​"To everything there is a season," begins Ecclesiastes' author.  His advice has offered untold shards of wisdom to myriads of people for eons. 

Eight weeks ago, my editing hiatus began with joining a "Street Rodder" magazine road tour with the renown Jerry Dixey as leader.  Thirty drivers traveled highways and byways in mostly modified fat fender cars and trucks.  We drove from Lincoln, Nebraska, to the Street Rod Nationals in Louisville, Kentucky, stopping along the way at various venues of interest to us hot rod, custom car, and truck buffs.  Road tour attendees hailed from many states.  In Louisville, I stayed at a motel with three road tour drivers and their wives from South Dakota and Minnesota, plus Larry, an Air Force veteran from Lone Star, Texas.  Larry's a mechanical genius. 

In past road tours, I have chosen to be a loner, (last year, I traveled with my younger brother) but this year the folks at the motel insisted I become a part of their group.   I'm grateful they did; I enjoyed them immensely.  Since then, I encountered a personal change of seasons and a freedom I've not known.  Mornings have belonged to me, not to editing Gordy's diary entries.  I finally reasoned that either Gordy's story must be finished, or I am lazy.  I chose "Story finished."

Gordy left the "Crazy House," joined the Navy, and eventually rose above his anger and grief, prompted by a raging, alcoholic father and a mother who couldn't change her husband, no matter how hard she tried.  In the end, the tea-totaling woman became sicker than her husband, long after his death. 

Living with uncertainty, insanity, and violence as a boy, Gordy resolved as an adult that it was never too late to enjoy a happy childhood.  He survived, and surviving is winning, a conclusion his editor made ever since I was held hostage in a prison riot and came out of it, alive.  I was offered a second, third, fourth or even a twenty-fifth chance at life—who knows how many?  But being alive and the ability to change negative behaviors into positive ones besides changing life's directions have been reward enough. 

Thank you, dear readers, for being Gordy's fans.  I have appreciated each of you immensely.

Dear Reader,

Gordon has covered some very disquieting topics in his recent blogs. These have taken their toll and Gordon needs to take a break.

He promises to return on September 2nd.  I recommend you put that date on your calendar so as not to forget.
                                                                                   Sincerely,
                                                                                    The Webmaster

One evening, I arrive home twenty-five minutes late. Mother's waiting behind the front door and surprises me with a two by four she slams to my back. I fall to my knees. "You killed me," I cry out.

"Good," she screams.

I can hardly breathe as I make my way to the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, I tell my reflection I can't wait until after I'm eighteen years old to join the Navy. It must be now or never. She must sign for me, or else. So, during school lunch period the next day, instead of walking around several city blocks, smoking cigarettes with Harvey Patterson, I head to the school's parking lot and head the old 2-door sedan to Abel's Standard Station, which used to be Len Habeck's place, and fill it up with gasoline. I use the station's telephone to call Mother at the courthouse where she works.

"Just a sec," a lady who answers the phone, "I'll get her for you."

"Hello," Mother answers.

"Are you going to sign the papers, so I can join the Navy?"

"I am not."

"Then, I'm getting the hell out of here."

"Gordon, I—"

I slam the phone on its cradle. Shaking with anger and frustration, I peer outdoors through the fogged, sweat-beaded plate glass window with an electric fan aimed at it so employees can see through to the "islands" where the gas pumps stand. The warning bell doesn’t work in this kind of weather, which is Wisconsin miserable. It's cold, windy, and snowing. I don't know where I'm going. I should head south, but instead steer the car east on Baker Street, which is Highway 54, because eventually it'll lead me to Highway 41, our major north-south highway.

I don't want to come back to this place. Ever. The car slips and slides. I'm going too fast, I know. No matter, after I drive over the viaduct and pass the cemetery where Dad is buried, I impatiently pass a car. My car’s rear end starts to fishtail. I fight the steering wheel. I'm not in control. The ice is. Oh, oh. A moment later, I'm staring at the driver of the car I just passed. Unbelievably, I'm heading in reverse at fifty miles an hour. I turn my head to look back. I don't know why I because all I can do is hang on. As if it has a mind of its own, the car's rear end jerks sharply into the other lane, down a ditch, and up a snow-covered residential lawn. I think we're going to hit a house. We're heading straight for its front door. "Fumf." Just like that, the car stops. So, too, does the engine. Alive, and grateful I am, I exit the car to inspect the damage. Thank goodness, as far as I can see, there are no dents plus there’s no debris. The passenger's side rear wheel hit a concrete block and settled against it. It saved me.

