A Dreamy Idea. . .Although I've been asked to write a sort of history of progress to date, I find myself wallowing in nostalgic memories.
I remember clearly the night I sat with some AA friends in an apartment in White Plains. We were batting things back and forth when someone pulled a small two-page news letter out of their pocket. It was gotten out by the Cleveland Group and I believe they would be the first to admit that it wasn't a very spectacular affair—but it was AA and therefore exciting.
I was about three years dry at that time and right in the middle of AA organizational activity. That's the age when the honor and progress of the group weighs heavily on your shoulders. I was Mrs. Joe AA herself and had been worried for some time about the growing pains which were causing, I thought, a certain amount of lack of understanding among the few groups which were forming in and around the Metropolitan area.
So, with a gleam in my eye—and the courage of ignorance, I hied myself up to Bill's the next day. While he sprawled full-length on the floor in front of the old cobble stone fireplace, I said, "Bill, how about a magazine for the groups around New York?
Me! a dizzy alcoholic with a dreamy idea and no experience to back it up!
Bill turned lazily over on his side and said, "What, exactly, is on your mind, Sister Lois?"
"Harmony between groups," says I, "through knowledge and understanding."
"Go to it," says he, "And blessings on you."
It was a day or two before the enormity of the thing hit me in the solar plexus. But pride wouldn't let me drop it, so one night, after seeing Bill again, I found myself in a small eating joint on Twenty-Third Street with Marty and Priscilla—a writer and magazine art director, respectively.
Bless them, they caught fire at once and over a tough piece of pot roast and muddy coffee, The Grapevine was started on its way toward its happy though painful birth.
We saw clearly that we needed more people than just us, preferably men. These, remember, were early days in AA. It was a man's organization and we women were tolerated as long as we knew our place—and stayed there.
Telephones buzzed and wheels turned and the next week six of us met and plotted our shaky course.
The next problem was what to name our baby, at which point I took to my bed with a fever of 104. Lightheaded and dizzy, my mind kept coming up with fantastic thoughts, but one emerged and stuck through all the feverish nightmare. I somehow managed to get to the next "editorial" meeting, weak-kneed and unsure, and shyly said, "This is probably the result of delirium and fever, but how about Grapevine for a name?"
We brought Kay, a proof reader, in about that time and we all rolled up our sleeves. For two months we met, plotted, got information, wrote letters and finally had enough material—and money—for our first issue.
Priscilla and I went to the printer's. Of course I just went there for the ride, but boy oh boy, were my eyes opened! For instance, the sample of paper that looks absolutely magnificent is no good, the next one is slightly off-color (it looked pristine to me) so, after rejecting one after another, you delve into the dusty shelves at the back and find the perfect goodie. (We were a "slick" then).
Finally things were settled and I was panting for a cup of coffee, so I plucked at Priscilla's sleeve. "Let's go" says I, "What's holding us up?"
"The type," says she, "We've got to settle that."
"The type?" says I, "Don't we just give him the copy and let him print it?"
My answer was a look that said, "Pul-eese, just sit in the corner like a good girl."
So I did while a hassel took place from which such mysterious words as pica, bold-face, Bodoni, etc. were thrown around. How anything was ever settled by this unintelligible gibberish I'll never know. But it was—happily.
Imagine. . .six alcoholic, prima donna editors! I often wonder why we didn't all go out and get drunk, but—well, the coffee pot was always on—and besides our battles were family fights among people united by a strong bond of common interest, love—and AA. So, though nerves were often jangled and disagreements waxed hot, through much laughter and more tears, there emerged a closeness and camaraderie which has tied us all closely together through the years.
And, of course, it wasn't all grim. There was the excitement of going to the Post Office Box to see if there were any new subscriptions—and there always were!—with checks! Then there was the shared joy of reading a good piece from someone far away to show us the scope of AA and give us the realization that the program was working—everywhere. And there were the wonderful letters from the men and gals in the armed forces on the other side of the world who wrote to tell us that The Grapevine was their lifeline.
These things and hundreds of others kept us on the beam in the grimmer moments and kept our spirits up in the face of discouragements.
Although we sent a copy of the first issue to every secretary in the country, we were a metropolitan New York magazine. We were all determined on that point. Anything bigger would have scared us to death. However, within days after the first orders came in, we got congratulations and subscriptions from all over the country. Of course we were delighted, but by tacit agreement we closed our eyes to the self-evident truth that we were more popular in Texas, Michigan, California, et al, than we were east of the Hudson.
Then came the night I'll never forget. We were gathered around the big table with the tin plate ash trays almost full, looking over our store of material for the coming issues and reviewing our subscription list, when one of us said, "Let's face it, kids, this isn't a local job—it's national!"
There was an awed kind of hush in the room and looking around the table I saw a lot of scared, but somehow pleased grins. My imagination took me back to that day up at Bill's and I could hear him say, "Sometime we're going to need an official organ. If your magazine becomes a good thing—and is good—who knows?"
Who knows? That was April 1944 and today, ten years later all this has come true, but the idea was a small thing compared to the dedicated work of my partners and all of the others who came after us. But it just goes to show you where a dream of peace and a feverish nightmare can get in this wonderful slap-happy brotherhood called AA.
L. K.
White Plains, New York
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