I read every blog that”s posted. I have yet to read a bad one, I see books unborn, stories that need telling, books that need writing. I try to think of any memory I want to share before I was 17: I can”t.It”s a blur to me, I see ghost like images of a drunken father,a crying mother. I still wonder what it would be like to have a friend over to play, My bedroom was in the basement. My room had no heat, That was fine, I used his storage room to urinate in.That was funny when he found out; “a weak bladder” I said. Days later I had my own bathroom.I made my own lunches quickly, if he came around;ashes from his cigarette would wind up in my food. Breakfast for him was vodka and water,. Fast forward to me standing in his living room; he has driven my mother because of verbal abuse to the State Mental Hospital. In those days, it was called a nervous breakdown. I thought hatred of him would flow from me. pity did instead, He looked broken,alone, ashamed, He looked up at me and said “well go ahead,Mr. Viet Nam veteran and college boy, let me have it!” Softly I said, ” I am here to offer my help nothing more. You need to own the past, then move on, change, tell Mom the chemicals,vodka made you act the way you did. Your,when sober, a great guy, It”s time you be him. His brown leather sofa was wet with his tears as he stood up shook my hand, hugged me and said “your a man now” “You left a boy, but you came back thinking before you speak.” My folks were together 25 years after that day. My stepfather stopped drinking. I still feel it”s best to listen than to talk.