Whistler doesn’t keep a blog of his own. I wish he did, but he doesn’t and so I’m grateful for his comments, which started popping up around December of 2012 like little word balloons of kindness and encouragement we get to carry around for the day.
You may remember his one-year sober post he wrote here, which came together after a gentle nudge from Christy, and I should probably give the Universe credit too. Thank you for bringing another meaningful connection not only to me but to those who are reading.
Yesterday I had my last post on trees freshly pressed, for which I am embarrassingly thrilled (thank you, Krista!). When I told Whistler and said I was still planning to run his piece today, he insisted I post something I wrote; that any new followers would expect that. But I’m a big believer that things happen for a reason and it’s a great piece and who knows who was meant to read it today. Besides, you are reading my blabber right now.
Please join me in congratulating Whistler on 1.5 years sober. While he doesn’t track the exact date, today is the first day of spring and seemed a fitting time to post about new beginnings and full circles and the little (big) miracles that come with sobriety.
US Dry Counties Map
Blue – Wet Counties
Yellow – Semi-Dry Counties
Red – Dry Counties
Grey – no data
When the choice came down to working full time or going to college and working part time, I naturally chose the latter. I figured delay the inevitable as long as possible, right? That was a long time ago, way back in the 70s, and the location of my institute of higher learning was in a still totally dry county.
As in wet vs. dry. There was no alcohol for sale. You had to buy your hooch out of county and bring it back over the line. No driving down to the corner store to buy a six pack. You had to plan and work for your booze.
This inconvenience did not sit well with college-age voters, so we did it the American way and got enough signatures on a petition to make the ballot and then voted parts of the county wet. And so it stayed for lo these years, some of the county wet, some dry. Through no fault of my own I have lived in one of the remaining dry precincts of the county for most of those years.
But progress being what it is, last November my fellow precinctians voted us wet. That means beer and wine can be bought and sold at the corner gas station, and liquor stores can move in and sell the hard stuff. And sure enough, wouldn’t you know a couple of years ago a doctor in town and his brother built a bunch of those larger twelve pump convenience stores around the county, and one of them is only a couple of miles from my hacienda.
As it turns out the dry thing was turning into a huge impedance to local progress. In the dry parts, folks could not order a glass of wine with their sit down franchise meal, so no one would build places to eat in our small precinct. No restaurants equals no city or county tax revenue, which means not only would we starve to death, but we’d die broke and without amenities.
Anyhow, the Doc and his brother have been very anxious to get their gross sales up where they ought to be, and we all know beer and wine will do that because when you buy the twelve pack you also buy fuel, cigarettes, and play the lotto. Apparently alcohol is the backbone of any successful venture.
We can insert moral number one here (there are two). I was part of the original wet move in the 70s and it finally came home to roost. What goes around, comes around. Alcohol sales and all the joy that come with it – noise, trash, traffic, and all the other big and small hassles – are now just a few short minutes down the road.
This is a good time to let you know that when we did go wet back in those heady college days, I took full advantage of local beer and booze availability. As time marched on, I eschewed convenience and opted for anonymity. I went well out of my way to buy my adult beverages in the least frequented spots I could find. I was mortified of being seen buying the stuff, at least in the quantities I was hauling around.
There at the end, the last five or more years, I knocked back close to three 30-packs a week. Looking back, I’m a little surprised I did not get customer of the year at a few of my go-to beer buying spots. Ironically, I even traveled out of the county sometimes to buy beer just so I wouldn’t see anyone I knew.
About a year and a half ago I quit it. All of it. Had to really. My life was falling apart on every front. Hell in a hand basket. One of the reasons I quit was my 21 year-old son. I felt if I stopped drinking, he might stop doping. Made sense at the time.
Well, he came by last night for the first time in a long time and walked back to the garage to hunt me up. I have not seen him look and sound that strong and good in a long time. He’s working, loves his job, his boss, the people he works with. He has an apartment, he’s taking care of himself, all without drugs since September.
He is making his way. We both are. Not perfect by any means. We’ve got other problems, but we’re coming around.
And that brings us to moral number two. It’s a lot like moral number one but with a different ending. Maybe my good choices influence other’s good choices? You never know. What goes around comes around.