Thank you. Thank you, Betty. Hi, everybody. My name is Les Studley. I'm an alcoholic. Hi, Les. I want to, uh, uh, begin this by saying happy birthday to Patty O. right down there, 17 years today. Here's a coin. Thank you. Patty we have a coin for you to take back to California. I know you got your happy birthday socks on, so, uh, here you are. Ain't it wonderful? I want to tell you, every time I do this, I feel like Elizabeth Taylor's next husband. I know what I'm here for, but can I make it interesting? I tried this one out on, on Jerome and Glenys and, uh, Tim and, uh, Ed on Friday, and I'm gonna share it with you. Uh, the Pope is in Dallas, and he's having dinner with, uh, the cardinal, and he says to, uh, the cardinal, "Your Eminence, ever since I was a boy growing up in Poland, I've had a great fantasy." And the cardinal looked at him and said, "Yes, Holy Father?" He said, "I've always wanted to drive one of those stretch American limousines, the big ones." He said, "Is that right, Holy Father?" He said, "Yes." He said, "Don't worry about it, Holy Father." The next morning, they're having breakfast, and after breakfast, the cardinal says, "Holy Father, come with me." He takes him out to the front of the residence. He reaches in his pocket. He pulls out a set of keys, and there sits the Cadillac, 84 feet long, you know. And he says to the Pope, "Holy Father, it's yours for the day," and the Pope gets in, and away he drives. Two hours later, a rookie constable with the Houston Police Department hits the police station. He says, "I gotta see the chief. I gotta see the chief. I gotta see the chief." So they get him up the chief's office, and the chief says, "Constable, what is wrong?" He said, "Well, sir, I, I, I gave a citation to a very important person." The chief says, "Not the mayor?" He said, "No, sir, not the mayor." He said, "Oh, God, no. Not the governor." He said, "No, sir, not the governor." He said, "Good God, Constable. Not the President of the United States?" He said, "No, sir, not the president. In fact, I don't know who it was, but he had the Pope as a chauffeur." Has nothing to do with anything, you know? I want to thank the committee, uh, for the wonderful, wonderful weekend, uh, that Dorothy and I have had. It, it has been absolutely wonderful. Uh, that's the only adjective that I can use to describe it, and if it sounds repetitive, it, it's because it's been so, so great. Uh, our friend Jim has taken us all over the place, and Ed and the rest of the speakers committee have just been wonderful, the whole committee. Having been involved in AA, uh, and some of these events, I know some of the work that goes behind this. I gotta tell you something. In Rochester, New York, you do it very well, okay? Almost as well as we do it in Halifax, Nova Scotia. I, uh, I want to share some things with you today that, that I believe are important to me, things that have become important to me as the result of my association with Alcoholics Anonymous. I think I'm the luckiest person on the face of God's Earth to have come to you and to have experienced the things that I have experienced in my time with you. I came to Alcoholics Anonymous on the 28th of June 1968, and it has not been necessary for me to take a drink since that day. That gives me over 24 years of sobriety. I don't tell you that to impress you but to impress me. It blows my mind that I have been able to enjoy the things that I have enjoyed in AA since that time. Now, around my area, I'm known as a big book thumper. I'm gonna read a couple of things from this book to hang our thoughts on this afternoon, and, uh, I read them just in case you haven't already. Thank you. I want to turn to page 46. The book, Alcoholics Anonymous, from the chapter called We Agnostics. It says, "Much to our relief, we discovered we did not need to consider another's conception of God. Our own conception, however inadequate, was sufficient to make the approach and to effect a contact with Him. As soon as we admitted the possible existence of a creative intelligence, a spirit of the universe underlying the totality of things, we began to be possessed of a new sense of power and direction, provided we took other simple steps. We found that God does not make too hard terms for those who seek Him." To us, the realm of the spirit is broad, roomy, all-inclusive, never, never exclusive or forbidding to those who earnestly seek. It is open, we believe, to all men. We therefore, when we speak to you of God, we mean your own conception of God. This applies to other spiritual expressions which you find in this book. Do not let any prejudice you may have against spiritual terms deter you from honestly asking yourself what they mean to you. Let me turn to another passage from this book, and let me read you my story. It is from the personal stories, page three eleven, entitled The Keys to the Kingdom. A.A. is not a plan for recovery that can be finished and done with. It is a way of life, and the challenge contained in its principles is great enough to keep any human being striving for as long as he lives. We do not, cannot outgrow this plan. As arrested alcoholics, we must have a program for living that allows for limitless expansion. Keeping one foot in front of the other is essential for maintaining our arrestment. Others may idle in a retrogressive groove without too much danger, but retrogression can spell death for us. However, this isn't as rough as it sounds, as we do become grateful for the necessity that makes us toe the line. For we find that we are more than compensated for a consistent effort by the countless, countless dividends we receive. A complete change takes place in our approach to life. Where we used to run from responsibility, we find ourselves accepting it with gratitude that we can successfully shoulder it. Instead of wanting to escape some perplexing problem, we experience the thrill of challenge and the opportunity it affords us for another application of A.A.'s techniques. We find ourselves tackling it with surprising vigor. The last twenty-four years of my life have been rich and meaningful. I've had my share of problems, heartaches, and disappointments because that is life. But also, I have known a great deal of joy and a peace that is the handmaiden of an inner freedom. I have a wealth of friends, and with my A.A. friends, an unusual quality of friendship. For to these people, I am truly related. First through mutual pain and despair, and later through mutual objectives and newfound faith and hope. And as the years go by, working together, sharing our experience with one another, and also sharing a mutual trust, understanding, and love without strings, without obligation, we acquire relationships that are unique and priceless. There is no more aloneness with that awful ache so deep in the heart of every alcoholic that nothing before could ever reach it. That ache is gone and need never return again. Now there is a sense of belonging, of being wanted and needed and loved. In return for a bottle and a hangover, we have been given the keys to the kingdom. I could sit down and say nothing else, and you would have heard my story. I grew up in a little fishing village in Newfoundland. My father was a rugged Newfoundland fisherman. My mother was a caregiver. Neither of them drank. I was a rebel. From the time I can remember, I felt lone and different. And when I was seventeen, I was also a disgustingly bright fisherman's son. And when I was seventeen, I, I left, not quite seventeen, I left my native province and I went to Manitoba. And, uh, I went there