A 1950s Iowa childhood of black earth, fireflies, and GTOs catching air on country roads. Sharon C. was the girl looking for the mothership in a soybean field, a "bright young girl with promise" who traded it all for Canadian Club and Schlitz beer. The slide from the White House to the bottom of a bottle was fast. She describes a life of geographics—fleeing to Wisconsin to grow organic crops and then to New Orleans, where she lived in a flat above a biker bar with a pet skunk and a platinum blonde wig.
The wreckage was concrete: a disrupted courtroom, a seedy southern jail with bugs as big as thumbs, and the sight of her father arriving in Bogalusa to bail her out of a jackpot she’d built for herself. Now, with over three decades of sobriety, Sharon views her life as a group project. Since blackouts erased the specifics of her debts, she makes amends to the universe daily through maximum service to her Higher Power and the people around her.
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