone asking how many fingers
could I see. That was the knockout punch that got rid of a lot of innocence arrogance. I

learned to respect my opponents and I never did make it to being that “great boxer”.
Twenty years had passed since that fateful night and as I sized up Jack’s jaw, the
thought of injuring him badly bothered me immensely. He was my friend and I did not
want what happened to Vincent’s friend, Toby, happen to him. I moved to his side so I
could get a good view of his jaw. He was still looking out to the Sangster, nodding his
head in that way that the certainty of what he was thinking was going to happen.
“I’ll say this for one last time, Jack . . . you are not going.”
And again, my friend just nodded in the affirmative but not to my advice but rather
his. “Yeah, I can do it.”
Now, I knew that what I was thinking was a dirty move, then I wondered if I tackled
him rather than firing a punch would be of more benefit, but then I thought he might get
the better of me and then take off into the water. Really, as you can see, I was caught
between the devil and the deep dark sea, but that feeling that I had to do something that I
truly did not want to do filled a whole lot of my body. And there between the betwixt and
between, a notion came to me that my Mother drummed into my head: when all seems
impossible just say a prayer. Now, I tell you that for a long time a prayer never passed my
lips but the urgency of the immediate matter demanded that I say a prayer. And
truthfully, I sincerely asked God to intervene and prevent my friend from floating off
towards China. And while I was waiting for an answer I was convinced I was not going
to be getting, in the unholy silence of it all, a voice split the night. “Hey, lads, is
everything ok?”
That was the moment Jack broke his fixation and turned to see a rolly-polly fellow
walking towards us. “Just wondering how to get out to the Sangster,” he said in that way
that was welcoming a bit of help.
Well, I didn’t believe in prayer that much, if any at all, but I tell you, from that
moment on, I sure did, although I didn’t grow to be a saint or any thing like that.
“Come on back to the hotel boys, you can grab a bit of food and a coffee and a bit of
floor to nap on— the morning will see you away safely.”
That bit of happening was not by chance. I thanked God for intervening and saving a
potential happening that involved anything from a bloody fiasco to a drowning. I thanked

Him profusely. The man was kind. He threw us a couple of sleeping bags and that was it
—we were in a place of safety— in God’s messenger’s care— the Good Samaritan. The
imprint on my mind of Vincent’s friend calling to him as he succumbed to the life taking
Liffey River had proved that Vincent’s friend’s death was not in vain. The tidal waters’
of the Liffey are at a snail’s pace compared to that of a raging grizzly bear hammering
through the Gulf Islands. However, in my case, all was not well. The consternation
brought about by Jack’s detachment from my insistence at him not to go into the waters’
was little in comparison to the inescapable fact that I had to return home to my wife and
explain how I just up and disappeared for a week without leaving a note of explanation—
the business of John Barleycorn had arrived on time into my life to begin its destruction.
Part 8
Free Groceries
Aungier St. is a rather business-like street but with a sense of ease to it unlike the more
fashionable places of Grafton and O’Connell streets where you felt, in those days, in my
opinion, privileged to be allowed to pace in the footsteps of the illustrious gentry that
frequented the high-nob establishments. Mr. Stewart, an ex-British military man
commanded his grocery kingdom from a loft-like office where he could lord over his
subjects— the staff and the customers. For reasons which I can’t fully recall, I fell into
his company whereupon he charged me with the responsibility of managing an adjacent
vegetable shop. Now, to be truthful, I did have a bit of knowledge of the vegetable field
because my Dad had a large garden where much of my time I grew and tended
vegetables. I also had a fair sense of marketing and selling produce so I felt pretty good
about being asked to run a business. I was merely a fourteen year old lad who had little or
no education but I did set about proving my abilities.
“My good man,” said Mr. Stewart in that accent that one is not sure if it is Irish,
English, or something that was created in the ocean between Ireland and England but it
sounded “hob-nob” like what was heard much of the time around Grafton St. “This day, I
am going to give you a mission that, I am sure, you will have no difficulty in handling in
a most excellent way.”
The word excellent snapped into my head like a bit of cedar kindling being splintered

