Flotsam & Jetsam

Isn't that a cute car? I thought it was an old Simca, but the doors make me skeptical. I spotted it on my way to work the other day. It's like a retro version of the smart car. Note the way the front doors open.
(Update: it's a Fiat! Click here for photo evidence)

This post is just a collection of accumulated photos. Bits & pieces from here & there, like debris afloat in the sea. The next three pictures were taken on a day trip to North Carolina last Saturday to see Sheldon's brother and sister-in-law, Bill & Wanda. They live in a lovely old home in Eden, North Carolina. The house was built in 1926.

The first shot is Sheldon in front of the house, and the next photo shows Sheldon and his mom. The third picture is of Francesca, Bill & Wanda's little goat, assisting with groundskeeping.

The area containing the town of Eden was once part of a 70,000 acre estate owned by William Byrd II (who founded Richmond, Virginia, on land he inherited from his father). William Byrd II dreamed of founding a "Land of Eden" by importing Swiss Protestants to his land, but things went awry when a boatload of the settlers perished in a shipwreck off the Virginia coast. William Byrd II died in 1744, the land then passed to his son. Billy Byrd the 3rd was not interested in colonization; he liked to spend money, so he sold off his father's land piecemeal. Scotch-Irish settlers moved into the Land of Eden, and then everything went to Hell, of course.

The Land of Eden (North Carolina version) existed only in William Byrd III's mind, apparently, until 1967 when the towns of Leaksville, Spray, and Draper voted to join hands and incorporate under the new name of Eden. Today, Eden still has remnants of these original towns' distinct business districts. Bill & Wanda were gracious hosts, and drove us all around Eden showing us the sights.







Meanwhile, back in Richmond, Penzey's Spices operates a shop in Carytown. My friend Sherry & I went there earlier this month. We bought some spices and then went to World of Chocolate and Jean-Jacques Bakery. That's Sherry below, selecting some spices to take home.


Last week a couple of friends from Chicago were in town on vacation. They stayed at the Commonwealth Park, which is right across the street from Virginia's State Capitol. I snapped a few photos of the capitol grounds when I picked them up at their hotel.


Thomas Jefferson designed Virginia's Capitol. A new visitor's center opened recently, strangely embedded in Capitol Hill. Jefferson was all about symmetry. He's probably spinning in his grave when he thinks about the new visitor's center.


Thus always to tyrants...we'll step on you and knock your crown off your head.




You can get a glimpse of the Bell Tower in this photograph.


This view is looking south from Capitol Hill.


After I picked up Lauren & Andy from their hotel, we went to dinner at Bacchus, and then took a walk along Monument Avenue to walk off a few calories. I took a picture of them in front of Robert E. Lee's monument. It was a pleasant evening, and we were adopted by a cat who accompanied us for several blocks until we got back to the car. She was happy, well-fed, and wore a collar, so we concluded that she was just being a good Virginia hostess.

Thanks, Dad!

I've had a nice Memorial Day weekend, and it was wonderful having three days in a row to do as I pleased. On Saturday I went with Sheldon and his mom to Eden, North Carolina, to visit his brother & family. We left early, and got back late. Sunday I slept late, and puttered around the house, ending the day at my neighbor Karen's for a cookout. Today I went to an early morning meeting, followed by breakfast with three friends at Joe's Inn. A movie at home and a nap finished up the afternoon.

Over the past few weeks I've been watching Ken Burn's documentary series on World War Two. As I expected, I have learned a lot. My dad served in the U.S. Navy during that war, but he rarely & reluctantly talked about his experiences. He was mainly assigned to the Pacific Theater, and fought at Iwo Jima, Guadalcanal, Bougainvilla, Cape Esperance, Okinawa, and other hot spots. He served on a little ship, the destroyer USS Buchanan, which was one of the first vessels that sailed into Tokyo Harbor after the Japanese surrendered. He witnessed horrific action, and his normally cheerful face looked troubled whenever I questioned him about his war years.