I get back in the car, shut the door, start the engine, turn on windshield wipers, headlights, and a little fan that acts as the windshield’s defroster, make my way slowly to the driveway, and return to Highway 54, heading west. I drive sensibly. I don't want to die in a car accident. I'm too young for that. I want to get away from the Crazy House and the woman who claims she's my mother. That's all.

I turn south on Highway 51 and head to Wautoma, eventually to Highway 21 and finally the car and I are on 41. It's starting to get dark. "Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue," I say aloud as if I’m an old prospector who discovers a strip of gold in a cave I’ve prospected for years. The idea pops into my head from nowhere. "That's where I'm going: Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue," I sing and then happily whistle, adding another stanza to my ditty. "Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue: It's for me, yes sir-ee."

Racine, Wisconsin, is going to be the first stop on my way south. Aunt Marie, Uncle George, and three cousins live on 1012 Hayes Avenue. They include Mary Lee, Mike, and George, whose nickname is "Buddy.” It's been three years since I last visit them, but I'm certain Aunt Marie will let me stay one night at their place. I'm not so certain about Uncle George because I suspect he's never liked me.

On my earlier visits there, I discover quickly that Aunt Marie's extremely religious. Every night before the family goes to sleep, she calls the kids and me into her and Uncle George's bedroom. We get down on our knees and make the sign of the cross. The first night, after leading the recitation of an entire rosary, Aunt Marie says, "We will now pray for the repose of Uncle Jim's soul." Although I pray along with them, I wonder who Uncle Jim is.

"Who's Uncle Jim?" I later ask in the boys' bedroom where a day bed is placed temporarily for me.

"That's your father, dumbbell," says Mike, laughing. "Didn't you know that?"

I say nothing. I certainly don't laugh.

It's Buddy who I come to trust implicitly. During the first week of my visit, he, Mike, and I go down the basement where I open some of Uncle George's scotch and wine bottles and sip from each. Both cousins laugh but neither join me in taste-testing their father's hooch. It doesn't take Aunt Marie long to discover the missing booze. She questions Buddy. He denies drinking the stuff. His mother asks him if he knows who the culprit is. "Yes," Buddy answers.

"Then, tell me who it is."

"I can't."

He could say it was I, but he doesn't. Aunt Marie drives Buddy to a church rectory to visit a priest. Maybe, she figures, the good Father wearing a Roman collar can scare some sense into the boy. I later learn Buddy tells the priest he didn't do the dirty deed but refuses to name the culprit. When my aunt and Buddy return home, Mike and I are on the front porch as Buddy, without a peep, passes us by—straight to his and Mike's upstairs bedroom, minus his evening meal. Mike and I giggle. I know I shouldn't have, but I don't want Aunt Marie to suspect I'm the perp. Buddy gives us a dirty look but still says nothing. Obviously, he's no snitch.

If, on the other hand, Aunt Marie questioned Mike and took him to see the priest, instead, I'm certain he would've named me besides embellishing the story, and calling for a speedy trial before a hanging judge. Mike would've supplied the rope and picked a tree with a branch strong enough for carrying out the judge's sentence. I'm also certain Aunt Marie eventually discovers I'm the guilty party. She never says a thing, though.

Interestingly, I hadn't wet the bed in the Crazy House since after Dad's death, but when I visit Racine, I wake up, soaking wet. I say nothing but make the bed as neat as can be. Finally, one morning after Aunt Marie hand-grinds coffee beans in the kitchen, I whisper, "I wet the bed." I begin to cry.

"No problem, Gordy" she says, bringing me to her, hugging me hard, backing up, and wearing a great big smile. "That's what washing machines are for.

