Rattlesnakes, Amends, and Endings

I apologize in advance if this blog is a bit too long or not so filled with slapstick. Blogs should be short. But it may be tough to bring the threads together in this final blog about my Dad.

BAGMAN: “Even tougher if you waste time talking about it instead of writing it!”

BUTLER: “Of if you keep interrupting, Brother Baggie.”

Okay. First of all, a short introductory fact that seems trivial but will be important later. Although the blogs I have written this week would seem to indicate that I spent lots of time on Panther and Dismal Key, the fact is that most of the two decades my father was there, I visited a few times but mostly communicated through letters. Snail-mail, although the terms hadn’t been invented then. The important thing to remember is: It took three days for a letter to go from Massachusetts to Florida, and vice versa.

Second, short introductory background – Two years before the end of my Dad’s hermiting, E. Foster Atkinson passed away and my Dad moved up in rank to the bigger shack on Dismal Key.

Rattlesnakes – The Panther on Panther Key was elusive but rattlesnakes were plentiful throughout the area. On times when I visited, Dad would always give me an extra walking stick which we used, not for walking, but to regularly beat the brush ahead of us and around us, to give these fellows time to slink away. I saw a couple but never got a good shot. My Dad saw them regularly.

One quick digression –

BAGMAN: “And you wonder why this is going to be too long?!!!!”

There was a tree house on Panther Key that my father had never investigated. But I really wanted to see if it might contain some treasure and was determined to climb up and poke my head in the small entrance hole in the floor. Of course, we were both concerned because it was an ideal place for snakes. So before I climbed up, he and I bounded it unmercifully with our sticks. Then, finally deciding it was safe, I carefully climbed the tree, prepared myself, and stuck my head up through the hole.

Six inches from my eyeballs was a huge coil of scaly diamonds aimed at my nose. I slammed my head back so violently, I put a gash on the back of my neck from the rough wood of the entry hole. But even as one part of my consciousness was preparing my introductory mea culpas to St. Peter, the adrenalin was catching up and I was identifying it as a large rattlesnake skin, shed some time in the past by a large but thankfully now absent reptile.

Enough about snakes, for now.

Amends. Alcoholics Anonymous is built around 12 steps of recovery. The 8^th and 9^th steps have to do with clearing up the wreckage of our past behaviors, making amends to people we had hurt. I had done this, at least, to the best of my ability. I had written friends, returned money, and in those cases where a simple apology would be meaningless, demonstrated changed (amended) behaviors.

But I had never done one with my father. And why should I, for Pete’s sake? His drinking caused him to leave me with my grandparents. Of course, that turned out to be great for me in the long run (another story) but my alcoholism had done nothing to him. Why would I owe him an amend? I owed him nothing.

But it nagged at me and getting free of guilt is survival for an alcoholic. One day, I had to admit that I had almost always been self-righteous with my father during visits and in letters. I knew we were both alcoholics but I was sober! I had found A.A.! He had tried a thousand times and failed. I preached at him. I refused to give him money. Actually, probably a good decision when dealing with an active alcoholic, but I had done it with an attitude. “You know, Dad, I’d love to help but I think you’ll just drink it up like always.” My tone was such I could have just as easily have added, “You dumb sot!”

I was successful despite him, not because of him. I had become a respected professional and he was a bum. A colorful bum, but still a bum. I told funny stories about panthers, and such, but at a certain level, that was how I felt. I had to get some humility and change that.

So I wrote him a letter expressing regret and love and understanding. I was humble. I took responsibility for my attitudes. I mailed it.

Three days later, I got a letter back from him. It was his amends letter to me.

I hadn't known it, because we didn’t always write that often, but during the last several months, his eyesight had been failing. He could no longer see rattlesnakes and one time a large rattler crawled across his shoe before he noticed it. He finally had to give up hermiting and had moved back to a small camper in Goodland, Florida.

Being back in civilization meant he was within walking distance of a liquor store. In no time he had drunk himself into yet another detox center. But then…you never know when it will click in…he actually got seriously into the A.A. program and got sober and started working the steps. He never drank again.

I know it has been a long blog, but if you remember in the beginning I mentioned that it took three days for a letter to travel the East Coast. Three days. Each way.

Months later when we were visiting and having the pleasure of actually attending an A.A. meeting together, we compared notes and on the exact same day at roughly the same time in the afternoon, we were, without knowing it, simultaneously writing amends letters to each other. I think that God works in very mysterious ways. Of course, some might say it could also be coincidence and I’m not into debating it.

Either way it was pretty cool.

So, bringing it to a close, he lived in Goodland for about five more years, attending A.A. meetings regularly, helping other alcoholics find sobriety, playing the accordion, painting pictures. He had a chance to meet Karen before he died.

And when he finally died, not of cirrhosis, but of a heart attack, I drove down for his funeral. It was attended by a huge crowd, incredible for someone who had been a hermit. And people got up and spoke of what he had meant in their lives. Men talked about how he had helped them stop drinking and it was because of him that they had their children back. One after another, people spoke about what he had done. I felt they were all looking at me.

Finally, it was my turn. I couldn’t control my voice. I don’t remember the exact words, but I remember it was pretty much like this:

“I’m an alcoholic. My Dad was an alcoholic. He left me when I was six and although we stayed in touch, we really didn’t have much time together on this world. In some ways you all know him better than I did. And I just want to thank you, today, for sharing what he meant to you. Because now, for the first time in my life, I can say without any reservations, that I am proud to be Al Seely’s son.”

The Hermit of Panther Key (Part 1): "Fixing to Die"

So you want to know more about E. Foster Atkinson. Thinking about it yesterday, so do I.

