Fist Fights For spare change

A Kennedy half dollar, Buffalo nickels, liberty dimes. My fathers coin collection. As a boy my dads coin collection fasinated me. My father was born in 1951 and enjoyed a childhood right out of a novel. Walking Main Street window shopping at Christmas time, buying “pop” and penny candy at the local drug store. My fathers own boyhood inspired me a lot as a child. He would hold a nickel in his hand and tell a story about what he would have bought with that at such and such time in his childhood. He would keep his most prized coins in a glass baker’s display case. I would start my own coin collections as a kid, always keeping the change in separate containers. Each denomination separated and then within each I would comb through every nickel, penny, dime, and quarter looking for the desired coins. My coin collection would become quite large none of it would be more than spare change saved in jars. But for me I was cool, like my dad.

My mother had a drinking problem. She was the most loving person you would ever meet. She would do anything for you and always made you feel at home. The booze would change all of that. Like flipping a light switch, my mother would go a full circle and become mean and vindictive. This behavior came from my Grandfather. My mother whom spent her time as the favorite in his eyes, only because she would lie for him and would cover for him when his drinking caused problems. My grandfather taught her well. It was a craft she would perfect over a lifetime. Passing it along for further perfection. My grandfather also suffered from alcoholism. His disease would have its effect for generations.

My mothers employment with the Town of Northeast municipal department was terminated because she had reported to work under the influence of alcohol. This would be the tipping point in my mothers life and she would lose control. Her termination came in 1995 and although she would try and find other work, none of them would last. It just seemed that at the time her employers wanted her to come to work sober and she was unable to do so. As her drinking progressed it would bring out the evil side of her. The vindictive and manipulative side.

My mothers drinking would last for most of my childhood. Losing her job in 1995, my mother would not find sobriety for many years. Her drinking would always be a theme in my life. In the early years I could not understand what was wrong with my mother. I thought Everyone was out to get her. I could not smell the liquor, a smell that to this day turns my stomach. I could not recognize the inebriation, there were many times I would have to carry my mother to bed or a couch. I would protect my mother, always coming to her aide and refusing to leave her side. I rode through hell at my mothers side. Where ever she went, I was in tow. Later in life I would end up at the helm. For now I’m just Cobbie, Kiddo. “Come on kiddo” my mother would say.

I loved my mother and my mother loved me. She just loved the alchohol more. The demons that haunted my mother had to be a heavy burden. My mother would go on binges that lasted for months at a time. She would always drink. Daily. At times she would really turn it up. Being known to drink a gallon a day, her chosen spirit was dark rum. Bacardi 7. Black as the molasses it came from and it would do the same to her heart. My mother would take flight and we would not see her for days. Returning with far fetched tales of her escapades. The adventures she went on and never left her own head. My mother would drink herself simple, this is when the rage would come out. This rage was normally directed at my father and brother in the beginning. This day that would change. My mother and father like every loyal alcoholic, ran a beer tab at the local store. My mother would go on her binges and my father would get upset. His first line of defense would be to cut off the charge account. Sometimes it worked, most the time it did not. This time it did. My mother was drunk. She had come home drunk. This was not a “I’m ready to come home”. When she wanted to come back she would find my dad while she was sober and ask him to talk. This time she wanted something. She needed money. Dad had cut off the account and this time it was working. Dad usually kept a bottle of liquor beside his chair. My mother would typically come home and drink his bottle. Today she drank it and passed out. My father would arrive home from work to find her passed out in their living room.

My father would awake my mother in a fit of rage and run her off. I would wait in the yard for her to exit the house. I had overheard the commotion of their arguing and knew what was coming. Mom would be leaving and I needed to go with her, at this time she had been gone about a week. I missed her and worried dearly for her well being. I needed to be with her. When my mother exited the house I noticed her carrying something. As I looked closer it was one of my coin jars, filled to the top with quarters, she was taking my money. Then it overwhelmed me. She was stealing from me to buy booze, the alcoholism had shown it’s ugly face. My mother had sunk to a new low. I wanted my money back. But it wasn’t even about the money, that was my collected coins. She saw it as a way to buy booze, but to me it was more cherished. There was a bond broken between my mother and myself on that day.

I would be forced to physically take my change jar back. The first time this happened I think I was 11 coming up on my 12th birthday. The first time my mother won and I cried. I would secure the jar from my mother only to be violently stripped of it and forced to fight for it back. My mother would have no boundaries when this would happen. I can remember her kicking me on the ground covering the jar like a football, like the player who protects the football. My mother succeeded most times with the forced fumble. Kicking and prodding in the ribs, bamboo fishing poles to the ribs and back. Hair, and ear pulling . When my mothers addiction took control there were no morals or ethics. No one was safe from her touch. If Cheryl wanted it, she took it. If she wanted to do it, she did it. Her “touch” and teachings would steer my own direction in life. These Cheryl moments will become a common theme.