by Ames
S.
amess@sober24.com
I’ve always been the kind of person who won’t read anything
twice. It’s a character flaw, I suppose, a certain arrogance that leads me to
believe that if I’ve read it once, reading it again isn’t going to add anything
new, even though, as happens quite frequently, I’ve completely forgotten
everything from when I read it the first time. There’s one critical exception,
though, and that’s AA literature.
I can’t get enough of it, it seems. I soak it up like a dry
sponge. I can’t even begin to count how many times I’ve read the essays on the
Steps and Traditions in the “Twelve and Twelve.” And every time I look at them,
I find something new. It’s uncanny.
One of the books that really opened my eyes was the history
book, “AA Comes of Age,” that tells the story of the founding and early growth
of AA, describing the many streams of influence that somehow came together to
get the fledgling fellowship up on its feet and somehow kept it from falling
apart in its extraordinary infancy. Like many alcoholics on an individual
basis, that infancy tends to last longer than expected – sometimes, as in my
own case, well into sobriety – and the book catalogs the many growing pains of
the fellowship as a whole.
I had been sober a while when I first picked up the book. I
was skeptical, of course, thinking I already knew pretty much about how AA
worked from the year and a half’s worth of recovery meetings I had been to and
the formidable line-up of interminable group business meetings I had attended.
In fact, I had become somewhat of a self-styled authority early on, quick to
assess how “things were done” in my home group and equally quick to point out,
in my estimation, where things were coming up short.
As a group chairperson, I had been responsible for a number
of “important” changes in group policy, such as making sure we set up the
chairs in an east-west configuration instead of the previous north-south
arrangement which, no doubt, would alter the group’s subconscious and make for
better sharing. In addition, I was able to shepherd in new rules about the
air-conditioner and whether or not it should be kept on during meetings in the
summer months. I was all about saving lives, and if the group would simply
follow along, our capacity to do good would be exponentially increased.
On the downside, however, I also presided over one of the
group’s classic debacles, the Anniversary Rum Cake fiasco. It wasn’t my fault,
but it did seem to tarnish my service legacy for a while afterwards.
On the night of the debacle, I first sensed something was
wrong when the line for the anniversary cake that we served every month to
celebrate group members’ anniversaries stretched from the kitchen area all the
way to the bathroom, with many obviously in line for the second time.
Inside the kitchen, the lady who had been assigned the job
of purchasing the cake was busy cutting it up into little squares and putting
each square onto a paper plate. Another volunteer then took each plate, carried
it over to the serving area where yet another volunteer would hand a plate to
each person in the line. It was a smooth operation, a fine example of teamwork
and collaboration.
However, in my capacity as overseer of all things, when I
went into the kitchen where the cake was being cut, I detected the distinctive
aroma of rum. On further inspection – achieved with a swipe of my finger
through the filling of a sample piece I was able to siphon out of the
synchronized food line – I discovered that yes, indeed, the cake was laced with
rum.
Looking out at the crowd lined up for cake, my stomach began
to sink. It was Jonestown all over again, the commune in Guyana that
ended with mass suicide.
In my mind, I could see the whole thing breaking down into
chaos, people rushing the kitchen, tossing coffeepots, and screaming at each
other. I was momentarily paralyzed with fear.
Luckily, my friend Scott was way ahead of me. Following me
into the kitchen, he put the whole situation together in a heartbeat. Wasting
no time, he went up to the woman who was cutting the cake, quietly took the
knife out of her hands, gently moved her off to the side, took the rest of the
uncut sheet cake and slid it into the garbage can. There was a momentary hue
and cry from the assembled masses, but Scott simply waved it away and walked
out of the kitchen saying, “It was no good,” thereby ending any debate and
saving us all from having to explain how the entire group had just gobbled up a
goodly portion of tainted cake.
Sheepishly, later, the woman who had bought the cake
approached me with the bill, looking for reimbursement. Written across the
invoice in block letters was the name of the AA group and below it, “1 RUM
CAKE.”
So, by the time I got to reading “AA Comes of Age” I was
ready for a new perspective. And the book certainly did its part to open up new
horizons, helping me to recognize that AA was bigger than my home group and the
various trials and tribulations we suffered through on a weekly basis.
Suddenly, I was connected to something considerably larger, part of an
incredible story of success; a character in one of the more improbable dramas
of history.
I’ve always found history to be a little boring, but I have
an investment in AA’s history. It’s my history. So, as June 10th
approaches – the date of Dr. Bob’s last drink and the date that marks AA’s 73rd
birthday – I’ve taken “AA Comes of Age” off the shelf and am starting through
it again. No doubt, I’ll find something new.
PS: For those of you with an interest in AA history, check
out the interview, “Confessions of an AA History Buff,” in the Spotlight On section of our homepage
(www.Sober24.com).