​Sister Lawrence dismisses class on Friday afternoon but says to me, "Gordon, would you please remain?" I stop. "Does your bicycle have a basket?"
 
"Yes, Sister."
 
"Good, do you think you can bring your bike to the convent tomorrow morning? Come at nine if you can, and I'll let you know what I'd like you to do."
 
"Okay."
 
"Okay, what?" Sister Lawrence smiles again.  
 
"Okay, Sister."
 
Sister nods and smiles. 
 
Although I don't wet the bed anymore, I still rise before everyone else and eat two bowls of Rice Krispies before Mother comes into the kitchen. She's followed by Little Pete who doesn't say much and Crazy Annie, who jabbers all the time. 
 
My two older brothers remain in bed on Saturdays almost until noon. That's because on Friday nights Doc III's out with Eunice Bankenbush. Will-yum, if not with Skip Wefel, is with Skip's younger sister, Sandy. She blabs all the time. 
 
"Why do you keep looking at that clock on the stove?" inquires my nosy sister.
 
"Because I have to be at the convent by nine; that's why, Miss Nosy Pants."
 
"Mother, did you hear what Gordy called me?"
 
"I heard, but you have to learn to fight your own battles."
 
"See?" I say to my sister. "Nah, nah, yah-nah-nah."
 
Mother gives me the evil eye. "Why are you going?" 
 
"Sister Lawrence wants me to do something."
 
"Meaning?"
 
I shrug. "I'll let you know after I do it." So, I head outdoors, pick up the Schwinn, and ride down the Old Grove hill. Since the ride takes only two minutes, I decide to watch polliwogs in the cattail marsh below the hill. I get a kick out of the little black squiggles and watch them until I think it must be nine. 
 
At the convent and up the stairs, I ring the doorbell. Opening the door, Sister Lawrence greets me with her softness. "Good morning, Gordon. It's so good of you to come, and I see your bike has a basket."
 
"Yes, Sister."
 
"Good, I'd like you to go downtown to the Superette, two doors away from Schroeder's Five and Dime. Do you know which store I'm talking about?"
 
"Yes, Sister."
 
"Good, tell the store's owner I sent you there. He'll give you fruit and vegetables you'll put in your basket. Then, return here. I'll be waiting for you."
 
"Is that all, Sister?"
 
She smiles. "That's it. Be on your way now, and I'll wait for your return."
 
So, I head the Schwinn to Fourth Street and ride on the sidewalk next to the river wall. I stop to watch the carp, swimming lazily in the coffee-colored river, chomping on poop that comes out of a huge drain pipe in which I could stand straight up without hitting my head. Their swallowing poop is reason enough to never eat carp. Some men spear and smoke them and tell everyone, "Ummmmm, they taste good." Don't believe them. 
 
A huge snapping turtle, about half the size of a bathtub, tries to join the carp. At once, the fish glide away. Unlike me, the snapper won't mind dining on poop-eating carp. Next, a swarm of little kids approach my spot, jump up, hold on, and lean over the wall. They all go, "Ooooh" and "Ahhh, look at all those fish. Hey, see that turtle? Yeah. He could kill you with one bite." 
 
I mount the bike and ride the to the store. "Where's the owner?" I ask the lady at the second checkout counter. This store has only two checkout counters. The A&P across the river has four or five. 
 
The bespectacled, not too pretty lady with bright red lipstick, bottle-blonde hair, and an upper gold front tooth, snaps a wad of gum a couple of times before she says, "He's in the produce department, most likely. He's wearing a white apron." 
 
"A white apron, you say?"
 
"That's what I said, Sonny-boy, snap, snap." 
 
What a charmer. I spy him in the produce department, wearing a white apron. He has a round face, black hair, and wears glasses with black plastic rims."Can I help you?" he asks.
 
"Uhm, I'm Gordy Hoffman. I'm in the seventh grade at SS Peter and Paul. My teacher, Sister Lawrence, sent me here."
 
He has three gold teeth, two on top, one on the bottom. "Oh, yes. I was expecting someone, but not as young as you. How do you expect to carry bags of carrots, potatoes, and oranges?"
 
"My bike has a big basket." 
 
