Chapter 1

My Story

With my highly distracted mother, I climbed the steps to the red brick mansion at 1311 York Street. Mom clutched a Big Book and a tattered spiral, college-ruled notebook. I, on the other hand, clutched a Raggedy Ann doll. .  I was five years old. My head tilted up in the warm fall breeze as I tried to see the roof.

Mom led us onto the crowded, noisy front porch and through the first double wood doors and then the second.  The entryway was dark, mysterious. Cigarette smoke billowed.

“Isn’t this old mansion cool, girls?” Mom said to us. My sister Cathie rolled her eyes.  My eyes were open too wide to roll. I walked towards the elegant staircase, mouth open a little.

We climbed the stairs, passed the stained glass window on the landing and entered the brightly lit meeting room. Tables made a large rectangle with a hole in the center. Potted ferns drank sunlight in the bay window. 

I knew the routine.  Adults gathered in a circle, drank coffee, chattered, laughed and smoked. They said prayers out loud together and often referred to “the steps” listed on a large poster on the wall with old-English font. I had read them many times to keep myself occupied in meetings.

They didn’t make much sense to my child brain (Powerless over alcohol? Self-Inventory? Made amends?) But I knew they were very important to these people who gathered all the time to talk about them. 

Men had long shaggy hair and mustaches that drooped over the sides of their mouths.  They sported cowboy boots. Women gabbed and laughed, strutted around in bell-bottoms. Sometimes I would count the number of curse words each person said during the time they shared their troubles. Then I would guess who would be the winner.

Mom began attending York Street meetings more often, though it was a thirty-minute drive in the old brown Toyota.  Cathie and I endured.

We would make the occasional friend at York Street.  We’d run around the building with this new playmate playing our usual games: Charlie’s Angels, Star Wars or sitting in my mother’s car and pretending to drive, smoldering crayons between our fingers to serve as cigarettes.  One of our favorite chores was to walk around the meetings serving coffee and earning the occasional tip. A nice lady let us dog sit her cocker spaniel once.  Mom even enrolled us in Alatot, a support group for children of alcoholics.

My mother spent many hours at York Street, talking with her sponsor in the café or hanging out on the porch on a warm fall day. Her spirits lifted considerably after she had been there for a while. By the time we left, she would be in a mood to hit Furr’s Cafeteria or even the toy store.

            I don’t remember loving our time at York Street, but I didn’t hate it. I just thought of the big red house as a part of our lives. We were always there.  It was normal. When we were so poor at Christmas that we could not afford groceries, we collected candy and fruit from Santa Claus there.

            When I turned ten, we moved away and I developed an adult life, I did not think about York Street. My time there faded into the background with the rest of my childhood memories.  I married, had children and ended up with my family back in Denver.

            Over the years, my own alcoholism grew and hijacked my life. It ruined my marriage, my ability to parent, cost me my job and put me in bankruptcy. I had no friends. I was almost homeless.

            I continued to drink.

My childhood in the rooms of AA did not prevent my own illness and even caused me to be in deeper denial because I told myself I understood alcoholism. I wasn’t in the dark! Having been schooled in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, I knew that if I went to AA, the people there would be tough and I’d have to stop drinking forever… (despite the “One Day at a Time” slogan).

            I was vomiting every morning, my eyes were a jaundice color of yellow from liver failure and I had no relationship left with my sons, who now lived with their dad.  I began attending AA meetings, some my mother had once taken me to.

            It wasn’t until May of 2009 that I again climbed the steps at 1311 York Street, this time a bit more downtrodden and humbled.   I’d come full circle. I had earned my seat but I didn’t say what many newcomers say: “I thought you guys would teach me how to drink normally.”

I knew better.  Twenty-five years later, I was back.  Ironic, right?

            And yet, I had always known at some level that I belonged. As a child, I related to those people and the AA culture.  It did not prevent me from following the typical progression of alcoholism, but only allowed me to know I was alcoholic and be haunted by it long before I stopped drinking.

            This knowledge made my journey longer than it had to be. My outright acceptance of being alcoholic, and just choosing to drink anyway, was a road to death just like any other alcoholic who will choose the booze.

            So I went to meetings. I listened. I shared. I still drank at night. This cycle repeated, but I was no quitter.

            As it had my mother, York Street harbored me during difficult times. Some nights it provided me a meeting to go to at ten o’clock, or at midnight, when I would have otherwise gone home and drank until I passed out.

I must admit, I was a tough sell. I attended meetings for eleven months before I finally put the plug in the jug.  I lost many sponsors and friends over that year but I realize their rejection was for my own good.

            I have now been sober for six years, with Alcoholics Anonymous.

Recently, I became more and more curious about York Street’s history. I heard occasional stories of the old days of the club but by 2009, there were few members left who’d witnessed the days prior to 1978, my first day there.

            I began to search the net for information. I found little. So I decided to write a book to uncover the forgotten stories that surround the elegant history of the house.  Who were the original owners? Who were York Street’s charter members?

            Without Denver group 1, where would I be? I had tried every other program available and failed.  I owe my life to this program and the roots of Denver AA are in the York Street Club.

            I suppose that if the group hadn’t bought the house, they would have bought another. But that house is magical to me and I’m glad AA bloomed there.

            In fact, AA literally saved the house. The Denver Urban Renewal Authority did not tear it down as it had so many others.  It is one of the few mansions of that size, in the area, that is left.

After World War II, over four million soldiers came for training or recuperation and many made Denver their home. As the population exploded, the DURA demolished many old buildings and “unpopular” style homes.  Thanks to a Higher Power, the National Register of Historic Places adopted the house in 1976.

To a typical Denverite driving or walking by, it might attract attention. There are often “eclectic” groups hanging out on the porch. A friend of mine once commented that he thought it was “some sort of building for the homeless.”  AA members know it simply as “York Street,” a club in Denver offering AA meetings in a beautiful old house.

            The York Street House contains history and communicates to the visitor, or at least it does to me! It has felt light footsteps of fine society ladies, been filled with cigar smoke of men while they discussed Denver politics.  The front porch received the newspaper, which headlined that the Titanic had sunk with Denver’s Molly Brown aboard.

Later, it heard cries of despair and hopelessness, cheers and laughter and prayers to many concepts of a higher power.  It has comforted the weary and homeless, warmed and fed the hungry, and provided a spiritual place to connect with others.

            Due to AA’s anonymous nature, most member stories are private. Like a descendent of tribal people, I had to talk to members to get oral history. I interviewed old-timers who had heard stories from old-timers themselves.

            I referred to contributors to this book by first name only to respect anonymity.  I changed some names for the same reason. I also took some liberties to assume what an alcoholic’s life was like in the early days of Colorado. I have used my personal experience, the experiences of others and the extensive research on alcoholism and Colorado that I have done to speculate what life might have been like.      

Though the term alcoholic was not used prior to the twentieth century, the words drunkard and sot existed.   Their drunk behavior caused the same amount of trouble as a modern day alkie.   They too, could not “drink with impunity.”

 How many people might have benefitted from AA in Denver prior to 1941? Without universally agreed on, exact statistics, it’s hard to say what percentage was alcoholic.

            I tried to surmise the number. Five percent? A few thousand? There’s no way of knowing.  But York Street started the spread of Denver AA.

            And people got help.

            I dug up information about the neighborhood and the LeFevre family from census records, vital records, ancestry.com, old newspaper articles, websites and books.  Members of York Street were kind enough to share some of their knowledge and experience.

Reviews

[Warrior]

I like how you add in the mystery into the story with how the details ask a question such as what are the secrets. I like mysteries, and this caught my attention.