Still Trudging: The Broad Highway

By Sergeant Skid Row

The book Still Trudging is a follow-up of the book I Trudged and is a continuation of stories describing the author's life going from a path of almost certain death to a life without complaints or regrets. Changing the word trudged to trudging implies that the journey is an ongoing adventure, with still much to do. He describes a long process of recovery; for him, recovery was not a "one-and-done" event. The author paints a picture of his progress through a series of short stories. He ties together his personal experiences with the principles of recovery taught to him by those he met along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886441284

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Still Trudging

The Broad Highway

Sergeant Skid Row

ISBN 979-8-88644-127-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88851-073-5 (Hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88644-128-4 (Digital)

Copyright © 2022 Sergeant Skid Row

All rights reserved

First Edition

The excerpts from the book Alcoholics Anonymous, Second Edition, the book Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, and pamphlet number 1 This is A.A. are reprinted with permission of Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc. The excerpt from the book Sobriety Without End are reprinted with permission of the Hazelden Foundation. Please consult the Reference List for a complete listing of pages from the books Alcoholics Anonymous, Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, the pamphlet This is A.A., and the book Sobriety Without End that are either referenced or reprinted in the stories and the name of the story where the reference may be found.

AA, Alcoholics Anonymous, the Big Book, and the Grapevine are registered trademarks of Alcoholics Anonymous World Service (AAWS) Inc. or AA Grapevine Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

About the Cover

Acknowledgments

Preface

Unlikely Candidate

Alcohol Abuse

View from the Bottom

Be Prepared

Sobriety Plan

Dad

The Sky Is Falling

The First Promise

I Lied to Myself

The Deadliest Game

Aw, Shucks

My Victor E Moment

My Best Thinking

Blameless

I'd Rather Stop Than Quit

Destruction vs. Construction

Six Months of NA

Rebel without a Clue

Assumptions

Unusual Curiosity

Unknown

The Yardstick

Underachievers Anonymous

A Prescription for Humor

Trailhead, Summit, and Back Again

Substitutions

The Missing Year

Ready for Anything

An Early Thaw

I Can Is Learned

Triggers and Boundaries

What Does It Matter?

Mistakes vs. Failure

Slogan Abuse

Blank Spots

From Steamed to Self-Esteemed

Leave Nothing

Sober Horse Thief

We're Everywhere

Grand Canyon Haircut

The Little Alcoholic That Could

When You Don't Know

Memories

Spirits of the English

No Bad Meetings

Never Explain

The Old Gang

Me First?

A New Creature

Big Decision

The Circle of Strife

The Catapult

I'm a Duck

Sobriety by the Trainload

Unexpected Kindness

Bend or Break

May Day

Are You Nuts?

Save, Help, Guide

I Feel Fine

Wet Brain

Better Late Than Never

Positive Failure

Sometimes I'm Wrong

That One Guy

Look Around

Needless Fears

A Furthermore Day

A Long-Lost-and-Found Friend

Four-Hour Meetings

Where Did He Go?

The Loser Won

Under Pressure

Chasing Success

Boot Camp

An Ever-Changing Fellowship

Welcome to the Banquet

The Saddest Day

Oblivious

Whining and Crying

Love Them Anyway

Two or More

Molehill

Hakuna Matata

Here's Your Cheese

Champagne Taste

Accomplishments of Laziness

Double Dipper

Random Optimism

Relapse Prevention

Resistance Is Futile

Location, Location, Location

Lies Make Lonely Friends

Chicken or the Egg?

Follow the Crowd

Get a Dog

The Italian Sandwich

Are We There Yet?

Life Sure Is Different

How Can I Repeat This?

When Will It Ever End?

Happily Ever After

My Favorite Paradox

Motives

Second Chances

Field Trips

Good Works vs. Dirty Deeds

Pick and Choose

Split Up

Path—Solution

Behind the Veil

What Can I Say?

Moments of Teaching

Let Go Absolutely

Expect Acceptance

The Saddest Big Book

Small Things, Big Things

If It Were Easy…

Fish or Cut Bait

Judgment

What's Enough?