"Okay, that might work," he says, turning to a bin of oranges, picking and restacking perfectly-colored, round ones. Those with flat spots and brown blotches, he dumps into a large paper sack. At best, they're second cousins to totally rotten oranges. He grabs another bag and fills them with potatoes in about the same shape as the oranges. He squeezes them. Most are soft and squishy and have plenty of sprouting eyes. Next, he fills a bag with limp carrots. "Where's your bike?"
 
"Out front."
 
He lifts two bags. "You carry that one. Watch out. It's heavy." I follow him out the store. "Put your bag down," he says. I do so. "Here's what I want you to do. Mount your bike, stand over it, and hold on to the handlebars. I'll put the bags in your basket, Okay?"  
 
I return to the convent without stopping to gaze at the poop-eating carp. Braking in front of the nun's manor, I straddle the bike and set down one bag at a time on the sidewalk. Looking up, I see my smiling teacher at the open door and figure it must be cleaning time because she and three other nuns with her wear striped Navy blue and white smocks over their habits. All four nuns marvel with utmost glee as they behold the nearly rotten produce. "Oranges," one declares. "Thank you, Jesus."
 
They remind me of kids, opening gifts on Christmas morning. When I get home, I tell Mother about the nearly rotten fruit and vegetables. Mother says, "Do you see how happy those nuns are? There's good reason. They devote their life to serving God."
 
"I think God should reward them with fresh food."
 
Mother laughs.
 
 
 
 
 

​Sister Lawrence announces after morning prayers, "Our new church building is going to be consecrated in two weeks.  Bishop Treacy, the bishop of our La Crosse diocese, will be here to sanctify the church.  All altar boys must see me after class.  I need to know what size cassock and surplice you wear."  She turns to eye me.  "Gordon, I don't think you've served as an altar boy yet, have you?"

"No, Sister."

Some boys smirk.  (During lunch period on the playground, a brigade of them, including Eddie Matthews, Louie Narel, John Donegan, Cecil Salzman, Phillip Murphy, Barry Parmeter, Jim Balzer, and Johnny Kluge, whose father was killed in World War II, tell me, "You should answer the penguins as we do, with a, "No, Stir" or "Yes, Stir." 

Louie Abler laughs.  "That's stupid, Gordon.  Don't listen to them."  

"I agree," announces George Casey.  

Returning to Sister Lawrence as she addresses me.  "Would you like to be an altar boy?"

"Yes." 

"Yes, what?" Sister wears her beatific smile, but still insists I follow protocol.  

"Yes, Sister."  I don't seek another group sneer but fully expect it.  I'm not let down.  

I meet with the saintly nun after school is let out.  She pronounces the Latin phrases I must learn to be a full-fledged altar boy.  After she pronounces each group of words, I follow suit.  "You're really good at this," she remarks.  

"Thank you, Sister.  I like learning new words each month in our Readers Digest magazine.  

"The Word Power page?" she inquires.

"Yes, Sister.  Anyway, Latin is easy to pronounce if I remember to sound out the vowels properly.  Latin A's sound like our Ah's.  E's sound like our long A's, and I's sounds like long E's."

"That's correct.  You're an apt student, Gordon."

"Thank you, Sister."    

"How'd you like to serve mass before classes next week in church?  Louis Abler will help you."

Now, it's my turn to smile.  "Louie's my friend."

"Yes, he told me."  She is so comfortable that she prompts me to feel the same way.  Unlike Mother, Sister Lawrence is 'steady as she goes'.  There are no emotional outbursts from Sister Mary Lawrence, SSND, School Sister of Notre Dame.

"But are you sure I can serve?  I mean it's awfully fast."

She smiles.   I love that smile.  "No doubt about it, Gordon.   Next week, you'll serve at our morning masses in the church.  The week after that, I expect you to serve in our convent's chapel."  A moment later she added, "Alone, that is."

"Alone?"  I needed to pee.  

"The convent masses are at five-thirty."

"In the morning?"  She nods.  I breathe in a ton of air.  "That's awfully early."

"Not for us sisters," she says, wearing a Mona Lisa grin.  

