Sunday Mornin' Comin' UP

“Cowboys don’t cry!”

As a little kid, swaggering around in his twin-holstered cowboy outfit, I took that dictum to heart. In my twenties, jumping up on a sawhorse modified to hang sheetrock on ceilings, I wasn’t about to start showing weakness now.

Years passed, and understanding led me to a reconsideration of that simplistic macho attitude. As the Japanese song Sayonara sings to me, “There's no such thing as unnecessary tears, they're medicine to make you strong.” This from the homeland of Samurai warriors.

When Johnny Cash sang Kris Kristofferson’s Sunday Morning Comin’ Down, it struck a powerful chord within me, as if Kris had inhabited my suffering body. Sunday after Sunday, cursing the singing birds and ringing bells as I begged for “just another half hour of sleep” that my tortured nerves refused to allow me, waiting for the bar to open and provide the cure that makes you sick again. Hank’s advice to plan ahead was worthless. “Tomorrow morning’s Sunday, I know I’ll be feeling low, so please, please bartender, I want a Six-Pack to Go” (Thompson, H.). It sounded good, whooping it up on Saturday night, but was of little use as I didn’t run out of Saturday night until I ran out of beer. That poor little six-pack to go didn’t stand a chance of seeing the light of Sunday.

Some particular examples stand out, like a hot, humid August Sunday morning, on a nearly futile quest on the edge of downtown St. Paul, searching for an open eatery to sop up the excess stomach acid created by Saturday night’s alcohol bath, no dice. And now comes the beginning of the understanding of the microbiome. Imagine intoxicated bacteria trying to help me digest my food. And there are indications that our gut microbiome affects our moods as well!

Finally, relief in the form of a Fudgsicle from a corner grocery. Not much for nutrition, but it covered all the immediate needs: a cold, smooth, sugary boost for a brain depleted of glucose. Not that “nutrition” was a familiar concept to me at that time.

Phoenix, searching through a pile of pre-worn underwear on the closet floor, looking for the cleanest pair, previously worn by who knows which of the four of us. Mr. Kristofferson was fastidious compared to us. Surprisingly, we did quite well with the ladies. Of course, on Saturday night, alcohol didn’t exactly enhance any of their senses or their judgment. And, to the delight of cat-calling construction workers everywhere, the smell of a male’s unwashed T shirt led women to rate pictures of the same men more attractive than the control group rated the same pictures. Not being sexist here. Men subconsciously respond the same way to feminine scent. Pheromones, the external hormones (chemical messengers), trigger responses in animals and in the human animal as well.

On Saturday night in The Library bar near the ASU campus, jammed with healthy young animals with already overflowing hormones, the air was heavy with the triggers of scent and pulsing with rhythmic sound waves from the house band, as if alcohol needed any reinforcement.

I always loved the imagery in Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down even though it described a depressing aspect of my drinking life. That life only got more depressing as the song eventually came to describe what was for me, “every mornin’ comin’ down.” Sheetrocking that paid by the square foot rather than by the hour was fun and good money when clear-headed, but total misery under the influence of what came to be crippling hangovers. Concrete labor around rural South Dakota for poor money, all to pay a bar bill or a dealer to continue supplying me with the substances that were making my life miserable was even worse.

Nowadays, mornings at home, clear-headed, feeling frisky, music playing from my large collection of Classic Rock and Country, chills running up my spine and a trace of tears, evidence of overflowing positive emotions, no longer buried along with the uncomfortable feelings as I strove to become Comfortably Numb (Floyd, P), I can just sit back and appreciate the imagery, the "lonely bell” that wasn’t lonely at all, just evoking that lonely feeling in Kris as he remembered what was lost.

Although I rarely like a redo of a favorite song more than the original that I’ve permanently imprinted in my brain by repeated replays, and even though I am a big Johnny Cash fan and loved his version, I now listen to Kris’ rendition, backed by Steve Earle’s alternately haunting and piercing guitar, finding it even more powerful.