The Politics of Denial

Self-Worth/Self-Esteem

Open-Minded

Start Seeing Recovery

Patience

The Tests of Time

No Matter What

Fear of Dying Alone

Bucket List

Spiritual Blahs

Compartmentalized

Yes, No, Not Yet

A Walk in the Park

Achievement Awards

Mistakes I've Made

Dig a Little Deeper

Sloth, My Favorite Defect

Thought and Think

Reframing My Life

Celebrated Disaster

Experience: Drunk or Sober

Strength: Drunk or Sober

Hope: Drunk or Sober

My Experience

Slogans

The Building Clamor

Never Easy—or Is It?

The Plate Spinner

Going South

No Regrets

Temptation

Obsessions

While I Wasn't Looking

Nothing Remains the Same Except…

Where There Is God's Will

The Unprincipled

Three Legacies

First Things First

Home Sweet Home

Never Go Home Again

Where Did I Go?

Leave It Up to God

The Slippery Slope

Self-Care

My Reach, My Grasp

Does It Matter?

Same but Different

Depth and Weight

The Power of Positive Doing

How to Train a Mutant

My Safe Word

Sitting in the Shade

The Mask

Boring

Transportation

Written in Clay

Objects in the Mirror

Fellow Traveler

That Other Thing

Success Stories

Odd Places and Spaces

Easy Street

Good Examples

Appendix A: Reference List

Appendix B: The Twelve Steps

Appendix C: The Twelve Traditions

Notes

Notes

About the Author

About the Cover

Most of my career, I wore either a patch or a badge representing either the unit I was assigned to or the organizational department I worked for. I am retired now, but I thought I should still have a patch representing me even in my retirement. This is what I came up with:

The lobster represents the state of Maine, where my life began.

The beehive represents the state of Utah, where I retired from the Department of Veterans Affairs and, in all probability, the state where my life will end.

The upside-down champagne glass represents my sobriety. When asked how I got from Maine to Utah, I jokingly tell them I drank my way there.

The combat boots represent my forty-six years of serving my country. The worn-and-torn appearance of the combat boots represents my journey.

The slogan "Still Trudging is an adaptation from the first edition I Trudged" (Alcoholics Anonymous 1955, 164), indicating that the trudging never stops.

The slogan"The Broad Highway" (Alcoholics Anonymous 1955, 55, 75) is the path I trudged.

The name "Sergeant Skid Row" is the name I was known as among my drinking buddies while I was still drinking.

Acknowledgments

(Anonymously)

First, I would like to thank God, as I understand Him, for His grace, His mercy, His patience, His power, His love, and His way of life.

Next, I want to thank and express my appreciation for my longtime friend and confidant, Dr. Grey Beard (anonymously), for his patience, encouragement, content review, editorial input, and frequent reality checks. Without him, there would probably have been only one story.

A very special thanks goes out to my friend Bruce for bringing me back from the edge of disaster. You were the inspiration for the first story I wrote, An Angel Named Bruce. Your help and story started the ball rolling.

I would like to thank a couple of pigeons¹, Frick and Frack, for their support. One suggested I write my story (rejected), and the other suggested I write short stories (challenge accepted).

Finally, I'd like to thank COVID-19, the ensuing pandemic and the quarantine for without it, there would have only been a single volume of recovery stories. During the lockdown, I just kept writing Still Trudging—still writing.

Preface

With over forty-three years of sobriety, with significant health issues, and confined to my home under the COVID-19 quarantine, I found myself writing short stories about my recovery. The short-story format seems to fit my attention span. As I see it, God gave me the gift of life, and these short stories are my way of regifting.

This is volume 2 of short stories about recovery. It was originally intended as a daily reader, a story for every day of the year plus leap day. Unfortunately, the book became too large. So instead of becoming an enormous second edition, it became a smaller volume 2, the first volume being published under the title I Trudged.

I kept the stories short based on the premise that I might not be the only one with a short attention span. Some stories are about a single event, others cover a number of years, and some reflect some of my thoughts I've picked up along the way.

I hope some of my stories are helpful if not entertaining. Maybe someone can avoid some of the mistakes I've made along the way. It took me a year to find the easier, softer way. It took a year and a half to become willing. It took me two years to get into service. It took three years to be comfortable in my own skin. It took me five years to experience real serenity, a God-conscious serenity. It took about twenty-six years to complete my Fifth Step (letting go of that last secret). Hopefully, things will come quicker for you than they did for me.