Tonight, sitting in my den watching sitcoms and sipping coffee, I am grateful to my father and the many men & women like him who have made it possible for me to enjoy freedom in the United States. My life is easy, and I give thanks to those who keep me safe.

The Woman Who Knew Too Much

If you are as seriously alcoholic as we were, we believe there is no middle-of-the-road solution. We were in a position where life was becoming impossible, and if we had passed into the region from which there is no return through human aid, we had but two alternatives: One was to go on to the bitter end, blotting out the consciousness of our intolerable situation as best we could; and the other, to accept spiritual help. This we did because we honestly wanted to, and were willing to make the effort. - Alcoholics Anonymous


In late March , I started getting calls from a woman whenever I was assigned to answer the local AA hotline. She became a familiar voice, averaging a call to me about every other day. I feel like I got to know her fairly well over the course of the next few weeks. I'll call her "Leslie."

When Leslie first called, she said she was staying in a motel and needed to get to a meeting, but had no transportation. I had a woman call her to arrange a ride, but by then Leslie was no longer interested. The next day Leslie called back, and the story repeated itself.

A few days later, Leslie was back on the phone, telling me that she had been sober for twelve days and had detoxed herself in a motel room. She bragged about having a master's degree. She said she had been a substance abuse counselor several years ago. She did not realize that she was talking to the same guy who had answered the phone on her previous calls. Some folks seem to think they are dialing an enormous call center when they call the local hotline. I told Leslie that if she had been drinking as constantly and heavily as she indicated, that withdrawal from alcohol should be medically supervised. She said she had been sober for thirteen days, and detoxing was the hardest thing she had ever done. Did I tell you that she sounded quite drunk during this conversation?

"A minute ago you told me that you had been sober twelve days, and now it's thirteen," I said. "You haven't been sober for three hours. In fact, you're drunk now."

Leslie broke down in tears and said I was right. I told her she needed help, and that we could provide the help she needed. She said she would get a pen to write down some meetings, and then she hung up on me.

I'm shortening these conversations, because they tend to go around & around in circles with an alcoholic in their cups, but she continued to call the AA hotline several times each week. Her moods varied; sometimes she seemed filled with hope and ready to accept help, and other times she would be in complete despair. I was brutally honest with her about the disease, but encouraging about her chances if she stopped trying to recover on her own. She would reach out for a helping hand, and then bat it away.

With her permission, I gave Leslie's name and number to K, one of our volunteers who is like a friendly badger when it comes to helping the alcoholic who still suffers. It seemed that we would take two steps forward followed by a step or two back. K was finally able to take her to a meeting, and Leslie drank before K picked her up.

One Saturday at the beginning of May, Leslie called and asked me "How does a person with a master's degree get this bad?" I told her that if she wanted to know the source of her problems, she should look in a mirror. "Be quiet, and listen to me. Sympathy will kill an alcoholic. Your ego is the only thing preventing you from recovery," I said, "and you keep playing with a disease that has three outcomes: you will end up in jail, you will be institutionalized, or you will die. Those are your choices without help, because you cannot fight this disease alone. You want to be special. You are not special, you are not unique, you are not different. It doesn't matter how many degrees you have, you are a drunk. You are not better than or different from all of the other drunks walking this earth.

"I will tell you how you can be special. Out of one hundred hopeless drunks roaming around out there, only ten will make it to Alcoholics Anonymous. Out of those ten, only one will surrender their ego and recover. If you want to be special, then start your recovery. Start returning K's calls and let her help you get to meetings. There is a beautiful world out here for you to enjoy. We want to help you live the life of contentment that is waiting for you. You deserve it, and you can do this." I didn't make any of this up. I used the collective knowledge of thousands before me who have recovered from the misery of alcoholism to lead happy, useful lives.

I got a couple of calls from Leslie the following week. She still was not willing to make any changes, but a spark of something (hope? survival instinct?) kept her picking up the phone to call AA. "If nothing changes, nothing changes," I thought to myself. "Surely I've used that line on her." I kept trying to think of what I could say that might make a difference. I prayed for Leslie each day and asked for guidance.

