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When The Laughter Gets Swallowed UP
Long about Thanksgiving time I find myself bracing for memories of too many years caught up in alcohol abuse, my own, those around me, family, extended family. This past September 19 I celebrated my thirtieth anniversary, no alcohol, none. Still, but not so much as in earlier years, the nightmare of life lost to alcohol surfaces.
In 2008 I was working on a project in Frankfort, Kentucky. Day’s work done I took myself to Poor Richards Bookstore and Coffee Shop on Main Street across from the old city hall, took up my seat in the street cafe to journal and enjoy a cup or two of coffee.
Poor Richards was among a streetscape of like historic two and three story buildings joined at the shoulder. From an adjacent building people, men and women, young and old began emerging onto the street, taking up tables next to mine there on the street. They were animated, intense in their talk, about their AA meeting. They were indifferent to my presence. Vicariously, I was absorbed in their predicament, their pain.
I went back to the carriage house where I was staying. There was a piano there. I sat down with the emotion of the moment and composed, played, sang and recorded When The Laughter Gets Swallowed Up.

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