May God bless you, and may you have blue skies and tailwinds for the rest of your days.

Unlikely Candidate

I had a childhood that would be very hard to match. If I had to do it all over again, I'd want the same parents, the same house, the same friends and the same location.

My mother, born and raised in Jay, Maine, left home after high school to live with friends. During World War II, she moved to Stratford, Connecticut, to work at Vaught-Sikorsky Airfield, building the Corsair aircraft. She was one of many Rosie the Riveter. She was such a great cook that she could make turnips taste good. We weren't well off, but she could make the best BLTs (bologna, lettuce, and tomato). She saw to it that my brother and I learned everything we needed to be self-sufficient. She also provided us music—my brother with the clarinet and me with the piano.

My dad was born in Wilton, Maine. He went into the US Army Air Corps. He became an anti-aircraft artillery (AAA) gunner. During World War II, he participated in operation Antwerp X. The operation's goal was to prevent Hitler from retaking the harbor, allowing supplies to flow to the allied forces. He returned home and went to work at the woolen mill and then at G. H. Bass shoe company. He met my mom through his brother and married shortly after the war. Dad was an extremely talented man. He bought house plans and proceeded to build our house. I got to see him dig out the basement, expanding beyond just a root cellar, and lay a concrete floor in the new basement. He replaced a coal furnace with an oil furnace. I came to believe that there wasn't anything he couldn't do.

As a family, we traveled together, went on campouts together. The only trip that we weren't together was when dad and I went to a Red Sox game and mom and my brother toured museums in Boston. My brother and I were inseparable up until he noticed girls. We did little league, golfing, fishing, Boy Scouts, and Explorers together. It wasn't until my brother was fifteen and I was thirteen that we began to go our separate ways.

My environment was as beautiful as any other place on earth. Every fall, tourists come to the foothills in western Maine just to see the foliage. There is enough water in Maine that no matter where you are, you're within walking distance of a fishing hole. Wilton, Maine, has a good-sized lake where I learned to swim. I also loved the forest. They were old growth, hardwood trees, with ferns everywhere and very little underbrush. I could be lost (intentionally) for hours in those woods, at peace with myself, God, and all God's creations.

I got good grades in school and attended two statewide science fairs. I loved school. I loved my neighborhood friends Ron, Ben, John (RIP), Richard, Keith, and yes, even my brother Mac. We played ball together, explored together, and rock-hounded together. Our biggest treasures were the gold my brother found in the creek to the frog pond and a deep green flint I found embedded in a glacial boulder. It was a life where the bad times were wonderful. I had the childhood that a lot of children dream of.

At age 12, I was an unlikely candidate to be an alcoholic. I had a wonderful family, great home, good community and neighbors. What could go wrong?

At age 12 I had my first drink, and all that changed. I couldn't compete with my brother anymore. Out came my character defects and another drink. My parents proclaimed, Why can't you be more like your brother? I drank at them too. I started to tear down the life I had, bit by bit, through drunken resentments. I saw alcohol as a solution. Alcohol brought me peace until it didn't. By this time, it was too late. I had the obsession, and when I drank, I had the physical craving. Alcohol being no respecter of persons, even an unlikely candidate can earn the title of alcoholic.

Alcohol Abuse

I was sixteen years old and the proud owner of a driver's license. Rick, a neighborhood friend, invited me to go to Weld, Maine, and stay the week at his parents' camp. On the second day, Rick asked me if I wanted to camp out at a crater lake named Muskrat Pond on top of one of the local mountains near the western shore of Webb Lake. It sounded like fun, so I agreed. We packed up our tents and sleeping bags into Rick's WWII Army Willys Jeep and headed off. On the way there, he stopped at his grandfather's barn and picked up what he said was a couple of boxes of supplies.

We continued our drive to the mountain, all the while there were clinking sounds coming from the boxes. It was an I can't wait but I have to moment. We arrived at the mountain and took an old jeep trail almost to the top. We had to dismount, pack up, and hoof it the last two hundred feet. It took three trips to the jeep to get all of our gear to the top.

