rtying pretty heavy that evening, and we had smoked some angel dust on top of all the booze we drank. We both knocked on his door earlier, but there was no answer. The second time we returned, I knocked and the door mysteriously opened. I swear it was locked before. This strange occurrence has always bothered me. Why did the door pop open so easy the second time we knocked?

As the door opened, I noticed it was very dark inside--pitch dark. I didn’t notice if both of his cars were parked in front of his place. He owned a yellow 1974 Vega Chevrolet station wagon and a white 1964 Impala Super Sport Chevrolet, two-door hardtop. I suppose I was too blitzed to take notice.

As I entered through the door, I fumbled for the light switch, but couldn’t find it. When I reached to touch Donald’s toes to tickle them so he would wake up, it didn’t feel right. As messed up as I was, I knew this wasn’t normal. It was a very warm, summer night in August--and his toes and the rest of his body was cold and hard.

I finally found the light and I was astonished by what I discovered. Belinda backed up and went outside. There I discovered my brother, with his head blown to smithereens. He was lying in bed on his back. There was brain matter and blood splattered all over his bed clothes, the headboard, and the walls and ceiling. His revolver was locked in his right hand. I freaked out and grabbed the gun from his hand, went outside and fired it twice in the back yard. Then I frantically buried the revolver under some leaves beneath a hedgerow. I was so high and so traumatized. I didn’t know what I was doing. Why I took the gun from my brother’s hand and took it outside and

It’s been almost thirty-one years, since my brother, Donald, put his revolver in his mouth and blew himself away. I remember August 3rd, 1975--like it was almost yesterday.

I was on a first date with a very young woman, named Belinda. She was very attractive--curves and all. She lived with her mother only two doors down from my apartment. I wanted to show her off to my brother. I was twenty-two and Belinda was eighteen.

I was pretty close to Donald --especially the last couple years of his life. He was my oldest brother. There was almost fourteen years difference between us. I was the youngest of four children. Donald was the one who protected me from my other two brothers. He kept them in line. Unfortunately, he left home when I was only five years old. Maybe it was for the best, since his record of juvenile delinquency ran rampant and my parents could not control him any longer. He left home when he was nineteen years old, to chase a Hollywood dream, like a lot of young men his age. It was the James Dean cult era. And then Elvis Presley and rock and roll followed.

Donald was a talented artist. In Hollywood and in New York, he put his efforts in creating props backstage. He also was able to land a few bit parts in television. He would return home to visit a few times.

Donald was gone about seven years. He decided Hollywood and New York wasn’t for him. He then settled in northern California to work the gold mines. After acquiring emphysema, caused by mining, he returned home to settle down and marry. His first marriage failed after a few years and there were no children from that marriage. Then he remarried again a couple of years later and they had one son from that marriage. We all thought he found happiness and we were happy for him. He seemed to be very much in love and fatherhood agreed with him. He loved his only son--with all of his heart. His life went well until his addiction to the bottle resurfaced again. It finally destroyed his happiness and reason to live. They divorced and she remarried and he lost all his parental rights because of his violent behavior, when he was drinking, and his careless attitude. He began drinking heavy and the law caught up with his public drunkenness and driving intoxicated. His life was out of control and he was heading for bad times.

There had been a bond between Donald and I because we had been going through similar trials in our lives--especially during the last two years of his life. When I turned twenty-one in the fall of 1973, I was legal to drink and have fun and party with my brother--except it was obvious Donald wasn’t really having any fun. He needed to rid the emptiness inside of him, so he kept drinking. His heart was broken and he knew he was a broken man beyond repair. His divorce had taken a heavy toll on him. He was very despondent and teary-eyed most of the time. He talked of suicide many times. He was hurting bad and I felt his hurt. He was staying drunk and stoned most of the time and his job was in jeopardy. Nobody in our family was speaking to him--except me. I could see the good in him and I wanted him to know that. He nicknamed me “Merry Sunshine,” because I was always trying to bring him into a good mood. I didn’t mind the nickname. I took it as a compliment.

