My father is an alcoholic. That, in and of itself, is not an extraordinary fact. But for the purposes of this telling, it's a "need to know". His drinking affected my life in ways I will probably never understand. But there are some things I can look back on and see a direct relationship between the drinking and the memory. One such memory is The Freeway Angel.

There were five of us in my immediate family. The usual Mother and Father plus my older brother and younger sister. The "family" isn't much bigger than the five of us. We didn't see my mother's family much and my father's family consisted of his father and a sister. The sister, a Superior Court judge, lived in San Francisco. And we didn't see her but once or maybe twice a year, the holidays. She was older, more successful and quite obviously - my grandfather's favorite. I'm sure this favoritisim didn't make my father's life much easier. And doing the "holidays" must certainly have been a chore for him.

My father didn't much show emotion, at least not the bad ones. (I was "lucky" enough to pick up that trait from him.) Christmas and Thanksgiving "family" meals were certainly a time to be jolly and not say anything to upset his father. Drinking was something he does every day of his life. The holidays were certainly no different. My adult mind can think back and theorize that the strain of being with his father and sister led him to drink more, but my child mind just sat numb, wishing he would stop, knowing what was inevitable.

After an evening of forced words, hidden emotions, and too much drink, we would say our goodnights and walk to the car. The memory here is vague, but I am sure my mother would put up some resistence at my father's desire to drive. At least, I want to remember it that way, even if it's not the case. My father would not budge, though, and we would all take our places in the car.

My brother, who spent most of his growing up years screaming at me and hitting me any chance he could get, would sit on my left, quiet. My sister, who often crawled under the tables in the house when things got scary, sat on my right. My place was the middle. The perfect vantage point to see my mother's face, completely emotionless, seemingly not caring about what was to happen. A turn of my head, I'd see my father's glazed eyes, looking down, trying to pick out the car key. A few moments later we'd be on the road.

As an adult, I don't wear a watch, and I didn't as a child. But I can tell you, without question, how long forty-five minutes is. It takes forty-five minutes to get from San Francisco to my hometown. It takes forty-five minutes to sing Amazing Grace in your head 15 times. It takes forty-five minutes to recite the Our Father 90 times. I'd sing Amazing Grace, recite the Our Father, reconstruct sit-com plots, go over my skating routines in my head, anything to pass the time, whatever it took. I had to do "something" to keep myself alive, to keep my mind off the fact that my father's eyes drooped. I had to keep myself from noticing the car swearving a little too close to the median strip, or the car on the right.

And then it would happen. I'd look to my right and see The Freeway Angel. The Freeway Angel was this huge statue of a praying angel that some wacky old couple owned. They had built a housing for it in the middle of this hillside surrounded by trees. A person could only see the angel for a few brief moments before passed it, and then hillside obscured the view.

Once passed, the car went over a small rise and began the descent into the valley below. We were now mere moments from being home. And I was safe.

The Freeway Angel was a beacon for me. Proof that I was going to be all right.

As I've grown older, there have been other beacons in my life. But none so sure, none so reassuring. I'm searching for a lot of things now, but I can never give up hope that I'll find another Freeway Angel.