Long and Short Months

If you can't remember--and I never can--Coleridge's rhyme about "thirty days hath September," try this: make two fists and put them together, with the knuckles up. Starting at the left, with the knuckle of the little finger of your left hand, let each knuckle and the depression between knuckles represent a month. January is the knuckle of your little finger, February the dip between that and the next knuckle, March the knuckle of your left ring finger, and so on. The knuckles are long months of 31 days, and the depressions are short ones, usually 30 days, but of course February is an exceptionally short one. This shows you graphically that, except for the two long months July and August, the knuckles of your left index and right index fingers, long and short months alternate through the year.

The Big Book

            I’ve been reading the third edition (1976) of Alcoholics Anonymous. The first edition of what A.A. members call “The Big Book” appeared in 1939. The important sections remain the same in subsequent editions, though appendices and additional personal stories have been added.

            The heart of the book is in the discussion of “How It Works”—this and subsequent chapters explain the implementation of the twelve steps—and in the two narratives of the movement’s co-founders: “Bill’s Story,” and “Doctor Bob’s Nightmare.” In the latter, “Doctor Bob” says that the company of the man who helped him get sober was important because “he was the first living human being with whom I had ever talked, who knew what he was talking about in regard to alcoholism from actual experience.” This keeping company with those who actually understand because they have been there seems to be part of the reason A.A. works, and the rest seems to be in the steps, including acceptance of one’s helplessness in the grip of alcoholism and the attempt at complete honesty with oneself and others.

            Another way in which the rest of us don’t get it shows up in the narratives, which seem to me to tell the same story and to each be very repetitive. I remember an A.A. meeting I attended in Tucson, where after the second person detailed her woes, I thought how cliché-ridden and predictable these narratives seemed to be, and tried to find some interest by looking around me. To my shock, everyone was listening intently and not a few of the listeners were in tears.