across the knee. It made me feel that I was in command and nothing would stop me from
completing the mission of excellence, whatever it might be. “Thank you, sir!” I replied as
though the fate of the universe depended on the outcome.
Mr. Stewart was no minor player in any sense of the word. He stood over six feet four
and had the weight of a commanding figure. When I looked at him, I used to think that he
was twice the size of Churchy but without the bulldog features. He had been in the thick
of things in Europe as a soldier during the war and was part of the push that liberated the
Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland. Indeed, he took it upon himself to adopt a
number of Jewish children whom he helped rescue and brought them to Ireland after the
war. “Be happy to do whatever it is Mr. Stewart . . . you can count on me.”
“By Jove,” he said with a smile that would bring daylight upon the world after
midnight. “I knew I could count on you,” then went on. “I want you to dream up some
ways of drawing attention to our business . . . be creative!— the show is yours.”
Now, I tell you this: I had never been entrusted with a trust such as the one I was just
handed and, to be truthful, I had no idea how to proceed. Nevertheless, I recalled an
Auntie saying to another that a little shot of brandy would sort whatever had to be sorted
out. Well, I tell you, I never tasted brandy in my life but if it was good at sorting out
things then it would help me be creative. Across the street from our little store, stood the
birthplace of the great poet and songwriter, Thomas Moor; and adjacent to his home, a
public house and off license (known in the West as “Off Sales”). After the first sip that
almost brought Dublin city out of my stomach, things settled down to that of placidity
and unending creative brilliance. At last I settled on two ploys: one to sell everything
free, and the other, because of the house where Thomas Moor arrived into the world was
staring me straight in the eye that I should sing to the-passers by his most famous
masterpiece— The Minstrel Boy.
The attention getter began around 2pm and by 4pm the shelves were empty. A few
people who had helped their selves to the free offerings: cabbages, tomatoes, parsnips,
cauliflowers, beets, carrots, potatoes, lettuce, onions, oranges, bananas, apples, grapes,
pomegranates, turnips, celery, mushrooms, Brussels sprouts, etc, joined me in the singing
of various songs as good cheer abounded throughout the little store and, no doubt, the

spirit of Thomas Moor looking on from across the street would indeed be much pleased
— but not Mr. Stewart— my idea was not his idea of excellence.
His imposing frame, silent and commanding as it was, stood like Old Neptune had
been deserted by the oceans— really lost— and really lost for words— and I was glad
that he didn’t have that old fork the sea god hauled around with him. But I wasn’t too
much concerned: the brandy was telling me everything was just fine and that I should
purchase more veggies from the market and continue my “attention getter” but my
thinking was not in line with the boss’s: “you’ll not be showing up in the morning, will
you, Mr. John?” That is all he said. Later, when I realized my stage production was far
off the mark, I was thankful that that was all the boss said and did. He was a good man. I
let him down. I had much to learn and much to suffer before I got the message about the
“relaxing effects” of alcohol brandy, or otherwise. I, too, was on my way to being a
vegetable but I did not know it at the time.
Part 9
One With All and All With One
On the horizon of the blue/gray Pacific, the fiery reds of the sinking sun spread its
mantle as the eighty horsepower Evenrude nudged the Sangster out from the Nanaimo
harbor. The setting was as splendid as can be; peaceful too, as Jack opened the throttle.
The trip was unplanned but as drinkers do, more than occasionally, it seemed the right
thing to do to just up and off into “wherever”. The supplies for the trip had a nice
welcoming about them: beer, whiskey, vodka, wine: the necessities suitable for a carefree
trip. Whiskey was not my thing; only occasionally did I drink it; however, whatever the
salt air was doing to my mind, I felt that swigging on a whiskey bottle was more in tune
with things. A couple of swigs did the trick: from all things individual and separate, the
sea and sky now blended as one, given me the feeling that I was sailing through the
graying ethers towards the crimson heavens of the setting sun. And as my thinking
funneled up marvelous thoughts of grandiosity while Jack piloted the craft through the
blending of sky and ocean, starboard and portside of the boat dolphins appeared to
playfully help guide us towards that heavenly bliss our “betters” always spoke of “in the
sky Lord, in the sky”. Now, for sure, I tell you this with all honesty: the way things were

