"I didn´t wanta stop drinking, and the reason I didn´t wanta stop drinking was that I didn´t like anybody." So said Mary B. of Renton, now nearly 50 years sober, over and over during an interview for High and Dry

Her then-husband, Ben, had led her to Alcoholics Anonymous, and from then on, she struggled to stay sober. "I didn´t like the program worth a damn, but I was gonna do it for all it was worth for two months." That white knuckle approach kept her miserable but away from the bottle for the next two years. Then came the breakthrough that converted Mary into one of the hardest working and best-known members of the fellowship in the state of Washington.

"My mother took sick in Maryland when I was two years and three months on the program, and I had to go home to be with her. When I went into her room, there was three people there-my aunt, my uncle and my mother. I knew I was gonna kiss my mother and my aunt, but I didn´t expect to see my uncle there. I kissed my mother and then went over and kissed my aunt, and then I reached up and kissed my uncle on the cheek.

"Till then, I hadn´t paid much attention to what they were saying in AA, but I did remember they said you have to learn to forgive. So I went over and kissed him on the cheek, and all of that hate melted out of my heart. Two years and three months of sobriety, and then everything seemed to change.

"I had hated him for 25 years. That was my breakthrough, yeah, that´s when the AA program started meaning so much to me." But it was years later before Mary shared her story with the fellowship.

What happened?

"We were a happy family, kind of on the religious side. When I was 16 years old, my mother´s sister´s husband, my uncle, who had carried me around as a baby, raped me, and I was a virgin. When you write this story, you can put this in. I don´t give a damn. Any place I go, I talk about it. He had the syph[ilis], and he gave it to me."

The Baltimore health department, where she went for treatment, "treated me like I was in jail, or in prison. In order to eat, I had to have my own set of dishes. Everybody was scared of it like they are of AIDs today. I had to wash in a basin with my own wash things. I was singled out to be alone, and the longer this happened-it took 18 months to get well-it turned me against-not only one man, but the whole damn world. I never told anybody what happened. He was my mother´s sister´s husband, and we were a loving family. I knew what love was, the most important thing in the world, and when I lost it, I lost my world. He did the same thing to one of my cousins and some other woman. I was the only one that lived. (Editor´s Note: syphilis was a deadly scourge before the discovery of sulfa drugs and penicillin in the 30s and 40s.)

"So that´s how I got to hating people, and that´s why I say my story is different. I´ve done a hell of a lot of sacrificing since I got in this program."

What about her uncle? "He couldn´t get rid of it. He died of it."

Mary first talked about this situation at the Pacific Northwest Conference in New Westminster, B.C. as a member of a Love and Service panel. It was there she decided to tell her story. "You don´t hate the whole world without a reason. You have to have a reason, and I thought that was a pretty good reason. After I finished talking, a man in the audience got up and left. When he came back, his eyes were red. He come over and thanked me. ´You´re so open,´ he said. ´You know, I´ve been tryin´ for years to get sober and couldn´t. The same thing happened to me when I was younger.´ That grief made him not be able to stay sober. ´Now I can, though,´ he told me. That opened the door for me to tell my story any time I talked. It has helped a lot of girls, a lot of girls. You don´t know how many women have been hurt and raped.

"One time, out of town, someone said to me, ´Ain´t you ashamed, talking like that?´ I told him that´s what this program is for, to tell what happened and what it´s like now." What it´s like now for Mary, and has been for many years, is a life devoted to AA service. But that´s not all. When she was younger, she often entertained as a singer and dancer at AA parties and dances. Here´s how the 1990 international convention issue of the High and Dry told that part of her story:

"Mary had been a professional singer/dancer, entertaining in night clubs for eight years ´til booze stole her voice and threatened her equilibrium. Mary and the 12 Steppers (an AA band from that era) decided to do a little hula dance. Unfortunately, in mid-dance, Mary´s bra broke. What a boob-oo! Only, the crowd loved it….Mary decided if the d____d thing was going to break, she might as well get a little fun out of it. The next time Mary performed, her bra broke right on cue, and there, on each bosom, was a bright and shiny ´A´! Who says Seattle produces prudes?"

That´s only part of it, of course. For 27 years, she worked the white elephant table at the annual picnic before she finally turned it over to her "babies." That´s what she calls the people she sponsors. Over the years, she´s sponsored so many men she´s lost count, but knows there were 27 who died with at least 30 years of sobriety. She said she didn´t want to talk about that part of her history, though, because "what you see there, you leave there."

Mary was asked if Sam G. is one of her babies. Sam, who was featured in an October ´01 article, takes Mary to her meetings now that she no longer drives.

"Sammy´s my friend," Mary said. "My sponsees are my friends, too, but it´s different. I met Sam in AA while I still had the farm. I had some extra corn and asked him to come get some. When I saw all those little babies that Sam and Lily had adopted, it was love at first sight. They´re all grown up now, but I still keep in touch with them. They call me Aunt Mary."

Sam said it was Mary who "ingrained in me the need for many meetings. Meetings became a way of life for her. She´s been very ill these last few years. Sometimes, when I pick her up, she can barely walk or talk, but after the meeting, she´s rejuvenated. That´s how it became a part of my life too."

Mary´s known, too, for her no-nonsense attitude toward AA slackers. Angus L., who participated in this interview, asked her about her home group´s plan, many years ago, to move to Longacres. "Yeah," said Mary. "The damn lazy men. We could have moved long before we did if we would just shingle a roof there. None of ´em wanted to do it, so after three or four months of piddling around, I said ´My neighbor and I are going down and shingle that roof ourselves.´ So then they all pitched in and helped."

Once, someone in a meeting said "I haven´t been here for two or three weeks." Mary didn´t let that go by. "It´s more like eight," she announced.

Angus told of a man who earned early release from McNeil prison by joining the program. He was looking forward to kicking up his heels when he got out, but Mary and her friends, who´d been attending McNeil meetings, met him at the dock and said "Hi. We´re going to a meeting," and he went for the next 30 years, until his death a year ago..

Another approach she uses is to clap before the speaker is finished if he´s talking too long.

Mary´s second husband was an ex-convict, but it didn´t last long. "I only stayed married to him for 18 months because I believe a love that kills ain´t worth havin´. He´s dead now. I don´t hold anything against him, and I´m not sorry ´cause it´s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

So that´s at least part of the story of a long and useful life in Alcoholics Anonymous.

Keep Coming Back, Mary.

Interviewed by Angus L. and Dick S. Written by Dick S.

Interviewed by Angus L. and Dick S. Written by Dick S.