with my brother, who was in the Royal Canadian Air Force. It was Jul- uh, July nineteen fifty-seven. And on the first Saturday night in July of nineteen fifty-seven, my brother passed me a bottle of Carling's Red Cap Ale. He said, "Les, this is a bottle of beer. You can take it and use it, or you can take it and abuse it." And I took that first swig of Carling's Red Cap Ale. And, oh, God, it was a wonderful, wonderful thing. All of those feelings of inadequacy, of fear, of not belonging evaporated, and I had arrived. I had arrived. I was scared to death of girls. I was scared to death of people in general, but particularly girls. And that night, I discovered what girls were for . As I saw it then. He hastened to, to add. I did– I learned how to dance. I got drunk, and I had blackout. And I thought it was wonderful. And I spent the next twelve years of my life in pursuit of that elusive evening, never to recapture it. Now, when I was eleven years old, I heard a hockey broadcast from Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto, and the Leafs beat the New York Rangers. That's when the Leafs had a good team. Uh- They beat the New York Rangers six to two, and Max Bentley scored two goals. The game wasn't important to me, was it? And, uh, I vowed that night that I was gonna become a hockey broadcaster, and from that point on, everything I did was geared to becoming a hockey broadcaster. And in spite of my alcoholism, in spite of being kicked out of the University of Manitoba … Oh, I, I must share that with you. Uh, I went there believing I was going to be educated, and I was. It had nothing to do with book learnin'. It had a lot to do with drink learnin'. And, uh, after the second term of the second year, I was staggering down the corridor of that institution of higher learning one afternoon, and two professors were walking up the other side, and one of them said to the other, "What does that fellow Stoodley do?" And the other guy said, "He drinks." I, I didn't take that as an insult. I thought that was a great compliment. And I, uh, I was asked to leave. And, uh, I went back to my native province and taught school. But I had been bitten a long time before by the radio bug. I had done a little radio work in Manitoba. And, uh, I got a job in a little radio station. And 11 years almost to the day that I said I'd do that first hockey broadcast, I did it. I did it. You know? And I was on my way to becoming a star. Yeah. I didn't notice that along the way my intake of alcoholism or alcohol had increased dramatically. I didn't notice along the way that I didn't have enough money to drink. And after, uh, 10 months with that radio station, I applied for a job with the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, or as I lovingly refer to it, the Canadian Broad Corpsing Castration. And and I got a job with the CBC, which is the epitome of broadcasting in Canada. You know? And, uh, I moved to a little town called Gander, and some of you who are over 50 will remember that, uh, Gander was the crossroads of the world. And, uh, in the l- mid-'60s, it was still a, a stopover. I met some incredibly important people there. In 1963, when your President Kennedy was shot in Dallas, uh, I got to meet the president of the Soviet Union. He stopped in Gander on the way back from the Kennedy funeral. Uh, and I never thought anything of my alcoholism in those days. I went out to do an interview with Anastas Mikoyan, and, uh, the Soviet ambassador to Canada was there, and I, uh, I got into the VIP lounge, and he had the vodka. And we proceeded to get drunk together, and I proceeded to go into a blackout. And I came out of the blackout an hour later, and I had to reconstruct the conversation 'cause I didn't, didn't want to create another incident of international proportion. Uh, I, it never occurred to me or my friend who was drinking with me that we were doing anything untoward. When in the middle of the conversation with Mr. Mikoyan, my friend reached inside his sweater for a package of cigarettes, and we almost got our heads blown off. You know? I had a friend who was the staff sergeant in charge of the RCMP, and he had his .45 leveled at my head. I didn't think that was unusual. Hmm. I didn't think anything of the KGB guy who was seven and a half feet tall. Uh, had on a 1941 suit and a bulge in it from his, uh, breast to his thigh, and when he reached for the Magnum inside, it didn't occur to me that anything would happen. I was too drunk. It just didn't, didn't occur to me. Nothing like that mattered. And I discovered that you could drink and be on radio. You know? It was amazing what you could get away with. And I continued to drink i- in pursuit of being a star. You know? I, I, I have to tell you that I was in radio a couple of years before I realized that there was a button on it that said off. You know? I, I was too busy being a star, being a somebody. Always wanted to be a somebody. Being a somebody was important. In 1966, I went to work after one of those long weekends, uh, on Wednesday afternoon. I'd gotten paid the Friday before. I'd had a wonderful weekend drinking and gambling. And I went in, did the 4:00 station break, and, uh, had to go to the bathroom. Hmm. Uh, there seems to be a direct correlation between my alcoholism and my kidneys. And, uh, I got in the bathroom, and I, I made the mistake of sitting on the toilet, and seven and a half inches away was a hot water heater. Uh, the lights are down and the signer needs them if you would, please. Uh, thank you. A lot of power in here, I want to tell you. And, uh, I managed to fall off the toilet and get jammed between it and the hot water heater. I want to tell you how important I was to that radio station. I was gone for 45 minutes before anybody missed me. They had to take the door off to get me out. I was incoherent, which is, uh, you know, a bit of a problem when you're in radio. Coherency is important. And the station manager sent me home. I didn't go home. I went to a hotel, ordered a bottle, continued my drunk, and the next day he was going to fire me. Now, I had had some visitors after I got home that night, and, uh, some of you may relate to this. Um, little pink elephants and great big white rats. And they kept running all over my bedroom. And, uh, I had a guy with a garbage bag over his head with great big triangular holes cut in them, and he was breaking panes of glass on my back. And it, uh, it seemed to me that I was screaming at the top of my lungs trying to get this guy away from me. I later asked my ex-wife if I screamed a lot that night. She said, "No. One or two times, you bastard, you said, 'Ugh.'" That was all. I was forced into sobriety the next day. The boss said, "You have two choices. Either you stop drinking or we fire you." Now, I didn't know another job where I'd get, get paid as well for doing as little as I did, which was talking, and I decided that I, uh, I'd stay sober for six months. I stayed, uh, dry for 21 months. I went from being an alcoholic to a workaholic. I had five part-time jobs. Nothing wrong with my extremes, you know? And the CBC made another one of its classic mistakes. They transferred me from radio to television. And if you think that I was a little out of whack before, you should have seen me when I got to Corner Brook. I s- you know, I sauntered into that television station. I walked in, I sauntered in. And I said, "Look out, slobs, God is here." I figured Walter Cronkite was going to be unemployed in about six months. CBS was going to be looking for me. You know? And if it wasn't him, it was John