Not Everybody Makes It

The small New England town where I lived in the early seventies was a wonderful place for me. I was a sober alcoholic with about a year of AA under my belt. There were plenty of meetings, a telephone hotline with lots of Twelfth Step work, and an ample supply of willing old-timers. I retain a mental collage of AA friends, an old church, a paneled meeting room, a steaming coffee urn, and a friendly parish cat with twelve toes on its forepaws. Of course, I have allowed time to soften my memories of those early days, and I more easily remember the best times over the not-so-good.