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 Pulp Diction
Twisting of words and
turning of phrases
by Robert Cameron Hazelton
Present
 Hello, Happy Holidays.
Such an innocuous little saying isn't it? We're all encouraged
this time of year to be as merry as humanly possible, but sometimes
that just isn't the case. I would like to take a moment to say
be warned, not all stories are filled with sugar plum fairies
and happy joy thoughts. Be prepared for what has been the most
difficult thing I've ever written in my life.
As some of you may know, my Mom passed away recently in a very
tragic house fire. This in itself is bad enough. But Christmas,
of all other holidays, has the distinction of being connected
to some of my best, and some of my worst memories ever.
When I was younger, Christmas was indeed a magical time. I can
vividly remember conspiring with my sister at 4 am in the morning,
and sneaking down the stairs to shake what presents we could.
We had to slink past our parents' bedroom to get to the living
room, always a risky situation. My Mom reserved a spot on the
wall by the fireplace where she proudly displayed all the holiday
decorations we kids had diligently made out of colorful construction
paper in school. I can still see the Santa I made with a paper
plate for a face, ah good old arts and crafts. My Mom would always
bake up huge batches of cookies in every shape and flavor you
can imagine - yum!
Of course as we got older, it lost some of it's magic, but was
still the best time of year. What little kin we had got together
and it was just nice, old fashioned family fun. Then my sophomore
year in high school, just as the weather started to turn, I can
remember sitting in class spacing out when suddenly I'm called
to the office. I get there to see my sister and mother both terribly
upset and I am whisked out to the car to be told that my mother
was leaving my father. Just like that. I vaguely remember a swarthy,
pleather-clad social worker being involved and putting us up
in some low-rate hotel until we could find an apartment, but
honestly my mind was in a daze. I found out later that she had
made allegations of abuse during the separation proceedings which
hampered my access to my father for a bit.
Hindsight and maturity have helped me understand much of what
happened back then, but my naive teenage mind was in a raging
turmoil. How could this happen? Where was my Dad? Why aren't
we a family any more? This was the beginning of a new phase in
my life, a period where I was forced to come to grips with many
human truths, the most devastating being the realization that
my Mom was as human as the rest of us, and just as flawed. Unfortunately
her mind was unable to handle some previous trauma or perhaps
just the uncertainty of life itself, but for some reason she
started drinking heavily, especially around Christmas.
I can't begin to tell you how depressing it was to watch such
an intelligent, compassionate woman crawl inside a bottle. We
tried many things over the years, rehabs, group things, she lived
with me for a while, she lived with my sister for a while, but
though she had stretches of lucidity, she ultimately succumbed
to the stuff. She was an intensely private person so I can only
speculate about what may have happened. This has been one of
my most personally painful demons, but I don't want to curl up
into a ball and quit, so I am letting it out in the hopes that
maybe someone else won't have to live with such heartache. The
following piece was written by myself a few years ago and I didn't
want to post it while she was alive in case she ever read it,
but I just want to try to get across to whoever may be reading
this how it was.
*****
Christmas On The Rocks
Do you ever look at your parents and truly
wonder where the various misconceptions and unexplainable urges
you feel come from? I have an outgoing adventurous father, and
a reclusive alcoholic mother. On most days I feel a jumble of
conflicting emotions that leave me barely able to decide what
may be the best course of action for my life, so I drift along
and try to just let things be. I had very little contact with
the outside world for many years, including my family, and slowly
withdrew into my own little microcosm of existence until a few
years ago when I became violently ill and had to be admitted
for immediate emergency surgery. Laying in a hospital bed for
two weeks with only IV bags for sustenance tends to really get
the mind thinking, and in my case I realized that if I didn't
start getting out and living my life that the traitorous gene(s)
I had unwittingly inherited would inexorably pull me into the
abyss of madness. So I began to write in earnest and started
playing my guitar again. I've been in bands, been around a lot
of people (though I connect with few) and feel on most days that
life, while never perfect, can at least be enjoyable until that
last big sendoff. Well, at any rate, my mom calls me the other
day and I can almost smell the fumes through the static. I'm
talking to her as usual, asking how she is, hearing family gossip
- and with each slurred word I feel all the progress I've made
slowly being sloshed away. I feel so bad for her, it's not like
we didn't try to help her, but she is consumed with/by alcohol.
I've struggled with it for years and it still kills me inside
but you can't make people change. And then I notice the gulps.
After every couple of sentences I hear a gulp and her speech
gets slightly worse. I suddenly feel the urge to go get some
boards and nails and just hammer a new one up every time I hear
that gulp until I am completely shutoff from the world just like
her. Misery, the gift that keeps giving - Merry F***ing Christmas.
*****
Need I say more? The last couple of years
she was pretty much a hermit and though we tried to contact her,
she shut out the world. I never even got to tell her about my
Pushcart Nomination, which is particularly poignant considering
I wouldn't be writing if not for her influence. She always had
books around and was constantly encouraging me to exercise my
creative muscles. Every birthday or special occasion she would
give me a plaque with a poem on it, most geared towards believing
in yourself.
I could share some awful things that happened over the years
but truly, I want my Mom to be remembered for the person she
was. She became a nurse because she cared about other humans
so much. She was incredibly intelligent and very active in the
church for many years. She loved to laugh and make things fun
for us kids, and anybody was welcome at our house. I loved her
about as much as a son can love his mother and I will miss her.
As for myself, I've learned much from all this. Mom was an only
child and a loner, I never remember her having any friends, and
I feel this contributed greatly to her condition. I know that
I am very much like her in many ways, especially my introversion,
but I have come to be a part of a wonderful extended family through
my loving wife, as well as having my fantastic siblings with
all their kids. I still have my Dad who is a great guy and an
excellent father. My wife's youngest daughter, and sister's daughter
are having baby boys soon (first child for both) and we are all
very excited. I have a few very close friends and I'm trying
to open up more every day. There's no point in dwelling on the
past, and the future hasn't happened yet, so I'm focusing on
the here and now. Life can be just as pleasant or miserable as
we make it (I'm shooting for the former) and will go on with
or without us so, Happy Holidays, and this time I mean it.
Robert Cameron Hazelton lives
in Amsterdam, New York and writes the poetry blog Average
Poet.
Send Bob a message either directly or using
the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Bob visit the
Word Catalyst archives or his
online home.
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