So, Louie explains everything on Saturday in front of Turbin's grocery store and before mass on Monday.  There's a full-length mirror in the sanctuary.  I investigate what I look like, wearing a cassock.  "I look like a priest," I tell Louie.  Next, I put on the surplice, the white shirt-like piece over the cassock.   "Now, I look like an altar boy."  

"You nervous?" asks Louie.

"Yeah."  

"Don't worry.  When you ring the bells, give 'em hell," he says with a chuckle.  

After mass, Monsignor C. W. Gille tells me, "This is the first time you served mass, right?"

"Yes, Monsignor."

"You did well although you don't have to ring the bells so loud, do you?"

Louie laughs when I tell him what Monsignor says.  "Gille's the only priest who drinks all the wine from the wine cruet.  And to top that, he uses the least amount of water.  He's most likely nursing a hangover.  Keep ringing 'em the way you did, okay?"

On Friday, serving mass seems almost second nature.  I'm looking forward to serving in the Convent.  "How do I find the chapel?" I ask Sister Lawrence.

"You must ring the front doorbell each morning.  The nun assigned to answering the door will open the door, let you in, and lead you quietly to our chapel."

That's exactly the way it plays out Monday morning.  The birds sing cheerfully as I ride the Schwinn to the convent, kick down the kickstand, and park the bike, minus both fenders and chain guard, alongside the concrete stairway.

I climb the stairs, hit the doorbell button, and wait.  The tall, almost hunch-backed, Sister Julius pops open the door, waves me indoors, and leads me down some stairs.  Shortly, I'm in an all-white, tiny chapel with an altar and everything.  Sister points to the left of the altar where a doorway leads into a small room.  "Father's in the sacristy," she whispers.

"Thank you, Sister," I whisper back.

"Good morning," Father Smith says aloud to me.  

"Good morning, Father."  He must think he's good looking.  He either gazes in the mirror and pats his hair in place or cleans his finger nails with the file tip of one of those new-fangled fingernail clippers.  His eyes don't meet mine, and his nails don't look dirty.  

I put on cassock and surplice.  I look around.  I'm nervous.  "Umm, Father?"

The priest digs under a nail but does not look at me.  "Yes?"

"Where's the bell, Father?"

He points.  My eyes follow the finger.  Nearby on a small, white shelf, I see a teeny, tiny bell, shiny and silver in color, most likely chromium-plated.  Although it has a long, thin handle, ten such bells might grow to be large enough to take the place of the church's three-bell affair. 

Father harrumphs.  I turn to him.  Oops.  He wears his biretta, the square black hat with three peaks and a black ball of yarn in the cap's center, just like those mother crochets for Crazy Annie's winter jibbers.   Monsignor's biretta tuft is purple.  Father Smith holds the chalice covered with paten and green silk cloth, matching the color of his vestments.  I grab the bell.  Father nods.  I ring the teeny thing as hard as I can and lead the short, two-step march to the altar, Father Smith following.  I kneel.  The mass starts.  

Later that afternoon, alone with Sister Lawrence, I'm shocked.  She guffaws as loud as can be.  "What's wrong, Sister?"

"Oh," she says, the part of her face I can see turns red.  "When you rang the bell this morning, announcing mass, I thought to myself, "Now, we're awake."  More guffaws.

"What are you talking about, Sister?"

Her body shakes with laughter.  "All the nuns, including me."

As Mother raises each dish, pot, pan, and silverware piece from the kitchen sink's soapy, hot water, she scrubs one at a time, pours hot water over them, and hands each piece to me for towel drying.  "Mom?" 

”Yes?"

I hesitate.  "Ummmmm."

"What do you want, Gordon?"  As usual, Mother is impatient.  As I expected.

"It's difficult."

Mother rubs her right cheek with a forearm, water dripping on the black and white linoleum floor.  "What's difficult?"

"To say what I want to say."

"I'm your mother.  You can say anything to me, that is, within reason."

The conversation moves as I planned.  "Dad didn't want us going to Catholic school, but now that he's no longer, you know—with us—can I attend Saints Peter and Paul instead of Howe?"

