Mother's Day, 1935, Akron, Ohio. A man arrives home "potted," passing out upstairs until a friend brings a stranger to the door who claims he can help. Bob S. recalls this collision between his father, Dr. Bob, and Bill W. as the spark of a movement born from nothing. He paints a gritty picture of the Great Depression—strong men selling five-cent apples on street corners—and a house filled with "wet drunks" and the pungent stench of peraldehyde.
Bob S. describes the early wreckage: a patient who escaped through a downspout and chased his mother with a butcher knife, and the "damage control" of the Twelve Traditions. He admits to his own denial, describing his life as a series of crashes in the same wilderness. Through the loss of his son to suicide and his wife to cancer, he found a Higher Power that didn't just improve his conduct, but propped him up. He warns that the person he once was will get sick again, urging others to move past the first shack on the road.
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