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", I mean whereas I myself am barely making it as a babe in recovery myself once again, & you know like trying to pick up the pace upon making quite regular attendance to that being of some, or of such a.a./alcoholics'-anonymous, & sometimes n.a./narcotics-anonymous twelve-steps-&-twelve-traditions self-help-recovery-program meetings without somebody else breathing some, or such funk in my face whereas one's breath can, or could possibly become, or be just as much as threatening as a fist, hah-hah, heh-heh, yeah, just that damn bad, …& then I try to stop off at a comic-book-store as I myself am still into comics, yeah I know that being of the question could possibly be asked "what is a grown-up looking at comics for?", & as if I myself am the only one, I mean it is just another means of escapism unless I want to risk relapsing, & then get to escaping in a bottle, or a pipe once again, & I don't want to go into that being of the many times that I myself have relapsed, & that is a damn. I placed it as ’58 or ’59 looking at age of us kids and knowing my Grandfather died in early ’61 after a long stay in the hospital. He looked well in this picture. My Grandmother was smiling as she always did, but I suddenly felt cold. Putting the picture down, I noticed my hand was shaking. I’d had problems sleeping lately, but after seeing this picture, I was beginning to understand why. A memory lying dormant for years suddenly came rushing forward in my mind. * * * It was Christmas Eve of ’62 and my Grandmother had come to spend the holiday with us. She had a Pennsylvania Dutch background and that meant lots of food and cake and cookies for dessert. She arrived with container after container of cookies and pies she had baked over the previous months and had frozen for the visit. My older brother and little sister watched with delight as each container was brought in and stored in our parent’s room for the proper time and place for serving. I loved her very much, but it just.
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