It is no longer clear why I was unable find my way out of that Groundhog Day life and continued to “repeat as necessary” all those long and lonely wasted years. Except that of course it was “necessary,” if I were going to take the edge off the misery. And taking off the edge was all that the repeating could accomplish after all that repetition had depleted my own natural, feel-good brain chemistry. There were to be no more ecstatic Every Night Is Saturday Night for Me (Davis, J E) experiences and none for Jesse Ed either, or any nights at all, for the Indian boy from OK, a respected session musician, who played alongside George and Eric at the Concert for Bangladesh. Dead at 44 at the hands of the usual suspects.

Now, retired, every morning is Sunday morning for me, but not the rugged experience described by Kris and remembered by me. It is my nature to wake up slow, but after I move around a bit, I’m on fire, reminding myself how rotten I used to feel with those crippling hangovers and vowing to stay clean and sober today. That brief reminder is the cheapest premium I pay on my recovery insurance and one of the most useful.

Before the world starts slapping me around and before I encounter an opportunity to make a big mistake, I’ve repeated my vows and reminded myself of my condition. No, I’m not being a victim or hung up on a label. I no more wish that I could drink than I wish that I had a malignant tumor growing inside me. I didn’t give up something precious to me! I escaped a life of empty promises, counterfeit rewards and lost opportunities just in the nick of time to ward off a future of sleeping under a bridge. I grieve no longer. I only care about being addicted to Alcohol and Other Drugs (AOD) in the same way I’d care if I was in remission from cancer. My Substance Use Disorder is a lurking rattlesnake that could strike at any time and poison this life I’ve worked so hard to rebuild. A new life packed with truly precious rewards, like time to spend with my mother.

We are privileged beyond belief to have our 94-year old mother not only still with us, but mentally sharper than I am and most people of any age. And I had the pleasure of spending a month with her this summer, where she is still living independently, thanks to the tireless efforts of our sister, who doesn’t consider all that she does an effort at all, just opportunities to enjoy the privilege of being with her mother.

One Sunday morning, Mom wanted to listen to the audio of a Billy Graham sermon on her Chromebook. After it was over, she wanted to hear How Great Thou Art, done by Carrie Underwood and Vince Gill, so we found her shortcut to it and she clicked it on, telling me there was a great guitar in it.

Mom! You Old Hippie!

I hadn’t heard them perform the song before, so this was the first time I heard Vince Gill’s guitar solo. He’s a highly respected guitar player, even by Eric Clapton, but being he is “modern” country, I haven’t heard that much of him. He did work with Pure Prairie League in the late Seventies, but I wasn’t familiar with their albums in that era either.  To really appreciate his guitar and Carrie’s vocals the hymn needs a better sound system than provided by her laptop. After I returned home, I listened again, playing it through my home stereo.

As we listened, I reached over to take Mom’s hand. I’ve been giving her more hugs than usual, not waiting for a hello or goodbye moment, even though my placement on the Asperger’s Syndrome continuum means I’m not much of a touchy feely type of guy.

As always, the song made me cry. The music, the words and the feelings they arouse has always given me a tickly feeling on my spine and brought a hint of tears to my eyes anyway. Now that hymn is also wrapped up with several other memories that build on that feeling. Sunday morning, there were soon tears flooding my eyes and sliding down my cheeks.

After Carrie belted out her vibrant, vocal cord and soul-searing crescendo, I told Mom my story about the time Linda watched Designing Women on a Sunday morning as I listened from the kitchen while I cooked my weekly batches of swill and cereal. One of the story lines concerned Julia practicing How Great Thou Art to sing in church, but being afraid to try and hit the “big sound” at the end. Her pastor kept encouraging her to go for it or to at least practice it so she would be ready if she had an impulse to try. Of course her performance was the show’s finale and she hit the big finish in full stride.

I pulled away from the Linda connection here, and began speaking parenthetically (just like I think and write) to tell her about my oldest grandchild’s experience singing in public for the first time at her high school graduation. The staff had heard Amanda singing around the Right Turn Alternative School and asked her to sing. Never having sung in public before, as the day approached, she understandably started to get cold feet. I told her that I was not going to push her to perform, but I insisted that she continue to practice as if she were going to follow through. After all, I had invested $50 in a microphone to run through my stereo amplifier and found a karaoke version of I Hope You Dance on the internet so she could rehearse. She continued to practice and showed up intending to sing.