Chancellor. I didn't know who it was going to be, but I was going to take the job. CBC was pittance compared to where I was going. And I was there, uh, a couple of months, and I was, uh, in those days, fond of telling everyone how good I was. I was very humble. About as humble as Hitler. And one night I was telling them how great I was at not drinking, and over in the corner, he said, little guy, about five feet nothing. And I tell them about this, this great thing I had done. I was never going to drink again the rest of my life, and this guy said, "Punk." I was not amused. He said, "I can't say that I'll never drink again, and I haven't had a drink for 15 years." And I looked at him. I said, "How in the name of God have you managed not to drink for 15 years?" He said, "Punk." "I belong to an outfit called Alcoholics Anonymous. And when you drink again, as you will, and when you get sick and tired of being sick and tired, call me." God, I didn't disappoint Cliff. I drank again. You know why? I can't stand success. I can't stand success. They had seven local shows in Corner Brook, Newfoundland. I was doing six of them. Okay? Now, the drive, the incredible drive of the alcoholic drunk or sober. The seventh show was a dart show. I wasn't particularly interested in doing a dart show. It was beneath my dignity. And a month or so later, I took up a drink again, and the results were even more catastrophic than they were before. You know? And I believe this book says that we have a progressive disease, and it progresses while we are not drinking. And when I went back to drinking in 1968, the best analogy I can use is as if I were on a carousel and someone speeded it up, and it was incredible. And I had a new wrinkle in the whole deal. Now I was suicidal. And I spent the next three months trying to kill myself, trying to find a way to do it so that my wife and children would not be penalized, and I almost succeeded. Almost. Had it not been for Alcoholics Anonymous, I would have. Now, being drunk on radio is not too bad, you know? And, uh, I wasn't punished too severely for it. But on the 28th of June, 1968, a little three-letter word came into play. Little three-letter word is Y-E-T. You know, I'd never gotten drunk on television yet. And I boasted that I never slurred and I never staggered on a 40 a day. On 28th of June, I got drunk again, and I had to read the seven o'clock news. I went into a blackout at 3:00 in the afternoon. What I'm about to tell you, I have no recollection of. I'm told, though, on good authority that it is real. My sponsor told me, I believed my sponsor. I got to the television station about 10 to 7:00. I walked in, in my usual arrogant fashion and said, "Where is the news?" Picked it up, walked into the studio. They turned up the lights. They had Vidicon cameras. That means nothing to you, but Vidicon cameras required a great deal of light, 250 candle foot. That's about the same as sunlight- Yeah … perhaps a tad higher. They turned up the lights, on came the camera and the idiot. And 150,000 plus people in central and western Newfoundland were greeted with this: "Good, good evening. Here's the CBC News." You ever tried to shut up an alcoholic when he's in full bloom? Any similarity between what I read and what's on the paper, totally a coincidence. And then they tried to get rid of me. First minute and a half, they thought there was something wrong with the microphone. And then the producer realized, my God, he's drunk. We have signs in television. And, and a hand going in a circle means speed it up. Get out. And the camera floor director is there giving me the sign. I am blissfully going on. I don't know what the hell I'm doing there. And finally, he gets down in front of the camera and he's chopping across his throat, which means it's imperative that you get out. That you shut up. I still went blissfully on. And then they decided we better cut him off. Well, you know, television's audio and visual. You gotta coordinate everything. And in most television stations, they have a large row of buttons. It's called the board. And they have a booth next to the control room for video called the audio control room. Creative title. And, uh, the producer is in contact with the audio booth, and they said, "When he gets to the end of this paragraph, if he gets to the end of this paragraph- … we'll cut him." So I got to the end of the paragraph and he said, "Cut." And 150,000 people wondering what the hell happened to their television sets. It went blank. And they waited 10 seconds, and they put up a slide, and some other poor y- guy read the weather. I don't know any of this. I'm told that after they cut me off and cut the lights, I looked at the cameraman and said, "Clancy, for God's sake, call Cliff." I have no recollection of this. No, nothing about it. And he was so astounded by this star admitting that he had a problem that he said, "What?" I said, "Please, I'm in trouble. Call Cliff." He called Cliff, my friend, the set designer who had told me a few months before that I was gonna get drunk again. He didn't have, have to tell Cliff what the problem was. He'd been watching television. Cliff came up and picked up the body. Could neither sit, stand, move, or talk, and was crying because it has lost its glasses. He took me to a little AA club, he bought me some coffee, took me home, and he explained to my family what had happened. I got three telephone calls that night I never want to forget. I got a telephone call from my friend in Gander who had taken the bottle from me 21 months before, and he told me how ashamed he was of me. Great positive reinforcement when you're coming out of a blackout. I got a call from my former station manager who had really worked very hard to get me the job in Corner Brook, and he told me he never wanted to talk to me again. I got a call from my favorite sister in St. John's, Newfoundland, on the other side of the island, you know, 600 miles away. Bad news travels fast. And she had been informed by my nephew who was watching in Gander, this, uh, uncle of his drunk on television. And she said to me, "That's twice in less than two years. If it ever happens again, you can consider yourself no longer my brother." Yeah. I loved my sister. And I was, I was just devastated. And I went to bed, and I had the visitors again, you know, little pink elephants and great big white rats. And somewhere during that night that I didn't sleep, I made the decision that the next morning, in spite of the fact that I had two boys who were six and three, that I would do them the greatest favor I could. I would kill me. I got up somewhere around 10:00 on Sunday morning, and I had a shower and a shave. I'm not sure why. The only logical explanation is that I wanted to be a good-looking corpse. And, uh, I got ready to go out and kill myself. I had found a place 13 miles outside the city, and, uh, the highway ran up about 300 feet, and there was a break in the guardrail. And I knew if I went off there, I'd go down 300 feet of Newfoundland granite, and I'd kill myself. And I almost made it. I kissed the two boys and my wife, and at 10 after 12:00, I reached for the doorknob. The minute I reached for the doorknob, and this sounds terribly histrionic and dramatic, it's not intended to be, it's just the way it was, 10 after 12:00, the telephone rang, and my ex picked up the phone and said, "It's for you, bastard." And I took the phone, and it was my friend Cliff. You know who it was. You knew before I told you who it was. And he said, "What are you doing?" Well, you don't quite tell people that you're