We made camp at the edge of the lake, gathered wood, and started a fire just in time for a cold front to roll through. I'll admit the altitude wasn't very high, but in Maine, you don't have to be very high to be very cold. With the cold front came the wind. Soon our camp fire went out. Both Rick and I smoked, so we both had cigarette lighters. Still, we had difficulties getting the fire restarted. From personal experience at a Boy Scout camp, I knew that you could assist the starting of a fire using alcohol (I was not an Eagle Scout). A splash of booze, and it lit up just fine. During the night, we kept the fire going. We started with the vermouth, working our way through the clear liquors like gin and ending with vodka. We kept the fire going. We drank the brown liquors—bourbon, whiskey, and dark rum. Still, we didn't come close to finishing the booze in those boxes.

Rick and I joked about using booze to keep the campfire lit, saying it was a clear case of alcohol abuse. I believed that the proper way to dispose of alcohol was to pour it down my throat where it would do the most good. Rick didn't have the same view. While he was known to drink heavily from time to time, he still lacked the obsession and the physical cravings I got once I took that first drink. He went on to have a relatively normal life. On the other hand, I began to devolve into the oblivion that alcoholics know so well.

My family was content to put the alcoholic members in a closet and shut the door. Out of sight, out of mind. If it wasn't for a woman named Marty M, I might still be drinking today. She was the author of the story Women Suffer Too. She thought the best way to help the alcoholic was through public education, to get the alcoholic out of our nation's closets. She was also instrumental in the passing of the Hughes Act of 1970, which created a framework for today's treatment centers. Her mantra was education and treatment for the fatal disease of alcoholism. The term alcohol abuse left the American lexicon, being replaced with alcoholic (the afflicted) and alcoholism (the disease).

By 1978, I fell victim of a man who cared about me. He was also educated about alcoholism and the available treatment for the alcoholic. He was my commanding officer and possessed the authority to order me into treatment. Many people never get to meet their guardian angel, but I met mine, and his name was Lieutenant Colonel Crown. I suspect that God has an army of angels just to look out for children and alcoholics because I am alive and sober today.

View from the Bottom

In 1978, I was arrested for driving under the influence (DUI) at the front gate of Nellis Air Force Base. That's hard to do since I had been kicked out of all my favorite bars. I was reduced to drinking at home. I did very little driving with the possible exception of driving to work. But on this particular night, I had borrowed a car from a friend, went drinking, and was driving to the base to finish the job with my friends in the barracks.

After the DUI, my commanding officer ordered me to move from my apartment into the barracks. I was between paychecks, and I drank up what remained of my last paycheck. I had to scrounge enough money to vacate my apartment. To do this, I had to borrow from friends and close my bank account. I truly was penniless. I don't recall being that broke before. I moved into the barracks with all my worldly possessions—two uniforms, a pair of blue jeans, a few T-shirts, and some underwear.

Then my commanding officer ordered me into an inpatient treatment center. I had mixed feelings about it. First, I was angered that I was ordered to attend a treatment center that is specifically designed for the treatment of alcoholics. In the seventies, addicts were being discharged for cause, problem drinkers got fines, but alcoholics got inpatient treatment. Part of me was happy it was over, and another part of me was insulted that they, without a word being spoken, had labeled me an alcoholic.

I had a few days to kill before I started treatment, so I thought I'd keep a low profile. I'd go to work, go home, and not drink. When I arrived at work, they wouldn't let me in. The only person who would speak to me was my immediate supervisor. He informed me that my security clearance had been pulled and that I couldn't work there unless it was reinstated. He asked me to go and get some help. I left work to return to the barracks where I found that the man who would have been my roommate had requested another room. Apparently, a nondrinker cramped his style. I had no work and was alone at my new home.

The night before I was to check into the treatment center, I was in my barracks, packing up for my adventure. That's when my drinking buddies came by to see me off. One after the other made a solemn promise to visit me while I was in the treatment center. None of my old drinking buddies visited while I was in treatment. They had lied to my face; I was stunned, for surely one alcoholic wouldn't lie to another alcoholic.

While in the treatment center, I learned about making amends. I called my mother and father from the treatment center—collect, of course—to tell them I was sober. There was so much I wanted to tell them, but before I got to my amends, my father accused me of lying. He further accused me of calling home to solicit money from them. Apparently, having a track record of deceit, people, including my family members, stopped trusting me.