On Friday the 8th, as I was preparing to close the office, K called me. She had talked to Leslie that morning and arranged to give her a ride to a meeting that evening. Just before calling me, K had dialed Leslie's number to tell her she was on her way to pick her up. A police officer answered the phone and asked K about her relationship to Leslie, and K explained that she was trying to help her. He told K that Leslie was dead.

How many people like Leslie have we lost to this disease? We may never be able to calculate the number. Only a percentage are directly attributed to alcoholism. The CDC reports over 21,000 alcohol-induced deaths in 2005 (excluding accidents & homicide), plus nearly 13,000 alcohol liver disease deaths in that same year. But there are other deaths influenced by alcohol but listed as suicide, heart failure, fire, vehicle accident, drowning, injury, diabetes, anemia, and other reasons that are not included in these CDC statistics.

Leslie was an intelligent, accomplished woman who could not accept her current circumstances. She was unwilling to surrender her self-will so that she could be helped. Her distant past as a substance abuse counselor gave her all the answers she needed, or so she thought. If she had accepted her situation and subdued her pride, she may have later been able to share her experience, strength and hope to help others recover.

Alcoholism plays a cat-and-mouse game with its victims. It bats us around and wounds us, and then sits back and watches us prior to the next assault. Some of us are fooled into thinking we still have control of our situation, instead of realizing that this mouse is dead without outside help. The cat always wins unless a power greater than its claws steps in.

The recovery poster at the top of this post is the work of my good friend Scott, and you may see more of his work by clicking here. Thanks, Scott!

Crispy Critters

There's something I want to write about, but I just haven't found the time yet. This post will have to suffice in the meantime. I wanted to assure everyone that I still know how to type...kinda.

Oh, by the way, those are azalea blossoms up there to the left. Azaleas grow well around here, and are a local hallmark of spring. They look stunning for about a week, and that's it; they're done. But, it's a glorious week when they are all in bloom.

My face is starting to fall off. My arms and legs sting. The skin on my forehead feels taut and dry. I am sun-burned. The inevitable peeling has begun. Still, it's mild compared to the severe sunburn I got a few years ago when I was visiting Suzanne in Spain. I fell asleep on a terrace with a cool Mediterranean breeze wafting over me, and burned myself to a crisp.

Last Sunday I went boating on the James River with Sadie on her new boat. I thought I had everything I needed, but forgot a beach towel and sunscreen. Oops. Did you know that when you are out on the water on a mild, breezy day, you have no idea how much sun you are getting until it's too late? You would think I'd have learned from my Mediterranean Scorchfest.

Even though I am feeling slightly crispy, it was a fun day that I will remember. There were four of us, although the boat will hold up to seven. This allowed room for the snacks we brought. We probably could have lasted all summer on the water with the amount of food assembled. Sadie bought a cute boat; it's white & yellow, with an inboard-outboard motor, very comfortable seats, and a stereo system that broadcasts Gangsta Rap no matter which station is selected on the tuner. Sadie docks her boat at the marina at Rockett's Landing where she lives. Below, Sadie & Dot head out from Sadie's building for the marina.

The weather was clear & mild, and it was a perfect day for an outing. We anchored below the Varina-Enon bridge, and had an informal & impromptu meeting on the James. We laughed & talked & ate, and the three brave girls jumped in the water. I stayed in the boat. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the river since it was Mother's Day. We figured that most people were standing in the parking lot of Outback Steakhouse or Red Lobster clutching pagers.


That's Dot above with Sadie at the helm. The picture below is Candy.


Next we have Jimmy Dean's home. Jimmy Dean is famous for an awful song called Big Bad John, and some darned good sausage.