adding up it appeared that heaven was just a finger touch away and all it took was a swig
of whiskey to reach it. Singing the national anthem seemed the fitting thing to do as the
boat sped into somewhere heralded by the swelling ranks of happy dolphins seemingly
overjoyed by our arrival into the kingdom of “wherever”. Then, suddenly, the thought
occurred to me that I should join the dolphins; that I could race through the waters’ just
like them, and perhaps even lead them to wherever we were all going. I though this a
most wonderful idea and that I should just hop from the craft into the world of dolphins—
without telling Jack; after all, he was fully occupied concentrating on steering his craft
into “somewhere”.
The moment arrived. It was just a little hop into the world of mystique and magic; a
world of oneness with all things great and small. The land had receded far into the
distance, the churning wake of the waters’, like a long sleeve of quilting silk stretching
back into infinity added only to the incredible tranquility of the world through which I
traveled. The time now had come to enter that world of oneness and sink into its eternal
bliss like a droplet into an ocean of love. This I fully prepared to do. With one last swig
from the bottle of magic, I took one last look at the commander of the vessel, who, by all
appearances seemed fully at peace guiding the craft through the watery sky. Then,
without his knowledge, I snapped him a tribute— that salute all great captain’s deserve,
then into the world of fishes I hopped and sunk like a stone to the bottom of the ocean.
How peaceful that was drowning in the world of the dolphins— then all was black and
conscienceless.
From the blackness came a voice as distant as an unseen star. “Time to wake up, John
Boy . . . it’s been almost two days since you left.” It was the voice of Jack. The “swig”
before my jump into the world of fishes stole from me my conscience as I collapsed in a
black-out onto the floor of the speeding vessel. It was the only swig that I had ever taken
that did something good for me— I was to live.
Part 10
Fear and Religion
“The burning, scorching, searing, galloping flames of hell is where you’re going for
all eternity if you don’t stop your vile, evil ways and walk in the footsteps of Jesus,” the

flaming voice of the orator— a Jesuit, fired like grape shot from a cannon into the
congregation, a mass of people which constituted mostly men. It was the period of Lent.
The tactic to keep people in line was to fill them with fear— not love and understanding
— ignorance rather than true knowledge— and it didn’t work— it would never work.
“To the very pits and bowels of hell ye are going for all eternity— eternity without a
break . . . imagin’ that!”
And I thought often, if only they said to the people they were literally and figuratively
crucifying some words of compassion and encouragement, the results would be much
more satisfactory— for all concerned. Recognition of the poverty and hard work of the
impoverished masses and to encourage to spend their hard earned money on the good of
their families— on the improvement of their selves would have been far more productive.
But the accusatory yelling and screaming did little to change a man’s thinking and served
only further to push him into the brewer’s sanctuary.
And I would watch my father for a whole month walk in circles, tearing his hair out
while he awaited the last day of Lent, so he could get back to his Guinness and smokes.
The shock of an awaiting hell and the sudden deprivation of tobacco and alcohol upon
mind and body were but a sadistic torture to make the evil, sinful toe the line— and the
line remained toeless, and the poor remained poor, and the ignorant remained ignorant,
and the brewers made enormous profits because their sanctuary was far more appealing
than that of the Church. And I was one of their victims— but I did not know that.
Part 11
Choices
Entertaining as a traveling singer can be difficult at the best of time but when the head
is all hung-over and miserably sick, then the profession becomes a cruel enemy—
torturously cruel. I know this for certain because I was a traveling entertainer— a singer/
guitar player. Now, I have to say that many were the times when I enjoyed my profession
— singing by the cowboy campfires, enjoying that old feel of the Roy Rogers era— clean
good ranch-style living. But good clean livin’ got a bit boring for me because I kinda’
liked the John Wayne bar scene where one could feel bein’ a real man knocking back
“shots” with the best of ‘em. “The Chilcotin river is a great place to do a bit of gold

pannin’,” said the seasoned prospector. “All yeh need is a pan and a bit o’ patience.”
Well, I tell yeh’, I had dreams and schemes of riches beyond belief roman’ thru’ my head
as I set out to strike it big. In fact, I got me a nice special box just to put my gold in. Now,
been a free man in a land that is spectacularly beautiful like the Chilcotin/Cariboo
country, gets a man thinkin’ he is kinda’ in a real heavenly place and no harm will come
a visitin’, if yeh know what I mean. So off I went to the river of gold, set up camp and got
to pannin’ for my riches. It was mid summer so the water was down a bit from its usual
full bodied flow but it still held a mighty fast current but that didn’t bother me none
because I was in God’s country and I had life by the tail and I had some good Plainsman
whiskey to help keep my thinkin’ to that capacity. Now befor’ I go on, yeh might be a
thinkin’ why suddenly I am writin’ in the style of old west lingo, and I gotta tell yeh that
this is the sure way I was a thinkin’ and talkin’ when I hanged around with dem
prospector/cowboy lads.
I wasn’t what yeh might call lazy but along the river I felt like I had arrived in
paradise and overworkin’ was not a thing yeh do in paradise; at least, I don’t expect so.
So I just sipped my Plainsman whiskey and took my time a pannin’ because the air itself
had a feel of pure ethereal gold about it and what came out of the river was gonna’ be a
bonus. Downstream along the banks some Indian folk were a fishin’ the Sockeye salmon
which came in from the Pacific and headed up the river every season. Their methods of
fishin’ had not changed for thousands of years:— a long handle with a net attached held
out across the waterfall, and when the fish came a leapin’ up they just netted it. It was
only Native folk who were doin’ that kinda’ fishin’ because that was a tradition to them
— one of the very few the Whiteman did not prohibit— like everything else that was
precious to the Native: culture, religion, and otherwise.
The evenin’ was a nearin’ its close when I saw the river as a stream of thick beautiful
air just flowin’ along like a wash of bubblin’ silk, lappin’ now and then across the odd
protudin’ riverbed boulder tossin’ a nice sprinkle o’ glitterin’ silver, then settlin’ again.
Truly, I tell yeh’ that I was in a paradise and I weren’t leavin’ until I had a good cache o’
gold. I had been sippin’ on the whiskey most of the day but as it neared evening’ I got to
thinkin’ that a gulp now and then would only enhance the moment and perhaps the