I was bankrupt, out of a job, homeless, labeled an alcoholic; my friends abandoned me, my family abandoned me, and people treated me like I had the plague. That's how I felt—but happily for me, none of that was true.

In the Steps, I learned some hard truths about myself. My feelings had lied to me. I wasn't bankrupt, just out of cash. I wasn't out of a job, just suspended. I wasn't homeless; I had a condemned barracks to live in. No one labeled me an alcoholic. My friends didn't abandon me; they just didn't want to do something that could cause me to drink. My family didn't abandon me; they were cautiously optimistic. The view from my bottom was created primarily from my perceptions at the time. All that changed when I faced the truth. As Pearl Bailey once said, You'll never find yourself until you faced the truth.

Be Prepared

There is an old expression in Maine that states, Can't get there from here. It is normally used when giving driving directions on the back roads of Maine that are too difficult to express easily, so one just gives up with can't get there from here.

A good example from my own recovery was me jumping immediately to Step Nine. The Big Book is full of directions; some are complicated, and most are difficult for a newcomer. While still on Step One, I chose to skip all of those pesky time consuming instructions and jump from Step One to Step Nine. It went poorly. My dad thought I had a secondary motive for making amends—a cash motive. My mom, in my eyes, hadn't changed a bit. I ignored the fact that I hadn't changed either. I had skipped Step Eight where I made a list of people I had harmed and became willing (forgiving) to make amends to them all. I hadn't forgotten or forgiven them. Trying to make amends to someone I still held a grudge for was a formula for disaster. I ended up having to make amends for how I made amends. I was ill prepared for Step Nine because I didn't do any of the preparatory work.

I probably could have forgiven them in Step Eight had God removed my defects of character in Step Seven. I was ill prepared for Step Eight, but God couldn't remove the defects that I was still using. I failed to make the transition from boy to man in Step Six. I was ill prepared for Step Seven. I still enjoyed some of my childish defects too much to be willing to have God remove them. I arrived at my parents' home, defects in hand, telling them to accept my amends.

I couldn't adequately become ready to have God remove my defects because I was unfamiliar with the exact nature of my wrongs. I was ill prepared for Step Six. I was unaware of my wrongs because I had never taken stock of my life. I was ill prepared for Step Five. I couldn't—or wouldn't—take stock of my life because I was still trying to run the show, propelled by self-will. I was ill prepared for Step Four. Any attempt at Step Four before turning my will and my life over to the care of God, as I understood Him, would have been a work of fiction.

I had difficulty turning my will and my life over to the care of God primarily because I didn't think He could restore me to sanity. I was ill prepared for Step Three. I wasn't sure I was insane nor did I believe that I was restorable. I gave Step Two lip service. The only thing I could come to believe was that my life sucked—drunk or sober. I was ill prepared for Step Two. I had admitted I was powerless over alcohol and that my life was unmanageable. Still I didn't think I was that bad yet. I had some more miles on me before I traded myself into a hand-holding, chanting group of do-gooders. I was ill prepared for Step One. I would have my one and only relapse because I was ill prepared for recovery.

I have come to believe that each Step prepares you for the next Step. Additionally, each Step makes the previous Step honest. Having taken the Steps, done all the preparatory work, my amends went much better. Not all amends were accepted, but as long as I did the work to honestly straighten out the past, it wasn't my problem.

The best advice I could give any newcomer fresh off the booze and facing the Steps of recovery comes from the Boy Scouts' motto be prepared. After my relapse, I had drunk enough, done enough, and hurt enough to be prepared for Step One. I discovered that I wanted to live, so I stayed prepared, took the Steps, and recovered my life. If you're prepared, you can get there (Step Nine) from here (Step One). Even God's will is a piece of cake if you're prepared.

Sobriety Plan

I went through a treatment center at Nellis Air Force Base, Las Vegas, Nevada—twice. Here's a tip: if you relapse and have to go through treatment a second time, go to a different treatment center where the counselors don't know your lies.