"I'd call that a downright shock, Gordon, a bolt of lightning out of the sky."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because all these years, you've been calling SS Peter and Paul students, 'Cat Lickers.'  Give me one good reason why I should permit you to change schools."

I won't tell her I want to avoid summer school plus Saturday morning Baltimore Catechism classes I must attend during the nearly nine months I attend public school.  (Who made you?  God made me.  Why did God make you?  To know, love, and serve him.)   

"Just because."  

"Just because is not an answer.  Give me one good reason."

"Bobby and Jimmy Kell and Louie Abler go there."

Arms akimbo, Mother glares.  "Don't push your mother, Gordon.  I've plenty of things on my plate."

"Which one, home plate or this one?"  I display the China piece I'm drying.  

"That's enough, Mister Thorndike Dictionary, or you'll be attending the Green Bay Reform School, if I have anything to say about it."

"Yes, Ma'am."

* * * * * 

Mother shows me a letter from School Principal Sister Mary Laurentia.  I am assigned Sister Mary Lawrence as my seventh-grade teacher.  

On the first day of school, I half-stumble down Old Grove hill as I’m accompanied by Bobby, Jimmy, and Henhouse Helen Kell. "You're lucky you didn't get Beaky," says Bobby.

I laugh.  "Beaky?"

"Yeah, Sister Mary Rose," laughs Jimmy.  

"Everyone calls her Beaky," remarks Henhouse.  "And I mean everyone."

"The other nuns, too?" I ask.

"No, not them."  

We giggle.  Still, I feel queasy.  Did I make the right decision?  Soon, we're at the school building.  Up the stairs, I tag along with Bobby and Jimmy who point out my classroom before they head to their eighth-grade classroom.  I enter my assigned classroom and approach the only empty student desk, the one in the rear of row three.  "Are you in the right room?" asks the kid across from me in row two.

"I think so."  I shrug.

Soon, a boy runs up and down the hallway, his hand pumping the black handle of a brass bell.  "Ka-lang, ka-lang, ka-lang."

A moment later, Sister Mary Lawrence glides effortlessly and silently into our classroom.  She's just there.  A miracle.  She doesn't walk in.  Of that, I'm certain.  She either rides on silent, rubber wheels or flies low.  Stopping in the front, center of the room, she smiles.  "Stand, please." 

We stand.  Sister and students make the sign of the cross together.  I'm seconds behind them.  They recite the Lord's prayer.  I stumble over words.  I don't think anyone notices.  After reciting the Hail Mary, we pledge allegiance to the flag.  

"Sit."   We students sit.  "I suppose you noticed," says the nun, "our new student.  Please stand, Gordon."

I look around for another Gordon.  A moment later, I know she's talking about me.  I stand.

"Students, this is Gordon Hoffman."   

The kids applaud.  

During recess, Louie Abler tells me our teacher is the nicest, easiest-going nun he's ever known.  I’m certain  the serene and gentle of voice nun is graciousness and beauty personified. 

* * * * *

After lunch, we study grammar.  Sister calls on individual students to approach the blackboard and diagram a sentence she slowly repeats until the entire sentence is on the blackboard.  This is the first time I see such schematics.  I am both stunned and intrigued.  

During the first week, we have a spelling bee.  I'm not the last student standing.  SSPP students are smarter than Howe students or better taught.  Or both.  

I was blind-folded.  My ankles were chained and secured with a padlock.  I wore handcuffs.  I was tied to large oxygen and acetylene tanks.  Many rioters demanded my death.  "We're gonna blow you up, and you're gonna go up lak Mighty Mouse, Mutha Fuckah," one rioter yelled.  Other rioters laughed.  A cadre of men protested killing me because every inmate involved in the riot in that prison school would be charged with first degree murder.

I was that close to meeting death at Wisconsin's maximum security male prison in Waupun.  Thankfully, a convicted double-murderer, a black man, stood on top of a steel table and warned the others what a life term meant.  He was doing two.  "You're only camping here.  This is my home.  This is every murderer's home."  

"Amen to that, brother," a half dozen convicted murderers yelled, "Do you really want this prison to be your home?" 

