Oh yes I was. I came from a family, some of whom, at least on my father’s immediate side were for lack of a better word, cracked.

It was the drink that got them.

They say my uncle Bill, Dads brother, who had TB, locked himself in his room and sadly, drank himself to death.

While, much later my father did himself in with a gradual, slow sort of consumptive denial until he too died but not before he he made himself and his family desperately unhappy.

Now what about me, you may ask. I had my ways and I had my days both good and bad. And then, fortunately, I cracked and as Leonard Cohen says

Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

Thats’s how the light gets in

That’s how the light gets in

Cracked. Open. Yes. But not entirely,

I was the secret, schrouded, kind of cracked.

This stretches back to my grandfather, an Irish/ Scotch road builder who created the roads for the Worlds Fair. I never knew the man but they say he was a big drinker and known for taking his road crew for some big nights out on the town after a hard days work. My father who lost his mother when he was only ten, trailed after his dad till he was almost eighteen.

He learned from his dad,


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