With his life in a spin, mine wasn’t far behind. I was a weekend warrior. I partied every weekend. I had just split up with my longtime girlfriend, Sue, only three months ago. I was taking the breakup real hard--drowning my guilt and sorrow.

I went with Sue for five years. She was a sweet girl--a cute strawberry blonde. We were inseparable since we met. We were engaged after a four year courtship and we had a date at the altar May 24th, 1975.

My drunkenness, partying and shoplifting antics were too much for Sue to handle. I was behaving like I did not want to marry her. I know I was real nervous about getting married. I was afraid I would fail. She must have sensed the reality of it all. She was disgusted in me--so she split and she made it clear to me not to bother her any more by calling her or coming over to her parents, where she lived. She saw that I was leading down a path, she did not want to follow. And she was right-I was not the right one for her. It would be my loss, not hers.

I knew later, I was terribly wrong and I felt I wasn’t able to live up to her standards. I was truly devastated when she left me—only five days prior to our wedding day. I never experienced so much heartache in all my life. I cried for months, maybe years—and I never got over her. I loved her so much, but apparently she didn’t think so. And I had too much foolish pride to beg for her back. I was a blind fool, not realizing what I had lost.

Sue had plenty of reasons to leave me. She believed I was troubled and I was showing signs of being too dependent on alcohol. One evening we were invited to a party and my drinking got out of hand. Sue had my keys to the car and wouldn’t give them up. She insisted she would drive. I insisted I was-- so I pulled on her hair and wrestled the keys from her hands. Then I was in the driver’s seat. On the way home, we were involved in a terrible rear-end collision--only six months before she left me. I was drunker than a skunk. The collision nearly sheared off the roof of my 1971 Dodge Dart. Apparently, there was an accident present on the two-lane highway we were traveling--before we crashed. I remembered there weren’t any flares up along side the darkened road, and my sight was impaired--so was all my other senses. We collided partially underneath a semi-truck. It shattered our windshield and rippled the top of the roof of my vehicle. It was a very close call. Sue had to have glass removed from her forehead.

Ironically, we escaped death and I wasn’t even charged with drunken driving, but I was cited for negligent driving. I was reeking of booze on my breath. Why the deputy never charged me of driving drunk is beyond me. My vehicle was totaled. The deputy gave us a ride home. Then just before I passed out in my bed, I heaved up the spirits of the evening on an empty stomach. When I came to my senses the next morning, I was surprised she was still there. I was lucky she was breathing and still living. This was the very beginning of my disease of alcoholism. I denied I had a problem and I would laugh it off. Sue left me and we never reconciled. We were finished for good.

As time passed, I eventually began dating other women. This is when I met Belinda. On our first date, we drove over to visit my brother, Donald, but there was no answer. He lived in a small duplex. Belinda and I were partying pretty heavy that evening, and we had smoked some angel dust on top of all the booze we drank. We both knocked on his door earlier, but there was no answer. The second time we returned, I knocked and the door mysteriously opened. I swear it was locked before. This strange occurrence has always bothered me. Why did the door pop open so easy the second time we knocked?

As the door opened, I noticed it was very dark inside--pitch dark. I didn’t notice if both of his cars were parked in front of his place. He owned a yellow 1974 Vega Chevrolet station wagon and a white 1964 Impala Super Sport Chevrolet, two-door hardtop. I suppose I was too blitzed to take notice.

As I entered through the door, I fumbled for the light switch, but couldn’t find it. When I reached to touch Donald’s toes to tickle them so he would wake up, it didn’t feel right. As messed up as I was, I knew this wasn’t normal. It was a very warm, summer night in August--and his toes and the rest of his body was cold and hard.

