My ranking of life experiences is based on whether I will forever recall  events—good or bad. The latter is especially important as a warning sign to avoid repeating doing the same thing over and over and a expecting different result, a well known definition of insanity attributed to Albert Einstein. 

This past weekend, Annette and I viewed the impact of bad memories on tens of thousands of sober and happy people attending the International Convention of Alcoholics Anonymous in San Antonio, Texas. I venture to say that none of the more than 50,000+ alcoholics (66,000 registered for the event, counting spouses and friends) joined AA because things were going so wonderfully in their lives. Pain motivates the sufferers to seek sobriety. That was certainly the case in my life—pain combined with a sense of hopelessness and fear.

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The AA gathering was San Antonio’s biggest ever convention. And an event that no doubt brought to town the largest number of smiling people. There is a widespread fear among boozers that getting sober means they will never again have fun. That was certainly my mindset. But I learned differently.

And so would anyone present at Thursday’s night’s dance and entertainment program, which was supposed to be held in a park adjacent to the convention center. But remnants of Hurricane Alex forced it inside, probably to the chagrin of the Fire Marshall. The high-energy rock band had a hip-to-hip crowd moving and shaking. A young paralyzed military veteran in front of me was swinging his upper torso so rapidly that I thought he was going to leap out of the wheelchair begin dancing. It was like a Grateful Dead concert for sober people. If Jerry Garcia was looking down from above—or up from Hades for that matter—he would would have been proud of our crowd.   

Sober people do have fun. And even remember what they did the next morning. Caught up in the no-fun syndrome, it took me more than one try to grab hold of the 12-step program. My early failures were a result of lacking a requirement for a full membership in the fellowship, which is a “desire to stop drinking.”

As an alternative to plugging the jug, I tried different experiments. The most notable was eating pizza and bananas before a night of partying. That was my diet prior to attending a party one night. And, lo, I was not arrested, my then wife didn’t leave me, nor did I get fired. In my twisted mind, that was successful drinking.

I was reminded of my weirdness at a Saturday morning meeting titled, Healing Through Laughter. A speaker said she got sick and crazy after drinking screwdrivers. This happened, she rationalized, because of an allergy to citrus fruits. 

Thankfully, I disabused myself of the belief that I would find a way to control my drinking in February, 1971. Today, as the last survivor—a scary thought—of small AA meetings that were instrumental in saving and salvaging my life, I considered myself an “oldtimer” in the fellowship. But my 39 years of sobriety fell seven months short of getting me a floor seat at Saturday night’s ”oldtimers meeting” in the Alamodome. Over 500 recovered alcoholics at the convention had 40 years or more of sobriety. A few were sober for over 60 years, making me a relative newcomer.

A dozen oldtimers each spoke for a few minutes, giving brief accounts of their arrival at AA while expressing appreciation for the sober lives they lived. There was a remarkable consistency in their views and humor. Important to recovery is the ability to laugh at ourselves, God’s pancea for pain.

This year marks the 75th anniversary of Alcoholics Anonymous. And sitting in the nearly full 65,000-seat Alamodome at Saturday night’s oldtimers meeting, as well as Friday evening’s Flag Ceremony in which 73 countries were represented, was a miraculous experience I will never forget—an optimistic statement at an age when I do periodic memory check-ups to reassure myself that my loss of brain cells remains gradual. So far, so good. 

Miracles, according to my definition, are in the minds of beholders. Seeing more than 50,000 sober, happy alcoholics under a single roof certainly meets my definition.

I know for sure that my sobriety is a miracle.

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career. 

celebrated their sobriety at the 75th