Every Day Can Be Christmas Morning

THERE is no word to describe that distinctive misery when consciousness comes crawling in and one is sickly aware of another dawn, another hangover, another day without purpose or direction. December 14, 1960, seemed wretchedly like all the preceding days. Sighing blasphemously, "Gawd! Isn't there some other way," I directed the body toward the kitchen and a badly needed eye-opener. At that moment, all similarity to other mornings ended. Two words exploded in my mind: Alcoholics Anonymous. I consulted the telephone directory. Laboriously focusing my eyes, I scanned the A's. Sure enough, there it was, big as life! Tremulously, I dialed the number.