As if he knew what was taking place in the school, Correctional Officer Major Randy Kahelski, a big Polack known for his fairness and candor, stood on the concrete below and gave rioters the ultimatum:  "Come down, one at a time, with your hands up, and we won't kill you."

"What do you mean by that?" a rioter screamed.

"I mean," said Kahelski, "you either stop this bullshit right now or face your imminent death."

Most rioters chose life.  The minority had to go along, or they faced death—not at the hands of correctional officers, either.     

The next morning, I felt a strong need to talk to anyone about what happened, but who could I talk to?  Nobody.  Nobody would understand.

About two weeks passed when a state psychologist in Corrections, assigned to deal with hostages, approached me.  I didn't know who he was.  Dark eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, a murky beard, he wore a warm smile.  “Are you Mister Hoffman, the Education Director?”

"I am."

"You were a hostage in the riot, weren't you?"

"Who are you?"

He introduced himself.  Showed me his state identification card.  

"Yes," I told him, "I was a hostage."

"So, how are you doing now, Mister Hoffman?"

"Not so well." 

His eyebrows twitched.  "What seems to be the problem?"

"Nervous.  Can't sleep.  I'm drinking too much."   

"How much is too much, Mister Hoffman?"

"Gordon.  My name is Gordon."

"Okay, Gordon.  Sorry about that."

"No problem.  This past weekend, I polished off a fifth of Jack Daniels and then started another."

"You might want to talk to a counselor."

"How about you?"

"No, but I have someone in mind.  Do you care if the counselor is female?"  

"No, why?"

He shrugged and smiled.  "Just asking."

Three weeks later, I was in her Madison, Wisconsin, office.  She told me she had a straightforward down-to-earth approach to problem solving.  Besides that, I found the brunette, brown-eye woman to be engaging.  We chatted for a while about my riot experience when I said, "They shouldn't have done that to me."

"Who shouldn’t have done that to you?" 

"My parents." 

Neither of us said another word for a troubling time.  Finally, she spoke.  "Gordon, did you say, 'My parents'?"

I didn't answer.   I couldn't answer.  I wouldn’t answer.  'Why did I say that?'

So, I said aloud, "Are you certain I said, 'My parents'?"

"Yes, I’m certain, Gordon."

"That's not what I meant.  What I really meant to say were the inmates.  The inmates.  They shouldn't have done what they did to me."

"No, Gordon, you didn't say that, and I don't think you meant it, either.  When I asked who shouldn’t have done that to you, you said, 'My parents.'  It’s as simple as that."

After waiting in mucky discomfort, I finally said, "I guess they shouldn't have done what they did to me, either."

"What did your parents do to you, Gordon?"

I couldn't tell her.  I wouldn't tell her.  It was too long ago.  Besides, who in his right mind would continue digging when he was already in a deep hole and couldn't get out?  I had neither ladder or someone above to toss me a rope.  "I'll have to think about that," I said.  

I laughed.  Why did I laugh?

"You’re laughing."

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"Why are you sorry, Gordon?"

I sat in the electric chair, waiting for the henchman to throw the switch.  "You're pressuring me," I said.  

She waited.  

“I feel like a hostage again.”  

"Yes, Gordon, I am pressuring you.  I think you gave me that unfiltered answer because—"  

“Why'd you stop?” 

"Gordon, I think you need to talk about what your parents did to you."

"I'm forty-three years old, for Chrissake.  Why would I would I want to talk about them?  I have three kids of my own.  My father, a medical doctor, died when I turned twelve years old.  My mother's still living.  We get along fine.  Pursuing a past relationship with them doesn't make any sense."

I thought she was going to cry.  She didn't.  "It could make sense to you, Gordon, if you'd be willing to talk about them, but I think that's enough for now."  

She reached over to her desktop and grabbed what turned out to be an appointment book.  She wrote in it and looked up to me.  "How about the same time next week?"

"We're finished already?  Seems awfully short to me."

"It's been over an hour, Gordon."

"It has?  Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Okay," I said.  Sighing, I stood.  "See you next week, then."

“Good,” she said.

Nervousness.  Sleepless nights.  Drinking.  They continued.  I didn't keep my appointment the next week.  I didn't need counseling.