She was standing in front of 200 people wearing a graduation gown, mortar board on her head, when they realized they had a problem with the sound system. They tinkered and tinkered until someone noticed it wasn’t plugged in, but she faced the audience and stuck it out. And did a wonderful job, in her own sweet voice and unique “phrasing.”

The song includes lines like “I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,” and “I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,” that evoke the mood of How Great Thou Art. Listening as I taped the ceremony brought tears to my eyes that night and again as I reminisced with Mom. And yet again as I write this passage and others in this piece.

Returning to Julia on the TV, I told Mom how she had gathered up her courage and belted out that crescendo like she owned it, tears welling up again as I pictured Linda sitting on the couch as I came into the living room to hear the music, as I’ve always loved that hymn. The words “all the worlds Thy hands have made,” reinforced by emotions driven by the peaking music, always take me back to that “awesome wonder” I felt as a child, lying on my back in my grandparents' farm-yard late at night, stars, undimmed by so much as a yard light in those pre-electric times, so brilliant, so far away, yet feeling so close, a sense that I could fall into them and be one with this universe that I belonged in, a feeling that I tried to recapture as I grew older and more cynical, new hormones emerging in ragged bursts that ambushed me and stole away the happiness of my childhood, while my emotional maturity lagged far behind.

Alcohol and all the drugs that followed gave me fleeting glimpses of “belonging” and promised to be there for me always, but they lied in the most convincing manner, tapping into the reward circuits in my brain designed to tell me, “that was useful to your survival. Do it again.” No, that is 180 degrees off course, but coming from the reptile brain that has correctly told me to breathe countless times and flooding my brain that first time with dopamine far beyond that generated by useful behavior, I wasn’t inclined to question the message. Or fail to seek that pleasurable feeling again and again, always seeking the mountain top I stood upon the first time, even when I had reached a canyon floor so deep I couldn’t climb out of it, no matter the quantity consumed.

For Linda’s memorial service, seemingly short years later, I asked our Clinical Psychologist to sing as I had heard her sing and knew she had a beautiful and powerful voice. I asked her to sing How Great Thou Art, which she readily agreed to do.

I shared the story of how Linda and I had listened to it together, to explain why I wanted to hear that one, but I didn’t want to put her on the spot about the finale, so I didn’t mention that. I wasn’t surprised, but I was pleased when she belted out that ending full force. Many more tears were flowing at her service and again a month later at another service when it was played on a piano and again that Sunday morning with Mom, when I choked out that story, my tears building in intensity, like the words and notes in the hymn.

Because I overanalyze things, even my emotions, I told Mom of how I had always throttled my tears. After all, cowboys don’t cry. I took that attitude into Rehab with me, but it became harder to maintain the behavior as withdrawal had my ragged nerves on edge anyway and negative feelings I had only thought I’d drowned, surfaced. The treatment program purposely tried to elicit strong negative feelings about drinking with films like Soft is the Heart of a Child. After that one, I had to bolt for the bathroom as the lights came on and try to dab away tears without further reddening my eyes, a condition I never worried about when smoking weed.

A week later, we had a guest lecturer, who talked about the uses of tears and explained that tears shed to flush out irritants, like onion fumes, are chemically different than the tears shed to flush out the stress chemicals we produce in reaction to strong emotions. Corrosive steroids are necessary to empower our body to “fight or flee” as the case may be, but nevertheless are damaging our health as they cascade through our body. 

I decided right then, I wasn't a cowboy anyway and this sheetrocker at least was going to remember that even a sheetrock-axe-swinging rocker doesn't have to choke off a useful natural function when he feels the rising tide within. 

Tears leak out now as I remember both Sunday mornings and the memories called up by How Great Thou Art, then and now, feeling the music vibrate every molecule in my body, as I listen while I write. 

Tears of joy for the memories of the good times, intermingled with tears for my losses and theirs, whether of life or abilities. Powerful medicine, “medicine to make me strong,” giving me strength to do my part in caring for my mother, grand- and great-grandchild, like the strong but loving hands of my mother and grandmothers who cared for me when I was a helpless infant.