going out to commit suicide, you know. I lied again and said nothing, and he said, uh, "Why don't you come down for a cup of tea and a chat?" So I went down to Cliff's place instead of going out the highway. And for the first time in my life, somebody talked a language that I understood. Cliff did not tell me what a failure I was as a father and a husband, a son, a brother, a friend, a worker. Didn't tell me any of that. He knew that I knew. He told me about him. He told me about bringing home gypsum from a gypsum plant close by that he thought were stars that fell. He told me about falling in a snowbank and almost freezing to death. He was an artist. He told me about having his hands frostbitten. He told me about the loneliness and the pain that he'd endured as an active alcoholic. He told me about coming into Alcoholics Anonymous. He told me about the incredible changes that had taken place in his life, and he said, "I'd like you to come to AA with me." And that night, I went to my first AA meeting. I went there to save my job. I knew that on Tuesday morning, I was gonna be in deep trouble. And I thought that maybe, maybe I'd get away with it again. I went to the AA meeting. Some people stood behind podiums like this, and they said that they, uh, they don't remember their first meeting, and I believe them. God did me a great favor. Indelibly imprinted on my mind is everything that happened at that first meeting. I was met at the door by an old man with a hearing aid, and, uh, his name was Max. And he stuck his hand out. Cliff's foot was in my back. And Max said, "Glad to see you." I knew he was crazy. He said, "Come in, be comfortable." I got to the third seat on the right-hand side, fell into the chair. I was shaking like a leaf in an October hurricane. And I looked around. I wanted to see what you were all about. I wanted to evaluate this, you know, ever the cynic. I was looking for the guys with the long tweed coat, the odd shoes, and no socks. I'd seen them in most major cities across Canada with their hand out looking for cheap wine, and they weren't there. There were well-dressed people. And over came a guy that I thought was a doctor. He had on a tweed sports coat, shirt, tie, coordinated slacks, shiny shoes. And the reason I thought he was a doctor was because he made an immediate, accurate diagnosis. He said, "You're not feeling very well, are you?" I allowed he was right, and then he asked the wonderful question, "Can I get you something to drink?" If you're about 22 hours from your last drink, and your mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert in August, and your tongue is 12 feet long, and somebody asks you to have a drink, you're likely to say, "Yes, please." And Bill B. went out in the kitchen. He came back with a half-filled coffee cup, and then I knew that he knew how I felt. And he passed me a half-filled coffee cup, and I just could not navigate that. I could get it to my chin and no further. The shakes were just too horrendous. And he said, "Just a minute." He took the coffee cup. He put it down by my feet. He went back to the kitchen. He came back with a teaspoon. He knelt in front of me, and he spoon-fed me that first cup of AA coffee. I never want to forget that. I never want to forget that. That was one of the greatest acts of love and compassion that anyone had ever done for me. To this day, it remains one of the greatest. And they opened the meeting, and the speaker got up. And I knew when that sucker started that Cliff had called him after I left the place and told him everything we talked about. Either that or he and I had gotten drunk together, and I must have been in a blackout 'cause I could identify with everything he said. And I still was playing star when the meeting was over, and I went up to Clyde, and I said, "I want to thank you very much for the wonderful speech you gave." Clyde looked down. I am convinced that Clyde has shrunk at least 12 inches since I came into Alcoholics Anonymous. He looked down at me, and he said, "Well, after the caper you pulled on television last night, about GD time you got here." It's called inflation of ego at depth. And I started in Alcoholics Anonymous. God, what a ride it's been. What a ride. I want to spend the rest of my time telling you about it and some of the things I've learned here, and how incredibly adventuresome and challenging and enriching and rewarding Alcoholics Anonymous is, what I've come to believe as a result of being with you. I was six months or six weeks sober, my mother died. The day she died, the 10th of August, 1968, for the first time in my adult life, I prayed. I prayed. I had been pushing the bottle in front of me for six weeks. I was practicing what Cliff called the art of postponement. I desperately craved a drink. Every second of my waking hours, I desperately craved a drink. And I would be at work, and I would look at the clock, and it would say 10 minutes of 8:00. And I would say, "I'll wait till 8:00 before I take a drink." And 8:00 would come, and I'd look at the clock again, and I'd say, "I'll wait till 10 after 8:00, and then I'll take a drink." And that's how I got through. That's just exactly how I got through. I just kept postponing it. And I got the call to go home because mom was dying, and she died, and I am, I am blessed. I have seen mortality and immortality. The day that she died, I had a sense of a presence greater than I am in that hospital room. I saw her reach out for an unseen presence seconds before she expired, and I saw her smile the sweetest smile I've ever seen on a human face, take her hand, put it over– her right hand, put it over her left breast, pick up her left hand that she hadn't moved in six weeks, put it over her right breast, get comfortable, and go home. It was that simple. My father asked me to go tell my sisters that Mama died. I got in my car, and that obsession, that incredible obsession to drink, besieged me again. And I could taste the amber Bacardi cascading down my throat. I got halfway home, and I couldn't stand it anymore. And my wonderful friend, Cliff, had given me one of those little white cards with the Serenity Prayer and the 12 steps on it. And I reached into my wallet. I stopped the car in the middle of the street. I took out the card, and I said, "God, grant me the serenity to accept this thing I cannot change. She's dead. Courage to change the things I can. I do not know how to tell my sisters. Please, God, help me. And God, give me the courage to know the difference." That was the 19th of August, 1968. Instantly, folks, instantly, in the twinkling of an eye, the compulsion to drink was removed. It has not returned since. I cannot recall that obsession. I went back to Corner Brook. I went back to Alcoholics Anonymous. I got through all of that without too much pain. I should tell you that I didn't have a choice in having a sponsor after that first meeting. My friend Cliff came over to me and, uh, he said to me, in his best Newfinese, "My son, around here we operate on sponsor system." And not wishing to appear totally stupid, I said, "Yes, sir." And he said, "Until you find somebody better, I'm your sponsor." That's over 24 years ago. I'm still looking for somebody better. When I find them, Cliff is gone. He'll probably get a copy of this tape. I want you to know I meant it, too, chum. He's the greatest friend I got in the world, in AA. That man has taught me more about living than I can imagine. He used to , he used to take me to the Chinese restaurant in Corner Brook, the Seven Seas, which means nothing to you, it means the world