I know he suffered from emphysema and he had a Labrador retriever that once caused me to walk on water, but that is another story. Foster was the higher ranking hermit for many years, living in a two-room shack without running water or electricity, on Dismal Key. Dismal Key was one of a few pieces of high ground in Florida’s Ten Thousand Islands, a vast track of brackish mangrove swamp where the West Coast of Florida around Marco Island breaks itself up like a jigsaw puzzle becoming the Gulf of Mexico.

Foster was the “ranking” hermit because, although there were only two hermits living in the Ten Thousand Islands, there was rank based on who was there first. The lower ranking hermit, until Foster’s death, had to live in the one-room shack on Panther Key.

The lower ranking hermit was my father.

By now, anyone who has been reading my blog, knows that I am not shy about admitting that I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’ve also worked long enough in the field to know there is a genetic component to the disease. While I take full responsibility for pouring booze down my own throat years, I also inherited the propensity from my Dad.

There is a tradition in Alcoholics Anonymous about the importance of anonymity which is why they call it anonymous. Duh. So while I can tell people that I’m an alcoholic, I should not tell people about someone else’s alcoholism. But my father passed away quite a while ago and, even if he were alive, I doubt he’d mind. He spoke about it openly to everyone.

Let me get some facts out the way. His name was Albert Seely. My last name was legally changed from Seely to Cowell when my maternal grandparents adopted me after my mother’s death because my father was unable to raise me because he was…well…never sober.

He was also unable to hold a job, moved to Florida, bounced from drunk tank to drunk tank, detox to detox, hospital to hospital until he was finally diagnosed with incurable cirrhosis of the liver and given less than six months to live.

So he decided he was of no use to anyone, pawned what few possessions he had, bought a small open wooden boat with a broken-down motor, filled it with beer, and sputtered away from the little fishing town of Goodland, Florida into the maze of the Ten Thousand Islands. His plan was to disappear, get lost, get drunk, and die.

That was the day he met Foster in the middle of nowhere and began the next twenty-five years of his life.

The Passing of Father Martin

Several friends emailed me yesterday and I learned, sadly, that Father Martin passed away on Monday. Father Joseph Martin (October 12, 1924 - March, 9 2009) was one of the giants in the formative days of the alcohol and drug treatment profession. He founded one of the premier treatment centers, Father Martin’s Ashley in Havre de Grace, Maryland and was even more widely known for his educational film, “Chalk Talk on Alcoholism” made in 1972 and still used in many places.

Bah. I sound like I’m writing a newspaper obituary column. Easy to do since it was one of my first jobs out of college. But that’s not what I need to do here since a quick Google or Yahoo Search will get you anything more you want to know, including some U-Tube snippets of Chalk Talk – well worth the glance.

And I can’t say I’m devastated by the news. Father Martin had been around forever and retired from active speaking a while ago. I hate to admit it but when I heard about his death, my first thought was, “I didn’t realize he was still alive.” Which, of course, he isn’t. But he was. Aw, you know what I mean.

To the left is a picture of Father Martin posing with...I guess it is Bagman’s Head on Butler’s Body.

I had the wonderful fortune, sometime around 1984 or 1985 to be the marketing/PR guy for a small chain of treatment centers in Massachusetts. I managed to convince my boss – worthy, himself, of a blog someday – to spring for the speaking fees to get Father Martin to come up for two gala events we put together in Pittsfield and Worcester, Massachusetts.

I can’t recall the events (printing flyers, renting auditoriums, stuff like that) although I think they were successful. Mostly I remember what a great time I

had picking him up at the airport and driving around with him from place to place.

I was nervous at first. What should I say? What should I call him? Father? Mr. Martin? Joe? He got off the plane and before we got to the luggage carousel, he pointed at the men’s restroom and said, “Excuse me for a minute while I go and shed a tear for the Ku Klux Clan.”

He had disappeared behind the door before I got it. But it was just the beginning of non-stop entertainment with a message. Although the only other joke he told that I specifically remember didn’t really have a message. We were speeding along the Massachusetts Turnpike and he asked, “Do you know what’s the last thing that goes through a bug’s mind when it hits the windshield?”

“No,” I replied truthfully.

“Its asshole,” he said.

I almost choked. Did a Catholic Priest just use the word “asshole?” Is God going to strike us both dead?

Of course, now, I’m doubting my own priorities if I was able to spend two full days with this really brilliant man and all I clearly recall are two short jokes, neither of which have anything to do with alcoholism.

Oops! No. Thankfully, that is not quite true. I just remembered one other story he told over dinner about when he was first building Ashley. I’ve never seen the place but apparently the main entry way to the building has a large foyer and a beautiful polished wood staircase and banister going up to the rooms where patients begin their detox. He said that when the cost of the staircase became known to his Board of Directors, they called him in and demanded to know why he would spend so much money to make the place look so good when it was going to be used to treat alkies.

His answer was that, by the time alcoholics reach that point in life when they need inpatient treatment, they have lost all sense of self-respect and self-worth. That their families and friends had also lost all respect for them as well. He insisted that treating them as honored guests in a beautiful place was an essential step in changing that paradigm for them and getting them sober.

I’ve internalized that lesson, although until today, I’d forgotten where I learned it. The place I work, now, is not luxurious although it is clean and functional. But everyday, as I walk up the sidewalk to the front door, I will usually stop and pick up any candy-wrappers or trash that anyone has dropped.

Tomorrow, if I do that, I’ll look up at the sky and say, “Thanks for the reminder.” Although, I’m still not sure whether I’ll call him “Father Martin” or “Joe”.