While in treatment, they had us come up with a sobriety plan. Each member (client) of the treatment center would lay out a plan for how they intend to stay sober, then they would present their sobriety plans before the group. Some were going to AA. Others were going to base their sobriety on their church and family. One person was going to stay sober on discipline alone—a real just don't drink kind of a guy. He was met with some serious criticism. Then it was my turn. I laid out my plan of not going to places that served alcohol. Almost immediately, the counselor started to laugh. My counselor pointed out that I was living in Las Vegas—you can get a cocktail at the barbershop. There were very few places I could go that didn't serve alcohol. I thought about it for a minute, and even I could see the humor of my sobriety plan.

I wanted, above all else, to graduate from the treatment center with honors. I didn't want anyone else to hassle me about my drinking. But to graduate with honors, I'd need to change my sobriety plan. So, I added attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings to my plan. The treatment center arranged to have us attend a speaker meeting at the base recreation center. We walked from our barracks to the recreation center for our first meeting. The speaker was a man named Clancy. When the meeting was over, Clancy made it a point to mingle with the newcomers (clients). When he came up to me, he shook my hand and said, I understand that Cal has agreed to be your sponsor. I glanced over at Cal and thought, He just doesn't seem that agreeable to me. So, I added getting a sponsor to my sobriety plan.

My sponsor, Cal, insisted I take the Steps and read the book, and so it went. With more and more exposure to sober alcoholics, the more and more things were added to my sobriety plan. But that only got me sober. I would now need to balance meetings, sponsorship, Steps, and everything else required to stay sober with those things that were needed to carve out a life for myself. I was hearing echoes from the Big Book saying, We feel a man is unthinking when he says that sobriety is enough (Alcoholics Anonymous 1955, 82). Of course, I needed to continue to stay sober, but I needed to do so much more than not drink.

I studied for my promotion exams and was promoted. I was able to move out of the crack neighborhood and into a neighborhood where the windows didn't have wrought iron bars on them. I went back to school. With grants, I was spending $200 a month to go to college when before I was spending $300 a month on drugs and alcohol; the way I look at it, I was making money going to college. I bought a car that ran every single day. I was expecting a lot from a car and had begun to expect a lot from myself too.

I periodically needed to adjust my sobriety plan. When I retired, I quit studying for promotion. When I married, I quit dating. The sobriety plan is in constant flux.

I continue to make meetings, work the Steps, and work with others to stay sober. I continue to turn my will and my life over to the Higher Power. I continue to take personal inventory and conduct personal housecleaning. I also continue to do those things that bring me a sober life. I continue to adjust my sobriety plan to support a sober life regardless of where my life may take me.

Dad

My dad was a gentle, quiet man. On the rare occasions when he spoke, he had something of value to say; he spoke with a purpose. He had an abundance of patience, making him a good teacher. From him, I learned about carpentry, woodworking, masonry, leather working, gardening, hunting, fishing, and a myriad of other skills. Occasionally, he'd be in the mood to tell one of his stories. Even then, his stories had a point. My dad and two of his brothers were the storytellers of our family. Dad once pointed to his smallpox vaccination scar, told us he got it smoking, and said, This is why we don't smoke. Not to be out done, my uncle told us that he was once trapped in a horrible storm, and the rain washed all his hair off his head and onto his chest. The moral was, in a strong storm, seek shelter. We were young and gullible. The yarns they told were their way of passing on lessons to the kids.

My dad was full of advice. But when you're in your teens and there is a whole new culture growing up around you, sometimes his advice got lost in the drumbeat. Dad's Trust your gut was replaced by Timothy Leary's If it feels good, do it. Most of my dad's sage wisdom was wasted on me in the late 1960s.

I ask my dad why he wasted his time laying the bricks in the backyard when skilled masons could do the work. Dad said, If you want it done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself. When I was drinking, I took a very selfish and self-centered view of his advice. First, of course, my way was the right way. And secondly, I didn't want anyone else meddling in my affairs, so I'd rather do it myself. Once I got sober, I started to rely on others. I noticed that my dad's good advice included the word sometimes. It's okay to rely on others, but sometimes, if you want it done right, you need to do it yourself. Such is the case with the Steps, especially Step Four. No one else but me could take my inventory.

My dad used to say, If you don't do anything, then you'll never do anything wrong. With a little bit of booze and a fear of being wrong, I spent a number of years doing nothing at all under the false assumption that not being wrong meant that I was right. In sobriety, those same words took on a new meaning. I saw the flip side of dad's counsel, If you don't do anything, then you'll never do anything right. The advice was given to inspire me to put fear aside and do something.