to me. And he used to sit me there with a 10-cup pot of tea, and he'd stick his finger under my nose. To this day, if you stick your finger under my nose, I can go, "Ah." I resent people sticking their finger under my nose. And he would ask me this dumb question: "Do you want to get well?" Now, what fool in their right mind is going to say no to that? And then he would proceed to tell me how I was supposed to get well. I was six months in Alcoholics Anonymous, and I had it all together. I'd read this book three times. I'm a fast reader. And I I paraded into my, my Sunday night meeting with my first AA jacket. You got to see this one. Okay? It was blue and black squares. It cost $29.95, Woolworths. Made in Korea. And I'm the cock of the walk. I'm the star. I got in late for the meeting. I dropped my two bits in the plate. And as soon as they said the amen of Our Father, I was headed for the door. And he grabbed me by the lapel of that jacket. And he said, "Where are you going?" I said, "Well, Cliff, I'm busy, you know. I have things to do." He said, "You sure are. You're busy getting ready to get drunk." And I'm looking at the lapel of the jacket and I'm saying, "Please don't tear. Don't tear. Don't tear." Yeah. He said, "We are going for tea, and we are going to talk. Correction, I'm going to talk. You're going to listen." And off we went to the Seven Seas. And he stuck his finger under my nose. And he said, "Do you want to get well?" And I said, "Yes, I want to get well." He said, "Then you will do these things. You will do them." Now, he didn't say that it would be in my best interest if I did these things. He did not suggest that it would be advantageous for my sobriety if I did these things. He said, "You will do these things. You'll go to the meetings. You'll set out ashtrays. You'll make coffee. You'll pull out the chairs. You'll get the meeting ready." I said, "Hold on a minute. Do you know who you're talking to?" I'm a star. He said, "You're a big wheel, and you know what dogs do to big wheels." I said, "I don't want to set out ashtrays. I don't want to pull out chairs. I don't want to make coffee, and I don't want to shake hands with people." He said, "You want to get well?" God, I got sick and tired of that. I said, "Why do I have to do this?" He said, "Don't ask me why. Do it." In the next three months, if I heard that once, I heard it 600 times. "Don't ask me why. Do it." And I went to meetings, and I set out ashtrays, and I pulled out chairs, and I made coffee, and I stood there and I shook hands with people. And something happened. Something happened. I started to feel something, something wonderful. I started to look in people's eyes. I didn't know what it was I was seeing, but I liked it. I liked it. I saw something radiating back that I didn't understand at all, but I liked it. And I said to Cliff, "What is it? What is it?" And he said, "What you see in their eyes is their love for you. They're caring for you. They're wanting you to get well." I didn't know what to do with it, but I sure liked it. After I was 11 months sober, I applied for a job with the CBC in Halifax, Nova Scotia. I went and asked Cliff if I could apply . You know? And, uh, I got the job. The night that I left Corner Brook, my home group, uh, they had a little party. I was 11 months to the day sober, and they gave me my first AA birthday cake, one month in trust. One month in trust. I will never, never see a birthday cake that will mean as much. 11 months before, you couldn't trust me to turn around, and these wonderful people trusted me to stay sober for one month. One of my dear friends there, a guy by the name of Mack, came up to me at that meeting and put his arms around me, and he started to cry. And I asked him what was wrong. Mack said, "I have one blood brother, and I would rather tonight that he were leaving than you." The human is incapable of refusing that kind of love. Now, Cliff, uh, trusted me with the cake, but he, uh, he took out an insurance policy. I wasn't in Halifax 14 minutes- … when the phone rang in the motel room, and a guy said, "You Les Dudley?" I said, "Yeah." He said, "My name is Gordon." He said, "I got a call from Cliff." "I'll pick you up at 8:00. We're going to a meeting." Yeah. And I started in Halifax. I started to learn things. I had 90 bill- nine- uh, dollar phone bill every month. Three times a week, I called Corner Brook on orders. And, uh, my ex used to complain about it. I'd say, "Well, now, that's about $810 cheaper than the booze." I was about three years, and I'll probably jump through some of this 'cause it takes a long time. Uh, I was about three years in Alcoholics Anonymous, and I was looking for a higher power. Couldn't, couldn't get it. Just couldn't get it. And I'd gotten involved in, in AA, and I'd gotten involved in the Nova Scotia Commission on Drug Dependency, and they sent me to a young people's conference in California. I'm looking for this higher power. Just a month before I went, I, I drove down a street that's called, uh, Dutch Village Road, and it, it opens on the arm in Halifax that separates the mainland from the peninsula. And I'd driven that road all winter. I was doing early morning radio. And, uh, it seemed to me all winter long that it was desolate and cold and gloomy. And this morning in May, I popped over the hill, and I looked, and it had all changed. And it seemed to me it had all changed overnight. The sun was just out of the water at 6:30 in the morning and reflected in it. The trees had become full of leaves, and they were reflected in the water, and the grass had turned green. And I had this wonderful feeling come over me. And in my head it said, "This is what they're talking about in Alcoholics Anonymous." And I went down the next street, Quinpool Road, with tears streaming down my face saying the Lord's Prayer, and I didn't know why. I didn't know why. I only knew I was grateful that the Halifax Police Department weren't out that morning. They would have arrested me and taken me to a mental hospital. And I went to California to this young people's conference and, and, you know, being the crazy kind of drunk that I am, they had step symposiums in California, in, in San Francisco, and they did six symposiums on the steps. And I went into the second one first, you know. I'm like the, like the fellow from Quebec who went to the dentist, you know? And he said to the dentist, "How much to have my teeth out?" And the dentist said, "It's $200 for the first one, $100 every one after that." And the guy said, "Take the second one out first." I went into this meeting. Across from me sat the ugliest person I've ever seen in my life. He had long, stringy hair. He had on a white T-shirt that had never seen Tide. He had on a pair of jeans with more patches than denim, a pair of sandals and dirty toenails. And by this time, I'm Mr. Middle America. I got the tweed coat, the shirt and tie, and the coordinated slacks, and the shiny shoes. And I made the mistake of saying that I didn't understand how to work the third step, made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him. Hmm. And this thing- … that sat across from me looked at me and said, "Shithead." "You do that the way you stay sober a day at a time." And I was so astounded by what he said, I looked at him, I said, "I, I beg your pardon?" And it said to me- … "What's wrong, shithead? Are you deaf, too?" The next morning, they closed that convention with a BYOHP meeting, bring your own higher power, one of the greatest AA meetings I've ever attended. And on my left was a young man, about 26 years