Bizarre at the Boathouse, Part 2
Audio version now available.
Boathouse shindigs are my kind of parties. Years ago, we were at a barbeque in someone’s backyard when one of the children of the host fell going up their deck stairs and needed stitches. The hosts both left with their child, and the rest of the party goers pulled together to put away the food and clean up the party. While picking up cups and dishes, I knocked a full glass of red wine left on the fireplace hearth onto their white living room carpet. That experience is why I’ve always appreciated cleanup at the boathouse. It is more of a covered patio. It is elevated with a walk-in basement below, but the party area is a concrete slab with a roof overhead–perfect for spring and autumn nights. And also, perfect for cleanup. A pushbroom, and snow shovel for a dustpan, and maybe some spot mopping, and the renter gets their security deposit back.
At a recent church event hosted at the boathouse, I was hanging around waiting for cleanup to start. My wife, Sheri, works at the church, and as is the case with most nonprofit organizations that depend on volunteer labor, the spouses of the employees were voluntold to help clean up. Just like I witnessed the bizarre behavior of the teens when the boathouse was used for homecoming, I leaned against the boathouse wall and watched a peculiar ritual of young adulthood with which I was painfully familiar. The twenty and thirty somethings were well lubricated, and the alcohol gave me a glimpse of how the reserved professionals and parents behaved when they dropped their shields of decorum. Listen, nothing debaucherous took place at the boathouse, much to my disappointment. If people are going to let loose and compile regrets for the morning, I want to see something worthy of my penchant for storytelling. I was left disappointed in that regard.
While waiting for the party to end, I had one particularly heartening conversation. A woman who is probably over-a-decade younger than me, and who has young children, told me that the reason she chose our church in the first place was because of how authentically Sheri talked in front of the whole congregation about the hearing loss two of our children experience. The woman said that anyplace where someone can share real struggles and be embraced by the people around her was a place where she wanted to raise her kids. It was moving. Quite moving. I hugged her and thanked her for telling me that, and it was another face-to-face interaction with a human that temporarily reversed the cynicism that most forms of technological communication foment.
She was emotional telling me. I also noticed that as we talked, we seemed to be slowly rotating to the left. She had been drinking. She was not drunk. Not close to drunk, really. But the alcohol was having an effect. Actually two effects, as I can think of no other explanation for the fact that our conversation was revolving around an axis.
In the moment, I appreciated her vulnerability. But in hindsight, there was something that felt dirty about the interaction. She told me something so lovely about the influence my amazing bride had on her family. If not for my wife, she and her husband would not have been at that party. If not for my wife, I would not have the pleasure of watching her beautiful children grow up. And yet, her validating vulnerability had been stifled until that moment when she felt comfortable enough to tell me why they attend our church. That it took alcohol to greez-forth the story makes me sad. Sad in a broad, societal sort of way. But even more, it made me sad for her, the woman who shared her authentic truth with me at the tail end of the boathouse party.
She is a highly intelligent, successful, loving, conversational bright spot in our congregation. She seems to be the perfect blend of confidence and humility, eagerness and listening skills, giver and receiver of love. And yet, she lacked the comfort to tell me something so beautiful about how my family touched hers until she felt the freedom of a buzz. It makes me sad to think of what else she might be holding back from the people that love her.
It is not her fault. I don’t blame her for the little weight of baggage our conversation leaves with me. It is just bizarre to me that a species with the intelligence to replace faulty organs and invent vaccines to stop human suffering tolerates the collateral damage of a liquid toxin. It begs the questions:
If alcohol and other drugs didn’t exist, would that be the end of human vulnerability? Or would that be the end of human embarrassment, leaving nothing but vulnerability? Is fermented grain and grape the forbidden fruit, and are we restricting ourselves by our worship of it?
I don’t know, but I wonder. As I approach a decade of sobriety, there really is almost nothing that embarrasses me, and very little that I am not willing to freely express out loud regardless of the audience.
One thing is for sure. The boathouse has been an inspiring portal of truth for me in recent weeks. That’s not surprising. When gathering at a gathering place for us bizarre humans, we are bound to learn an interesting thing or two about ourselves.
If you are ready to leave alcohol behind and ponder questions like these, please consider joining us in SHOUT Sobriety.