I finally found the light and I was astonished by what I discovered. Belinda backed up and went outside. There I discovered my brother, with his head blown to smithereens. He was lying in bed on his back. There was brain matter and blood splattered all over his bed clothes, the headboard, and the walls and ceiling. His revolver was locked in his right hand. I freaked out and grabbed the gun from his hand, went outside and fired it twice in the back yard. Then I frantically buried the revolver under some leaves beneath a hedgerow. I was so high and so traumatized. I didn’t know what I was doing. Why I took the gun from my brother’s hand and took it outside and

rom that marriage. Then he remarried again a couple of years later and they had one son from that marriage. We all thought he found happiness and we were happy for him. He seemed to be very much in love and fatherhood agreed with him. He loved his only son--with all of his heart. His life went well until his addiction to the bottle resurfaced again. It finally destroyed his happiness and reason to live. They divorced and she remarried and he lost all his parental rights because of his violent behavior, when he was drinking, and his careless attitude. He began drinking heavy and the law caught up with his public drunkenness and driving intoxicated. His life was out of control and he was heading for bad times.

There had been a bond between Donald and I because we had been going through similar trials in our lives--especially during the last two years of his life. When I turned twenty-one in the fall of 1973, I was legal to drink and have fun and party with my brother--except it was obvious Donald wasn’t really having any fun. He needed to rid the emptiness inside of him, so he kept drinking. His heart was broken and he knew he was a broken man beyond repair. His divorce had taken a heavy toll on him. He was very despondent and teary-eyed most of the time. He talked of suicide many times. He was hurting bad and I felt his hurt. He was staying drunk and stoned most of the time and his job was in jeopardy. Nobody in our family was speaking to him--except me. I could see the good in him and I wanted him to know that. He nicknamed me “Merry Sunshine,” because I was always trying to bring him into a good mood. I didn’t mind the nickname. I took it as a compliment.

With his life in a spin, mine wasn’t far behind. I was a weekend warrior. I partied every weekend. I had just split up with my longtime girlfriend, Sue, only three months ago. I was taking the breakup real hard--drowning my guilt and sorrow.

I went with Sue for five years. She was a sweet girl--a cute strawberry blonde. We were inseparable since we met. We were engaged after a four year courtship and we had a date at the altar May 24th, 1975.

My drunkenness, partying and shoplifting antics were too much for Sue to handle. I was behaving like I did not want to marry her. I know I was real nervous about getting married. I was afraid I would fail. She must have sensed the reality of it all. She was disgusted in me--so she split and she made it clear to me not to bother her any more by calling her or coming over to her parents, where she lived. She saw that I was leading down a path, she did not want to follow. And she was right-I was not the right one for her. It would be my loss, not hers.

I knew later, I was terribly wrong and I felt I wasn’t able to live up to her standards. I was truly devastated when she left me—only five days prior to our wedding day. I never experienced so much heartache in all my life. I cried for months, maybe years—and I never got over her. I loved her so much, but apparently she didn’t think so. And I had too much foolish pride to beg for her back. I was a blind fool, not realizing what I had lost.

Sue had plenty of reasons to leave me. She believed I was troubled and I was showing signs of being too dependent on alcohol. One evening we were invited to a party and my drinking got out of hand. Sue had my keys to the car and wouldn’t give them up. She insisted she would drive. I insisted I was-- so I pulled on her hair and wrestled the keys from her hands. Then I was in the driver’s seat. On the way home, we were involved in a terrible rear-end collision--only six months before she left me. I was drunker than a skunk. The collision nearly sheared off the roof of my 1971 Dodge Dart. Apparently, there was an accident present on the two-lane highway we were traveling--before we crashed. I remembered there weren’t any flares up along side the darkened road, and my sight was impaired--so was all my other senses. We collided partially underneath a semi-truck. It shattered our windshield and rippled the top of the roof of my vehicle. It was a very close call. Sue had to have glass removed from her forehead.

Ironically, we escaped death and I wasn’t even charged with drunken driving, but I was cited for negligent driving. I was reeking of booze on my breath. Why the deputy never charged me of driving drunk is beyond me. My vehicle was totaled. The deputy gave us a ride home. Then just before I passed out in my bed, I heaved up the spirits of the evening on an empty stomach. When I came to my senses the next morning, I was surprised she was still there. I was lucky she was breathing and still living. This was the very beginning of my disease of alcoholism. I denied I had a problem and I would laugh it off. Sue left me and we never reconciled. We were finished for good.