old. He had short brown hair that shone. It was cleaned and brushed so nice. He wore a blue tweed or blue plaid shirt, a pair of blue cords, white socks, and sneakers. We went to this wonderful meeting and- They closed it with the Lord's Prayer, and this young man took my hand, and he squeezed it when we said the Lord's Prayer. And when we finished, I looked at him and I said, "I would like to thank you for yesterday. You really helped me." And he smiled and looked at me and said, "Shithead." "You helped me, too." I tell that story because it has a double meaning. I came to understand something, and I came to realize the importance of altered attitudes. You know, I don't even know that young man's name, but I shall never forget him. He gave me a gift. I got home, and as I got on the plane that afternoon in San Francisco and started flying across this great country of yours, I knew that there was one person who could finally answer the question for me. His name was Phil Stoodley. He was my father. I had taken him to meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous. He never drank in his life. After I took him to that first AA meeting, I came home that night and I said, "Uh, what'd you think, Skipper?" He said, "My son, I've been going to church for over 60 years. That's the most practical Christianity I've ever seen." And I went back to Newfoundland, and I went out in his dory with this rugged, wonderful man, and we were having lunch together in his fishing dory. And I looked at him, I said, "Why do you believe like you do?" And I guess the question took him back a little. And he quickly said, "I just do." And I said, "I know, but I have to know why." He thought for a long time and took his salt and pepper cap off his head, and he looked at me and he gave me this. I want to give it to you. He said, "You remember last winter when we were in Halifax at Christmastime?" I said, "Yes, I remember." He said, "You remember you and I went shopping?" And I said, "Yeah." He said, "We were in a shopping mall." I said, "Right." He said, "We passed by a bookstore." I said, "Oh yeah, Cole's Bookstore." He said, "See, I don't remember that." He said, "In, up front, they had a great rack of books, and I just read the cover, and the cover said, 'Who Has Seen the Wind?'" And I wanted to impress my dad. I said, "Oh, that's W.O. Mitchell's book. He's a Ca- Canadian writer." I said, "I've interviewed him." He said, "I don't care about that." "I just read the cover." He said, "Les," as he looked toward our hometown, he said, "You and I grew up in there." I said, "Yes." He said, "They tell me there are more widows in that town per capita than any other town in Canada." I said, "Yeah, I can believe that." He said, "What made those women widows?" I thought for a minute. I said, "Boats overturning and sinking and storms." He said, "Yeah. What were the storms comprised of?" I said, "Wind." He said, "Right." He said, "We have all seen the power of the wind, but we have never seen the wind." And I thought, "Where the hell is he going?" You know, what's he trying to tell me? He said, "Now, you're a smart fella. You went to college, and you probably know why we have wind." I said, "Yeah, not very complicated. It's the low pressure chasing the high or vice versa." He said, "See, I don't understand that talk. I just know we have wind." He said, "Now, look at the wind this morning. You know, just, just, just feel it. Just feel it. It's cooling and soothing." I said, "Yes, sir." He said, "But you can't see it, can you?" I said, "No, can't see it." He said, "We can just see its effect, just feel its effect." And then I knew where he was going. He said, "My son, I'd be a fool and a maniac to deny that the wind exists, and I would be just as much a fool and a maniac to deny that God exists." Folks, I haven't had any trouble with a higher power since that day. And Dorothy and I walked outdoors this morning, and I felt the gentle breeze, and I knew God is. He is, or it is, the creative intelligence, the source. I know only that, that He is. If I need further proof that He is, I look the length of this room. We are not supposed to be here. Logically, realistically, we are not supposed to be here. My disease of alcoholism says that I should be drunk or dead, and I look, and I see the shining evidence of a higher power in your faces, and I feel the wind, and I know that God is. No great thing, except that without it I'd be dead. I came here not knowing myself, and I have discovered over the period of time that I have been here that I know myself now. And I'm not going to stand here and tell you that during the time I've been here I haven't had pain, because that would be a lie. I'm not going to stand here and tell you that I've had 24 wonderful years of sobriety and that I've just sailed along. That would be a lie. As the man said in the book, I've had my share of disappointments and heartaches and pain. That's life. That's life. The difference is that I've been able to handle it with God hel- God's help and yours. 10 years ago this weekend, on a Sunday night, I got a telephone call, and I was told that this wonderful man who was responsible for my life had died in his church. He told me seven years before, he said, "Les, when I die, I'd like to die in my church," and that's where he died. I got on a plane. I went to Newfoundland. I walked in the funeral home. I looked down at him. I said, "You should have been careful what you prayed for." My si- my sisters thought it was terribly irreverent. And I heard the echo of his laughter. Seven years before, we had sat down in Halifax one night, and he said, "My son, I want you to be the executor of my estate, and on the day of my funeral, I want you to do the eulogy." And I said, "Dad, I can't do that. Oh, come on. You're, you're asking too much." He said, "I have heard some of the greatest things ever from you in meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous. You will do my eulogy. I'm not suggesting you will do it alone, but you will do it." I went home, stayed at his house that night, and when I woke up in the morning, on the table there was a writing pad and a pen. I'm sure it was there on Sunday, on Monday night. I saw it at 6:00 on Tuesday morning. I sat down, and I wrote. I love to write. I love to write. And I wrote how I felt about my dad. On the next afternoon, in front of the church that was filled to capacity, standing room only, I stood in front of all of them, and I did his eulogy. It was a wonderful experience, very moving, very profound. I found out that afternoon that the power of Alcoholics Anonymous knows no distance, knows no bounds. It seemed to me that off to my right, encased in an envelope of fog, were all of my AA friends. I could almost visualize them, and they were all there supporting me. And off to my left was the stream of sunlight that came through the church window, and I knew full well that if I touched it, I'd be electrocuted. I finished the eulogy with the Serenity Prayer. What else? And when I walked by his casket, as I went back to my seat, I looked down, and I said, "Old man, you taught me in death again." You see, what he taught me was that all things are possible if you have a higher power. I couldn't have done that eulogy on my own. I know that. I'm the weakest of all people, but I know with the support of Alcoholics Anonymous and a God of my understanding, a higher power, nothing is impossible. Nothing He knew it seven years before I did. You know? I had to come to realize that it was possible, that's all. My children grew up. My youngest