Across the river and down a ways, we came to an industrial behemoth at the river's edge. This is where Jimmy Dean makes his sausage. Live pigs are brought upriver by barge, and then forced to swim to the sausage factory. You can see the partially opened intake door in the photo below. This method accounts for the superior quality of Jimmy Dean sausage. Only the fittest pigs survive the swim from the barge to the factory. The rest are swept downstream by the current. It is rumored that the producers of inferior sausage (such as Gunnoe's) wait downstream to fish the weaker (and, some assert, dead) pigs out of the water for processing at their own sausage plants. PETA is headquartered down the river in Norfolk, and they frequently have "Save Our Swine" flotillas along this stretch of the James.


You didn't really believe that sausage story, did you? That's actually a power plant operated by Dominion Power. Most of the views along the river are tree-lined and pretty, but you come across some eyesores like this from time to time. Those truly are pictures of Jimmy Dean's home up there, but he sold his sausage empire to Sara Lee back in 1984, and he moved to Virginia in 1990 and built his riverfront home.

Oh, look. There's Dot sunning herself on the stern.


Here we have some scraps of food. A little maritime picnic of hummus, pita, fruit, cheese, chips, crackers, popcorn, and cookies. This photo looks sort of like one of those Hidden Object games. Can you find the hand?


We saw many birds in the air and on the water. This blue heron had found a serene place to perch off mysterious Hatchers Island. Hatchers Island was created when the Dutch Gap Canal cut a more efficient channel along the river's meandering path. We passed under a rickety wooden bridge that spanned the western loop of the old riverway, providing a connection from mainland to island. It didn't look safe enough for foot traffic, but I could see a sign up on the bridge that said "Speed Limit 3." I don't think I've ever seen a speed limit of 3 mph.


A pleasant day on the river comes to an end back at Sadie's home. We all got a bit crispy, but we had a lot of fun & laughter.

Returning to the Scene of the Crime

Heading east out of Surry Courthouse on Route 10, I made a left turn onto Alliance Road and drove northeast toward Chippokes Plantation. The sky was gray & fretful; rain was imminent. Fields stretched for a ways on either side of the road, bordered by deep green woods. Up ahead on the left, a sagging old farmhouse marked the scene of a perfect crime. A crime I committed when I was seventeen.

Most readers are familiar with Surry County because of a much more recent crime. This quiet, rural county received the unwelcome attention of the national media when a multi-state criminal operation was discovered at a fifteen-acre estate owned by Michael Vick, NFL quarterback. Vick, a native of Newport News on the other side of the James River, picked an ideal locale for his illegal dog-fighting operations. Just across the river from bustling Williamsburg & Jamestown, Surry County is remote and generally unfrequented by travelers. Vick's Bad Newz Kennels was the scene of horrific cruelty to animals. The good news is that many of the dogs were rescued and have found safe haven with compassionate humans.

But let's get back to my own crime spree. From an early age, road trips were part of my life, so when I was licensed to drive, I'd pack my car with some friends and we would explore. Usually we would stick to Virginia Beach & Norfolk, but sometimes we would go farther afield. Eastern North Carolina was not out of the question, since going due north involved the expense of the lengthy Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. The countryside west of Portsmouth provided interesting day trips, as well. The rural counties of Smithfield and Surry had many hog farms, convenient to the meat packing plants that produce the famous Virginia hams.

One Saturday, during my senior year in high school. some friends and I spotted the old house you see in these photographs. It was obviously vacant, but not as decrepit as it is today; the yard was high with weeds and scrub, and the driveway was overgrown. We fought our way to the house and peered in the windows. The interior was dusty and neglected. No one had been inside this house for years.


Thinking nothing of it, we forced our way in (not my first B&E, I'm afraid, but more about that another time...maybe) through a back porch entrance and explored the house. The first room we encountered was the kitchen. Startled mice scurried for hiding places. There were mouse droppings everywhere, and old cans & boxes of food were still on the shelves. Flatware and dishes were on the kitchen table. It looked like the family had suddenly been called away from home decades past, and never returned.


