Sunday, December 1, 2013

3c30678u - Halfway bus station - New Madrid, Missouri.


.Anyone who has been addicted to alcohol knows how easy it becomes to work for a few weeks and save enough money to check into a cheap hotel for several weeks without interruption by anyone or anything including the maids or the telephone. There was a time when an alcoholic could board a train or bus that was heading in the direction of one's choice. The only baggage one of this nature had was the grip in hand, a kind of suitcase that was easy to keep at hand, secure between one's boots. Back then, $25 would take one whom some called a "rolling stone" to either coast from Chicago or Kansas City. And when the bus arrived, there would be a hotel one could afford only a few steps away from the bus station. No credit cards or IDs to present then, just cash. So, after checking in and taking the last swig of the Seagram's Seven, one would take a brisk walk through the lobby and turn either way to the nearest liquor store. Money was the only thing that was the alcoholic's security and self-esteem, all else made no difference. The thoughts of those left in the last city were forgotten with the first drink of a fresh bottle. Tired from the miles and suffering the usual anxiety that builds up in the transient alky's neck and shoulders, the first few drinks makes the sound of the buzzing neon sign outside the window seem like home, like many homes where the residence was temporary and forgotten except the memories of doing nothing but relaxing more and more after each drink and bottle. Keeping the empty bottles in the drawer kept the alky from the reality of one episode after another.

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My dad's dad, my grandfather, was nine years old when President Lincoln died from an assassin's bullet. Most people think I am speaking of my GREAT GRANDFATHER. NO, I am referring to my dad's father, my paternal Grandfather, Robert Levi Huffstutter, born in 1856. What does this information have to do with my profile? It might help the reader understand that I have a sense of being much older than I am in that only one generation seperates me from President Lincoln. This causes me to respond differently to society and many current events. In many respects, this is to my benefit, in other respects it dates my mindset. Perhaps this is the reason I value the moral standards and idealogies of older Americans, the men who were the soldiers and sailors I saw when I was a small boy,the men and women who fought a war for freedom without any doubts posted by a media with a questionable lack of national unity and purpose.