son is a carbon copy of the old man. When he was 17 or 18, I had to kick him out. I couldn't tolerate his drinking and his drugging anymore, and I had to watch him almost destroy himself, and that's painful. That hurts. I want to tell you that gender isn't at all important when it comes to love. I had to go to court one day, watch him be sentenced to three months in a penitentiary, and I had to stand and listen to him berate me. I had to watch a police friend of mine cuff him and take him away and said, say to him, "Your father does not deserve that. He's a good man." And I had to sit in my office 90 days later and listen to that boy threaten my life. And while he was in prison, I did the smart thing again. I know how to handle it. How do you handle things like that? I went to an Al-Anon friend of mine, wonderful lady. I went for a cup of coffee and stayed five and a half hours and got a crash course in Al-Anon. Okay. And I want to tell you, some of you drunks who've never been to an Al-Anon meeting, that it works. It works. I believe that the only difference between Al-Anon and AA is just a slight change in the step. That's all. It's the same program. And families who go to Al-Anon and AA get well together. My ex-wife and I never did that. I pleaded, cajoled, begged for her to go. She wouldn't go. The day came after 24 years of marriage when I had to walk away, and it hurt like hell. I couldn't fix that, and I couldn't fix my son. My dear friend in Al-Anon said to me, "Les, you have to practice detachment." When Paul sat there that afternoon, he called me everything but a gentleman, and I knew that he was not railing at me but at himself. My first inclination was to respond in kind, to become angry, and I heard my Al-Anon friend say, "You gotta practice detachment." And I thought, "This is where we separate the little boys from the big boys and the little girls from the big girls," and I started to pray the Serenity Prayer, and my level of anger, I could feel it literally drop like a thermometer. When Paul went on for about 15 minutes and he finally paused for air, and I said, "Paul, can I tell you something?" He said, "Yes, yes, OB, you can tell me something." I said, "You can never do or say anything that'll stop me from loving you." Well, if you thought he was angry before- You should've heard him then. He went on for another 15 minutes. He paused for air again. I said, "Paul, can I say something?" He said, "Yes." I said, "You can never do or say anything that'll stop me from loving you." And he went on again, and he stopped for the third time, and I said, "Paul, can I tell you something?" He said, "Yeah." I said, "You can never do or say anything that'll stop me from loving you." He said, "There's no point in talking to you." And he left. We lived in the same city, and I didn't hear from him for five months. He called one night. He'd been kicked out of his current boarding house. He said, "Can I spend the weekend with you and Dorothy?" I said, "I don't know. I'll have to call Dorothy." I said, "Call me back, 10 minutes." I called him. He called me back 10 minutes later. I had called Dorothy in the meanwhile. We had discussed it, and she said she didn't mind. So he came for the weekend. I said, "Paul, there are rules. No booze, no drugs. You keep your room clean, and you help out with the work at home." He said, "Fine." The weekend lasted five months. Yeah. And today, Paul and I are friends again. He's not here yet, but I'm keeping the t- chair dusted off. He'll get here. I just keep praying for him. That's all. That's all. I just keep praying for him. I've had the wonderful opportunity since I've been here to do some things, to try and pay back to Alcoholics Anonymous what's important to me. I, uh, I know what Betty and John have been through this weekend. I had the good fortune to chair and coordinate the first Canadian National AA Convention on my 20th birthday in AA. Wonderful experience. I would not have missed it for anything. But mixed with everything is pain. My oldest son had gotten married, and his, uh, wife became pregnant, and this was during the period of the separation from my first wife. I knew that baby was gonna be the panacea that was going to heal all of the wounds, and I couldn't wait for the baby to be born. And on a cold February night, I got a call- I'm from St. John's, Newfoundland. My son is also in the television business. And the operator said it was collect from Kurt Stoodley. Would I accept the charge? And I said, "Sure." And I heard the wail, the plaintive wail of my son. He just said, "Dad," and I knew something terrible had happened. And I said, "What's wrong?" He said, "The baby died an hour and a half before she was born. The placenta separated." And we talked for a while. And he said, "Please come. Please come." And we finished that conversation with the two of us serenity, uh, praying the Serenity Prayer long distance. Does it help? You bet it does. You bet it does. My sponsor called me a few months later, and I knew that he had some problems. My dear friend, Cliff, his wife was dying. Called me a few days later, Muriel had died, and he said that, "She's gone." And he didn't have to tell me that he needed me. I just knew. And I said, "I'll be right there," and he tried to object, you know? God, and reaching out is, is, is so hard for us sometimes. And I flew over, and I spent some time with him. No big deal, just repayment on a huge debt. See, I've discovered something. We talk about a spiritual program, and I decry that, the spiritual part of the program. There's no spiritual part to Alcoholics Anonymous. It's all spiritual. What is spirituality? Spirituality is nothing more or less than the ability of the human to reach outside themselves. That's all it is. The best prayer I know, and the most profound prayer I know, consists of nothing more than nine letters. Count them. God help me. Most profound prayer I know, hmm, just nine letters. That's all. When I reach out to you, I exercise spirituality. When I reach out to my higher power, I exercise spirituality. Best cure I know for shaky knees is to kneel on them. Yeah. Some of these things I've picked up along the way. Nothing I say here is very original. I plagiarize something terrible. Why? Because it's helped me. It's helped me. I want to tell you that we have access to the greatest power imaginable, and if you don't believe it, in a few minutes we're gonna close this convention, and we're gonna hold hands, and we're gonna say the Lord's Prayer. And if at the end of that you don't feel something, come talk to me. Come tell me you don't feel something. If you haven't felt something that we can't label this weekend, then you're in the wrong place. I don't say that to frighten you. That's just the truth. You see, I believe that alcoholism is a feeling illness. And in recovery, we learn to identify the feeling. We learn to recognize within ourselves the presence of a higher power. I think God has a wonderful sense of humor. He hid in the one place we didn't expect to find him. Inside us. Inside us. What is it about this thing that's so powerful, that's so incredible? The existence of and acceptance of a power greater than ourselves. These 12 steps that we have at our disposal are the most powerful tools that I know. The 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are now used by over 250 organizations worldwide. They just substitute the word alcohol in the first step, and they go on with living and coping with life, whatever the problem. When Bill Wilson put this thing together, as Patty said last