The River's Flow

It was a glorious day in Newfane, Vermont. Dark clouds in the morning had disappeared, the sun shone warmly and a cool summer breeze lifted my spirits. I was in this quintessential New England village with picturesque churches, a town common and classic country stores with magnificent quilts and fudge. Here I had passed many an hour with friends on our yearly fall pilgrimage to Vermont to become intentional leaf-peepers, lest the autumn colors pass by without proper notice and appreciation. Here I met Tom, a local woodcarver, and spent a snowy week in his woodcarving workshop, learning to play with soft woods and sharp tools. Here I discovered ponds and maple syrup makers. It was an enchanted place with many memories, both before and after sobriety. I felt lucky to feel so comfortable in a place where I had done some heavy drinking. In these past 27 years sober I had made new memories, sober memories, including trips to Bill W.’s house.