outcome of my gold seekin’. The river now seemed to blend with the land as though they
were one, giving the feelin’ that I was more than capable of walking on or through water
just like Jesus did— and that I endeavored. Now, really . . . I say this without a grain of
doubt: the reality of life is far different than that of the illusionary reality of life under the
influence of whiskey or any other form of alcohol.
A strong, fast current of water is not unlike that of a vehicle smashing into you, then
bowling you over and doing whatever it cares to do with you. That’s the reality of the
power of a fast flowing river and, needless to say, that is what it did to me. I had stepped
into the “blends” a bit too far for my own good an’ next thing yeh know, I was headin’ on
down stream without my hat and my pan, just a splashin’ and a kickin’ an; a yellin’ for
all I was worth but I might well have been telling a pride of starvin’ lions to be nice to me
— I was done gone as a leaf in a twister and there was naught I could do about it. Now,
as I said: there were some Native folk fishing by the waterfall and I guess they heard the
racket I was a makin’ and as the current swept me towards the thunderin’ fall, those long
poles, all of ‘em were a stickin’ out over the water to make the catch of the century,
which was me. Too be sure, that bit o’ behavin’ sobered me up pretty quick.
“When did your conditioning start?” said my life saver.
“Conditioning?”
On his face he wore a slight smile drawn into a certain seriousness that exhibited an
understanding and compassion of his fellow man— and I was one of them. “Yes, he
smiled warmly, “conditioning.”
Now I tell yeh, I was soakin’ and freezing because although it was the thick of
summer, that Chilcotin river was as fresh as the water meltin’ off an iceberg. And again, I
said, “conditioning?”
”Yes, conditioning,” he said firmly, then went on. “I’ve never seen a man before camp
by the river, drink whiskey, then go gold panning out into the strong, deep current—
nobody does that kind of thing . . . you had to be conditioned to do something so
unusual.”
I appreciated him using the word “unusual” rather than the more truthful description—
“stupid”. My thoughts went back to my childhood years: in the garden as I sowed lettuce

plants when I asked the garden helper what he was drinking from the flat amber colored
bottle, he smiled . . . “whiskey, lad, whiskey. One day it will make a real man out o’ ye.”
Those words spilled out the moment of my conditioning. And I wondered too; when and
where Vincent’s friend had his “conditioning”— the one that cost him his life.
I nodded slowly the recognition. “I see what you mean.”
He smiled. “Well, now that you have had your baptism, it is time to begin the de-
conditioning . . . the healing.”
The first star of evening began its awakening as I broke camp. It was a star that I had
in the past taken little notice of but from that day forward my eyes ever scanned the
cosmos because it was at the moment of its awakening that I had mine. It would take
some time but the “conditioning” would be thoroughly dismantled making way for a life
of true learning and value, leaving the one of escapism and utter misery to where it
belonged— beneath the confused headstone of an ancient cemetery. At last I was free
from an addiction that strangled all that was good out of my life.
The Native, too, looked to the sky. “See that star up there?”
I nodded.
“Well, you can have a life as bright as that star or you can have one much like the
gravelly dust that you are standing on. We all have choices, brother— choose well.”
Subdued and humiliated, I looked at the man who had just saved my life. “I never did
get you name . . . mine is John.”
He smiled and nodded. “Toby . . . it’s Toby.”

Dear friend, thank you for taking time to view my story. If it has been of interest to
you, my autobiography, Silence of a Songbird, a 450 page book in print format is
presently available in a Smashwords edition.
Fair winds and smooth travels to you
John
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