Moving along through the house, we came to the conclusion that an old woman had lived here. After she died or went to a care facility, her family came in and removed anything of value, boarded up the home, and never returned. There were still odd pieces of furniture, bric-a-brac, and shelves filled with books. I took a copy of Ben Hur, which is still in a box in my attic. Abandoned mail and signatures in book covers identified her as Ruth Dearth. Nothing of real value had been left in the house.


Upstairs, we found the moulted skins of snakes. They would have grown fat from the mice that feasted on the food left behind in the kitchen. Vines grew through the walls. Curtains hung in tatters. The unwanted chairs that remained had all had their legs sawed off, leading us to the conclusion that Ruth was either a wee person, or the house had been filled with children at one time. Now, the only things that moved through these rooms were spiders, snakes, rodents, and - briefly - us. We gathered a few souvenirs (add theft to the B&E) and departed, speculating on the house and its long-ago occupants.

These photographs show what the house looks like today. It was strange finding the house again, and remembering a day in the past I had all but forgotten. Abandoned homes intrigue me, and I hope you enjoy these photographs of a lonely homeplace.

Colonial Lunacy & Manifest Destiny

In March, two friends & I went to an AA state assembly in Williamsburg. For most of our time there, it was cool & rainy, but on Sunday, our day to return to Richmond, the sun broke through and the temperatures became mild. It was a lovely Spring day, and we went for a stroll through Colonial Williamsburg. I'm glad I had my trusty camera with me so that I can share some photographs with you of the historic area.

When I was growing up, my parents & I went on frequent weekend trips to places of interest in the surrounding areas. Sometimes we traveled to places like Luray Caverns or Natural Bridge; other times we would go to historic sites.

I remember visiting Williamsburg, touring the restored area, and staying in a motel called Carolyn Court on Route 60. At the time, I guess I thought that Colonial Williamsburg had always looked that way. What we see today in old Williamsburg was actually the brainchild of Reverend W.A.R. Goodwin with the financial backing of John D. Rockefeller, Jr.


Before the extensive restoration work got under way, Williamsburg had become a sleepy backwater town. A 1912 editorial in the Richmond Times-Dispatch dubbed the town "Lotusburg" because "Tuesday was election day in Williamsburg but nobody remembered it. The clerk forgot to wake the electoral board, the electoral board could not arouse itself long enough to have the ballots printed, the candidates forgot they were running, the voters forgot they were alive." Another account I read spoke of a befuddled bell ringer who thought it was Sunday morning, rang the bells at Bruton Parish Church, and most of the townsfolk dutifully showed up, but it was Wednesday.


The first psychiatric hospital in the U.S. was built in Williamsburg in 1771, originally called the Public Hospital for Persons of Insane and Disordered Minds, known these days as Eastern State Hospital. The 1770 Act in the Virginia colonial legislature stated "Make Provision for the Support and Maintenance of Ideots, Lunaticks, and other Persons of unsound Minds.' During those times, treatment for mental disorders was restraint and discomfort. Patients could enjoy cold plunge baths, bloodletting, intimidation, cupping glasses (sounds ominous), blistering salves, and - new in 1793! - sessions with the electrostatic machine.


The photo above shows Duke of Gloucester Street, the primary street in the colonial section, anchored at the western end by William & Mary's Wren Building, and House of Burgesses (the Capitol) at the eastern end. Immediately below are photos of a merchant's window, followed by the Milliner's Shop.




The stout building above is the Powder Magazine. That name made no sense to me as a child, no matter how many times my dad tried to explain it.


That's the Governor's Palace up there, and a horse & carriage ambling by the gate below.


The original Governor's Palace was destroyed by fire in 1781. Some outbuildings survived, but were demolished during the Civil War. The Governor's palace we can tour today is a reconstruction based on drawings by Thomas Jefferson (the last resident, who urged that the capital be relocated to Richmond for security reasons during the American Revolution), General Assembly records, and a copperplate engraving found in England's Bodeian Library.


