I was once. And it’s no fun. It’s no fun at all. I was not young, married, one child in college, another in prison, and a third in another country. I had no sons-in-law. I had no father. My mother was 2000 miles away. I had no father-in-law. I had a mother-in-law.
I had no job except substitute teaching. My wife was substitute teaching. That meant we had no health coverage. We had small salaries tacked onto one another.
We lost our comfortable home for what I came to call “God’s tin can.” It was a makeshift trailer set alongside a woodsy road. The interior was dark fake wood walls and an orange carpet and drapes from the 50s. The front open canhad a screen that was busted halfway out. We were fortunate: we did have an indoor bathroomwith tub and showerand running water —hot and cold. We had a refrigerator and stove. Other than that, when the Maine snowstorms came to fill up much of the space around the trailer, we were banked in for sure.
It was at that time that I lost it.
I was so devastated by the circumstances by which I lost my job — loss of a middle class salary, health plan, house with garage — that I “cracked up.” There are clinical terms I could use but I’d prefer to stay with the street language on that one. It took me about an hour and a half to get it together each morning — emotionally, that is. That Christmas came and went; I don’t recall much of anything. I wasn’t much fun to be around. The next Christmas was the same.