My dad would also say, You can either do something and make something happen or do nothing and let something happen. Drinking brought out a certain lazy streak in me. Thus, his advice fell on deaf ears. Sure, it would be great to have a college education; I just didn't want to go to class. Sure, it would be great to be promoted; I just didn't want to study. So I spent my entire drinking career not making things happen. Instead, I spent my time reacting to things that were happening to me. In sobriety, I quickly got tired of things just happening to me. I wanted serenity. I wanted to be happy, joyous, and free. It wasn't happening. Then I was told how to achieve the things I wanted. If I were to take a few simple steps, I could have the future I wanted. Do something; make something.

Under the influence of alcohol, I misinterpreted what my father was trying to convey. In sobriety, I finally heard him clearly. Hindsight: All of my dad's advice had a common theme—to do something. It was dad's version of into action.

The Sky Is Falling

The first few months of my sobriety were fairly uneventful. The greatest trauma I experienced was the Steps and a helicopter sponsor. I had gone through the Steps the first time, and by six months, I was sponsoring others. I got my car back from the garage after being repaired from a failed suicide attempt; the insurance company paid for it all. I had started dating (never done that sober). The number of friends I had more than tripled—way beyond my handful of drinking buddies. My boss had begun to trust me again; I could tell by the assignments and responsibilities he gave me. The Air Force had expressed their confidence in me by not discharging me and instead giving me orders for overseas.

All was well. Then in the blink of an eye, I went from living in a pink cloud to wallowing in worry and fear. I had lost my wallet. I became like Chicken Little, running around screaming that the sky was falling.

My wallet contained my first legal driver's license I had in quite some time. The night I was arrested for driving under the influence (DUI), the arresting officer was in such a hurry to administer the field sobriety test that he failed to carefully inspect my driver's license. Had he looked just a little bit harder, he would have seen my license expired months ago, before I drove my truck off a cliff, trying to kill myself. To me the loss of my first legal license, which meant so much to me, was an emotional event.

My wallet also contained my very first credit card. Prior to my sobriety, the only credit card I had ever used was someone else's. I was afraid that someone could take that credit card and bankrupt me. That alone is an oxymoron. I had just opened a bank account and my first savings account in over nine years, so the question becomes, how do you bankrupt a person that is bankrupt?

Along with my credit card was my Ward's card (I'm probably dating myself here). While it doesn't give anyone access to my bank account, someone could use it to refurbish their home and stick me with monthly payments. The possibility of being overseas and making monthly payments on someone else's home decor made me angry.

But the one thing that was in my missing wallet that I treasured the most was my military ID card. I wasn't sure, but I suspected that there would be some kind of punishment for the loss of government property under the Unified Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). I was preparing myself for the worst.

My first surprise was at the Department of Motor Vehicle. I thought I'd have to take the test again; I barely passed it last time. The only bright spot was the opportunity to improve on my ID photo. Instead, they printed out a temporary driver's license while I stood there and promised a permanent one in the mail. There was no test, no photo, just a miniscule fee. Then at the bank, my credit card was closed and reissued with a new number by my bank. All I had to do was report the loss and request a new card. Another storm cloud had dissipated. I closed my Ward's account and card completely. Ward's Department store closed—forever—not my fault. My military ID card was reissued, no fine or other punishments. The sky was clear again, even a little bit rosy. This all occurred in very early sobriety, at a time when a broken shoelace would have ruined my day. Thank God and a program of recovery, I'm not that fragile anymore. As a side note, when I received orders to ship out overseas, I started packing up my stuff and having a garage sale for those items that I wasn't taking with me; that's when I found my wallet.

The First Promise

The treatment center took us to an AA speaker meeting at the Nellis Air Force Base recreation center. The speaker was a man named Clancy. After the meeting, I was introduced to a man named Cal and was told that he would be my sponsor. Thus, I was appointed a sponsor before I had left the treatment center.

Cal saw to it that I had a Big Book. He asked me to read it, and of course, I complained. I wasn't going to be indoctrinated into a cult with a book. But I looked around—AA lacked the tambourines, charismatic leader, coercive indoctrination, and the exploitation of its members that are often found in cults. This bunch of