night, terrible book. God, bad writing. Bad writing. I was gonna rewrite the thing. Cliff said it wasn't a good idea. I asked him one time how AA worked. He said, "Just fine." Wilson put it together in five sentences on page 164 of this book. See, I'm the kind of drunk, you know, if I'm gonna get it, you gotta knock me over the head three times. You know, it was like when I learned that there was a power greater than myself. You know, I saw the, the beautiful scene in Halifax. I went to the Young People's Convention, and then I talked to my dad. Three times. Most of the things I've gotten in my life, you had to hit me with three times. Wilson does it here. Five sentences. He says, "Abandon yourself to God as you understand God. Admit your faults to Him and to your fellows. Clear away the wreckage of your past. Give freely of what you find and join us. We shall be with you in the fellowship of the Spirit," comma, "and you will surely meet some of us as you trudge the road of happy destiny." I have spent most of my life around words. I now work for a drug dependency program in Nova Scotia, and I'm having a wonderful time. I'm using all of the things that you taught me, and a lot of the things that Cliff taught me. People walk into my office for counseling sessions, and I begin every one of them by saying, "Do you want to get well?" You see, therapy, everybody has this wonderful thing about therapy. Therapy is nothing more or less than self-disclosure, and the way that you handle therapy is you talk in the first person: I, me. Okay? What is AA work? Greatest therapy in the world. What you've had here this afternoon, what you've had all weekend , self-disclosure, and I've talked in the first person. That's what it's all about. You know? Ask your psychiatrist. He'll tell you the same thing. You know? Self-disclosure in the first person, that's therapy. God, that's why AA works so well. That's why meetings are so good. We went to the I Nooners meeting on Friday. Powerful. Good. Everybody self-disclosed and spoke in the first… Yeah, thank you. I'm sitting there analyzing the meeting. You know, I suffer from analysis paralysis. I'm analyzing what's going on. Everybody, everybody's self-disclosing, speaking in the first person. And as you gathered by now, I got verbal diarrhea and constipation of the brain. So let's me, let me walk you through this one more time. I've spent my entire life around words. Love them. I think the English language is wonderful. And Wilson said, "Abandon yourself to God as you understand God." I got out the Funk & Wagnall, the Websters, and the Oxford English, and I looked it up, 'cause it's the right word in the right place. And abandon, in all three of these, says, "To give up oneself entirely." Abandon yourself to God as you understand God. As you understand God. Now, Betty's God might be a little different from mine and John's, too. Well, that's fine. That's all right. You know, Chris, who's here with her Nova Scotia tartan skirt on, her God may be different than mine. That's fine. I know that, that, uh, Jimmy's God is probably a little different. That's all right. That's okay. God, as you understand him, abandon yourself. Give totally of yourself to him. That's what it says to me. Admit your faults to him and to your fellows. Gosh, that's step five, isn't it? That's step five. Yeah. Clear away the wreckage of your past, step four and five. I don't know anyone, me included, who can live successfully in yesterday. And I know that I spent a little time around Alcoholics Anonymous gunny sacking all of these character defects and all of these things that I had done in the past, and it wasn't until I was prepared to get rid of them that I became content with less. Clear away the wreckage of your past. Give freely of what you find, and join us. The paradox of Alcoholics Anonymous is this: that you keep it by giving it away. It sounds a little crazy, but it works. And if it works, don't fix it. I will leave here enriched by this weekend, and hopefully having given a little of what has been given to me away, leaving it here in Rochester, with the hope that somewhere, somehow, someone will have benefited. That's all I ask. And Wilson said, "Join us." Don't stand out there on the periphery looking at this thing. Get right smack in the middle of it. Pick up the chairs, and put out the ashtrays, and make the coffee, and stand there and shake hands with people. And for God's sake, how stupid of me to stand back and criticize somebody who's doing something in AA. Doesn't take any brains to be critical. It really doesn't. Doesn't take any brains, either, to gossip about people. You know, we don't gossip about people in Nova Scotia in AA. I know you don't do that in Rochester. We just talk about one another. Sometimes the tongue is the most lethal weapon we have, when we drive people away from the fellowship. But join us. Get involved. I'm sure that next year the committee will need a couple of hundred volunteers. Before you leave here today, tell them you're ready. John is looking for you, okay? And you will discover something if you join us, that there's a whole world out there that will be different because you became involved. And Wilson said, "If you do these simple things, we shall be with you in the fellowship of the spirit." What is that? What's that fellowship of the spirit? I'll tell you what it is. It's John and I sitting down the other night over dinner, and he's sharing with me. God, I just sat there like my first day in AA, listening again, thrilling to what this man had to tell me about what happened to him in Alcoholics Anonymous. That's what it's about. And someday, in the distant future, I will recall something of what John said to me. I will be with him in the fellowship of the spirit. I will remember Glenys' smile and Jerome's talk. And I will see Mary again in my imagination. And I will hear Francine tell of success. And I will hear Patty talk about her pain in the fellowship of the Spirit. And any day in the distant future that I may wish, I will recall a hundred and seventeen thousand people at the conference in Rochester. Uh-huh. That's what it is. That's the fellowship of the Spirit. I have met you as we trudged the road of happy destiny. Notice what Wilson said. He didn't say, "As you glide along and everything is hunky-dory and peachy cream." He said, "As you trudge along." And some days you trudge. Some days you trudge. Some days are golden, other days are the pits. Friend of mine says it's a rat race and some days the rats win. Yeah. That's what it's all about. But I will meet you on the road of happy destiny. What, what's our destiny? What is it? I think the destiny that we have is to stay sober a day at a time, to achieve serenity in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, to achieve our potential, to recognize the higher power within, to die sober. I've kept you long. And I thank you for your attention. I thank you for the warmth of your eyes. I thank you for the sound of your laughter. I thank you for your joy of living, and I leave you with some wishes. I leave you with some things that I, I hope you have already achieved, and if you have not, that you will soon. I therefore do not wish you joy without a sorrow, nor endless day without the healing dark, nor brilliant sun without the restful shadow, nor tides that never turn against your bark. I wish you faith and strength and love and wisdom, goods gold enough to help some needy one. I wish you songs, but also blessed silence and God's sweet peace when every day is done. God bless you. Thank you. Thank you.
