A Family Disease

This is a topic I could probably write much more on and perhaps I will later. I find myself intrigued by the story of Bill Wilson’s grandfather Willie.

I also believe that this is yet another example of alcoholism being a family disease.

From Francis Hartigan’s book “Bill W., A Biography of Alcoholics Anonymous Cofounder Bill Wilson,” Thomas Dunne Books, New York, 2001, on pages 10-11.

“Bill’s grandfather Wilson also linked Mount Aeolus to a profound spiritual experience. . . . he climbed Mount Aeolus. There, after beseeching God to help him, he saw a blinding light and felt the wind of the Spirit. It was a conversion experience that left him feeling so transformed that he practically ran down the mountain and into town.

“When he reached the East Dorset Congregational Church, which is across the street from the Wilson House, the Sunday service was in progress. Bill’s grandfather stormed into the church and demanded that the minister get down from the pulpit. Then, taking his place, he proceeded to relate his experience to the shocked congregation. Wilson’s grandfather never drank again. He was to live another eight years, sober.”

Of course, what is intriguing is that Bill W. had such a similar experience.

Additionally, for me, all of this peaks my interest because I also have a family background based in Vermont.

Some information about this area from Barnes and Noble (and a book by Susan Cheever aptly titled “My Name Is Bill”);

“Called the Valley of Vermont, this verdant, limestone path in the land lies between the Green Mountains to the east and the Taconic Mountains to the west. A few miles north of East Dorset, at Dorset Pond in North Dorset, the valley narrows until only a few hundred yards separate the two mountain ranges. Mount Aeolus in the Taconic Range, named for its windy summit by a party of nineteenth-century climbers from Haverford College, slopes above East Dorset on the west side, while Bromley Mountain in the Green Mountain Range rises above the town to the east.”

And…

“By the end of November, the huge piles of stacked firewood are already beginning to shrink, and the smell of snow and woodsmoke and the occasional baking apple pie swirls around the churchyard, past the old schoolhouse and across the brook toward Mount Aeolus and the world beyond.”

Mine was in a town called Woodstock where my grandparents owned property, had built a house and where, in their years after retirement, my mother and father built a home too. Hmmm, ever the romantic I am. Reminiscing I guess