Local DiskGhosts and GloryGhosts and GloryGhosts and GloryMEDITATIONS ON JAMES WEBB'S FIELDS OF FIRE When I first sat down, I thought I was going to write a paper on a novel. But as I started writing, all I could think about was myself. For like many great works of art, the book triggered feeling, emotions and memories that had been buried in my own consciousness for years and long forgotten. So rather than review a novel, I am here to tell you about the some of the images and memories that James Webb's Viet Nam war novel, Fields of Fire, illuminated in my past life—like a trip flare going off in the middle of the night. I found that many of Webb's imagined characters were real, and many of the real characters in my life were actually imagined. As you'll soon discover, my existence is based upon the death of someone I never knew. The characters in the book also exist because someone has died. Dead soldiers are replaced by those who are mentally dead. The fear of death numbs the soul. The fear of life numbs the heart. Not until I read this brilliant novel did I fully comprehend the battles I have been fighting, not because of the Vietnam War but because of the scars left behind by another fierce enemy, alcoholism. Both of my parents were and are alcoholics. Life in an alcoholic family is like living in the "Arizona Valley" of Webb's book. Life becomes a series of survival tactics. Your soul dies. Your desire to live is controlled by something outside yourself and your rage becomes more a part of you than happiness. And with every step you take, you constantly scan the tree line for signs of the enemy. I grew up with the Vietnam War. It was on television, in the movies, music and in my life. Vietnam was the first televised war. Every night the network news would show, in detail, the horrors of war. For years, America witnessed bodies sprawled onto stretchers, rushed to an awaiting helicopter. I remember the bandages. They looked as if they had been through the war, too. Soaked with blood, loosely fitted. There was no time for precision. Saving a life meant cutting corners. Just before sign off, the news broadcast would end with the body count for the day. Black silhouettes of faceless soldiers were placed in a neat row over the anchor's shoulder. Each silhouette represented the number of men killed or injured. I think the habit of turning off the television during dinner came from the War. Dead and mangled bodies tend to spoil one's appetite. Each day the count rose, as did my father's anxiety. My half-brother Larry was drafted, and like a good southern boy, he didn't complain. I never knew Larry. I had only met him in old, torn photographs, but he was my brother, my father's first born and first son. I was the fourth born and second son. And, because I was much younger, I had a lot of catching up to do. My father was a widower early in life. In just a few minutes, fire had changed his life forever. I wasn't there that cool North Carolina morning, but somehow I can see the tiny country home file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/Duke/Desktop/SPECIAL_TOPICS/FIELDS.htm (1 of 6) [7/31/2002 7:06:42 PM]Ghosts and Gloryengulfed in flames. I can see may father run frantically into the house to save his family. I see him running, frantic, fighting his way through the flames. I see him fight until the moment when one knows defeat is near. The time when body and mind surrender. The children had been saved, but their mother lay quietly as the flames surround her body. Like a battle on an unnamed hill, the fire had won. My father's life would never be the same. Addictions would consume his every waking moment. I never really though about it, but had my half brother and sisters' mother survived, I may never have been born. My existence was determined by the death of someone I never knew under circumstances I would never understand. After the fire, my father dropped the children at their grandmother's house and drove off, never to return. While I don't understand why he did many things, I can honestly tell you I understand why he left them. After the fire, my father waged his own war and battled his own addictions. Whether his alcoholism was inherited as some medical experts suggest, or whether it was a product of that fiery night, I don't know. And, he won't say. Talk of that night turns my father's skin gray. You can see the reflection of the flames in his eyes. Alcohol keeps the ghosts buried, at least for awhile. My mother fought the same addiction. However, I know the reasons for her torture. Each night, she would watch the man she loved drink himself into forgetfulness. It became too much to bear. To say that I lived in a dysfunctional family would be kind. Alcohol, like heroin, consumes the individual and the family. Eight-year-old children are forced to make parental decisions. There's no time for child's play; there are alcoholics to care for. Most of the time my parents were too drunk to crawl to bed, so my little sister would put a blanket over them. And, when the morning arrived, nothing was mentioned. Every morning was a lesson in denial. While I never endured the hardships of poverty, and I was not physically beaten, there were many times I wish I were poor and battered. Instead, I was the child of an alcoholic father and mother. Alcoholic families don't endure, they simply exist. Getting through each day seems to be the only goal. Like the soldiers in the field, children in alcoholic families watch each small detail for the sign of trouble. One wrong move and the enemy wins. In essence, from the time I was old enough to realize the effects of alcoholism, I walked the trail, stepping cautiously, wanting not to trip the wire. I still refer to my parents as "Those People" and I haven't seen nor spoken to them for 15 years. I honestly do not know if they are physically dead or alive. To me, they have always been dead. There was one time when my parents weren't drunk. I knew something was wrong. My mother and father didn't touch a drop of alcohol for days. Both were stone cold sober. A typical ration for these addicts was a bottle a day. I watched the same half-empty bottle for days. It just sat there in the secret hiding place in the china cabinet, collecting dust, just wanting to be touched. I knew trouble was near. My father was usually predictable. Every day he would come home from work and begin drinking. By dinnertime, he was incoherently drunk. If he became angry and
View Full Document
Unlocking...