The restoration of Colonial Williamsburg got underway in 1926 with the quiet acquisition of properties by Reverend Goodwin and John D. Rockefeller in the designated area. They revealed their plans in two town meetings in 1928. Structures that post-dated 1790 were demolished, and 88 of the approximately 500 buildings in the historic are are original. Most buildings were completely recreated.


When I was born, my parents were into the modern look. Their furniture had clean, square lines. The end tables and coffee table were blond wood and metal. Somewhere along the way, this stuff went out and Early American furniture entered the house.

As it turns out, Colonial Revival decor started in the 1870's with the U.S. Centennial. The simplicity of true American colonial design was mashed together with Victorian fussiness. As the popularity of the Victorian era faded, Colonial decorating motifs became simpler. Travel became easier in the 20th century, and people made pilgrimages to historic homes. Williamsburg became a popular travel destination, and the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation became a national leader in retailing museum-quality reproductions of items in its collection, including furniture, pottery, pewter and silverware.


Williamsburg is a great place for a stroll. It is truly "picture perfect." Archaeological excavations continue to bring up secrets from the past, and Colonial Williamsburg operates as a 301-acre living museum. Although you must buy tickets to tour the buildings, anyone can walk the streets without charge. Re-enactors are dressed in period clothing, although there was a bit of a fracas prior to the U.S. Bicentennial in the 1970's when someone thought it would be a good idea to outfit the tour guides in polyester red-white-and blue pantsuits. Tourists were not at all pleased. The pantsuits plan was ditched.

I wonder, though, what the real old Williamsburg looked like in its heyday. I doubt that all of the houses were painted so neatly, and that streets were as clean as they are today. Just judging by the few horse carriages nowadays and their wake, I'm pretty sure the streets were filled with horse poop. There were probably chickens flapping around, dogs fighting, pigs squealing, babies squalling, cats yowling, women mud-wrestling, and politicians prancing around in dust-coated tights. We get a sanitized version today of what must have been a rough & tumble small-town existence in the middle of deep forests, swamps, and rivers.

At one time, in an attempt to ward off disgruntled Native Americans, a stockade was built across the middle peninsula between the James & York Rivers. This was a harbinger of Manifest Destiny, which would push the original Americans ever westward into smaller & smaller controlled settlements. Nearby, at Weyanoke Plantation, artifacts have been unearthed proving that this area was settled 10,000 years ago...and it wasn't by greedy Europeans.



The picture below is the House of Burgesses, which was the Capitol of Colonial Virginia. Our state legislators still assemble here one day every four years. I'm sure they get a lot of work done on those days, too. No, really.

President Obama took his first trip aboard Air Force One to a House Democrat's retreat in Williamsburg back in February. I remember waiting for a flight at nearby Newport News-Williamsburg International Airport, and watching Air Force One practice repeated landings and take-offs several years ago.


After our stroll, we aimed the car toward Richmond. We made one more stop, at the Hog Wild Smokehouse on Route 60. The food was quite delicious, and I'm sure will eat there again when I can. This place used to be a biker bar, closed by day but rowdy at night. Today it's a cute little eatery. You can decide what you want to order by clicking here.

Happy Easter!

I hope your Easter is filled with wonderful food, friends & family, fellowship, and plenty of chocolate & colored eggs!

The above picture was taken one Easter Sunday at our home in Virginia Beach. Note the shoes: Hushpuppies, of course!

Relapse

Last Saturday, Sheldon took me out to dinner for my (then) upcoming sobriety anniversary. I asked him if his mother could go along, because I always enjoy her company, too. We went to a popular restaurant, and as we were waiting for our meals, a lady at the next table was served a beer in a tall mug. The beer looked really enticing in the cold mug, and I thought about how nice it would be to order one. Then I gave myself a mental slap and asked myself why I was thinking that way? I don't even like beer! The answer to my question, of course, is that I am an alcoholic, and "the idea that somehow, someday he will control and enjoy his drinking is the great obsession of every abnormal drinker." ¹

In December of 1941, General Douglas MacArthur had more than eight hours warning following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor to prepare his base for an assault. Although he touted himself an expert on the Far East, he underestimated the military might of Japan. He did not disperse the aircraft from his base on the Phillipines for concealment. The planes, including seventy-two P-40 Warhawk fighters, sat in pretty rows on the airfield, vulnerable to attack. When the Japanese bombers came, most of the U.S. aircraft were caught on the ground and destroyed. MacArthur had a fool's measure of hubris, and when he failed he always pointed the finger at someone else.

Tuesday was a long day. I went to my early morning meeting and picked up my anniversary medallion. Afterwards, I went to the office early to prepare for a monthly evening meeting. I was at work until 10:00 p.m.

Wednesday morning I slept in, and as I was getting ready for work, I got a call from my sponsee, Hope. Hope was shaken because two of our home group members had relapsed. One woman had been on vacation, got into a disagreement with a family member, and went to the hotel bar and drank. Her story prompted a woman with nine months of sobriety to confess that she had relapsed over the weekend, but had been ashamed to tell us.

I explained to Hope that relapses are part of the disease process, not the recovery process. There is no requirement to relapse. It is an experience you may miss, if you choose. No one that I have talked to felt that it was a dandy idea afterwards. For some, though, it seems to be the event that really makes them value sobriety, and they return to embrace the 12-step program. AA always welcomes everyone back; unfortunately, not everyone makes it back. One of my friends told me about a man he met when he was in rehab. After his release, the fellow relapsed and tried to detox himself in a hotel room, and that's where his family found him - dead from a heart attack. Withdrawal from alcohol without medical supervision can be fatal.

I was fortunate that I collapsed at the home of a friend, and she immediately called the rescue squad. The decision about medical help was taken out of my hands. In the hospital, I required several blood tranfusions, insulin, and massive doses of potassium - in addition to medications and multi-vitamins. My liver was in terrible shape; I was dehydrated, and severely anemic. I was constantly monitored through several days of detoxification. When I went home, I knew that drinking meant death. I drank two nights in a row anyway, even though I did not want to do so. That is when I knew that I could not stay sober without help.

When I woke up the morning after my second night of drinking following hospitalization, I reached the bottom. I could no longer fool myself into thinking that I chose to drink. I could not honestly say "I can quit whenever I want...I just don't want to quit." All of my reasons and rationalizations were stripped away, and I felt completely beaten. I went to the local AA website and found a meeting near my home. Something about that simple action kept me sober. When we were at dinner the other night, we were talking about Sheldon meeting me for the first time about two weeks after I joined AA. Sheldon was laughing about how bad I looked, and he told his mom "I was almost afraid to shake his hand, because I was afraid his arm would snap off." But he did shake my hand and he offered to help me, because that is what the sober members do for people like me who walk in frail & bewildered.

So, unlike General MacArthur, I do my best to stay on guard. Warning signs are heeded. I know that the disease will employ surprise attacks, like the thought that pops in my head when I see the cold mug of beer at the next table in a restaurant. Or anger and resentments which will take me to a hotel bar if I allow them to fester. When I think about how nice a martini would be, I'm thinking of the days long ago before I was an alcoholic, so I refocus my thoughts on how miserable I was a month before I came to Alcoholics Anonymous. A day will come, though, when this line of defense will not work. The best offense is the daily maintenance of my spiritual condition. That is why I pray & meditate. I thank God each morning for keeping me sober the previous day, and ask for help staying sober today. I go to at least one meeting nearly every day. I also go for the laughter and fellowship. We are not a glum lot! I found my sense of mirth again in AA. I have "succumbed to that gay crowd inside, who laughed at their own misfortunes and understood his." ²

¹ Alcoholics Anonymous (Big Book), page 30
² Alcoholics Anonymous (Big Book), page 160

Two

TWO YEARS SOBER

Thank you for letting me keep coming back.