As time passed, I eventually began dating other women. This is when I met Belinda. On our first date, we drove over to visit my brother, Donald, but there was no answer. He lived in a small duplex. Belinda and I were partying pretty heavy that evening, and we had smoked some angel dust on top of all the booze we drank. We both knocked on his door earlier, but there was no answer. The second time we returned, I knocked and the door mysteriously opened. I swear it was locked before. This strange occurrence has always bothered me. Why did the door pop open so easy the second time we knocked?

As the door opened, I noticed it was very dark inside--pitch dark. I didn’t notice if both of his cars were parked in front of his place. He owned a yellow 1974 Vega Chevrolet station wagon and a white 1964 Impala Super Sport Chevrolet, two-door hardtop. I suppose I was too blitzed to take notice.

As I entered through the door, I fumbled for the light switch, but couldn’t find it. When I reached to touch Donald’s toes to tickle them so he would wake up, it didn’t feel right. As messed up as I was, I knew this wasn’t normal. It was a very warm, summer night in August--and his toes and the rest of his body was cold and hard.

I finally found the light and I was astonished by what I discovered. Belinda backed up and went outside. There I discovered my brother, with his head blown to smithereens. He was lying in bed on his back. There was brain matter and blood splattered all over his bed clothes, the headboard, and the walls and ceiling. His revolver was locked in his right hand. I freaked out and grabbed the gun from his hand, went outside and fired it twice in the back yard. Then I frantically buried the revolver under some leaves beneath a hedgerow. I was so high and so traumatized. I didn’t know what I was doing. Why I took the gun from my brother’s hand and took it outside and

in a spin, mine wasn’t far behind. I was a weekend warrior. I partied every weekend. I had just split up with my longtime girlfriend, Sue, only three months ago. I was taking the breakup real hard--drowning my guilt and sorrow.

I went with Sue for five years. She was a sweet girl--a cute strawberry blonde. We were inseparable since we met. We were engaged after a four year courtship and we had a date at the altar May 24th, 1975.

My drunkenness, partying and shoplifting antics were too much for Sue to handle. I was behaving like I did not want to marry her. I know I was real nervous about getting married. I was afraid I would fail. She must have sensed the reality of it all. She was disgusted in me--so she split and she made it clear to me not to bother her any more by calling her or coming over to her parents, where she lived. She saw that I was leading down a path, she did not want to follow. And she was right-I was not the right one for her. It would be my loss, not hers.

I knew later, I was terribly wrong and I felt I wasn’t able to live up to her standards. I was truly devastated when she left me—only five days prior to our wedding day. I never experienced so much heartache in all my life. I cried for months, maybe years—and I never got over her. I loved her so much, but apparently she didn’t think so. And I had too much foolish pride to beg for her back. I was a blind fool, not realizing what I had lost.

Sue had plenty of reasons to leave me. She believed I was troubled and I was showing signs of being too dependent on alcohol. One evening we were invited to a party and my drinking got out of hand. Sue had my keys to the car and wouldn’t give them up. She insisted she would drive. I insisted I was-- so I pulled on her hair and wrestled the keys from her hands. Then I was in the driver’s seat. On the way home, we were involved in a terrible rear-end collision--only six months before she left me. I was drunker than a skunk. The collision nearly sheared off the roof of my 1971 Dodge Dart. Apparently, there was an accident present on the two-lane highway we were traveling--before we crashed. I remembered there weren’t any flares up along side the darkened road, and my sight was impaired--so was all my other senses. We collided partially underneath a semi-truck. It shattered our windshield and rippled the top of the roof of my vehicle. It was a very close call. Sue had to have glass removed from her forehead.

Ironically, we escaped death and I wasn’t even charged with drunken driving, but I was cited for negligent driving. I was reeking of booze on my breath. Why the deputy never charged me of driving drunk is beyond me. My vehicle was totaled. The deputy gave us a ride home. Then just before I passed out in my bed, I heaved up the spirits of the evening on an empty stomach. When I came to my senses the next morning, I was surprised she was still there. I was lucky she was breathing and still living. This was the very beginning of my disease of alcoholism. I denied I had a problem and I would laugh it off. Sue left me and we never reconciled. We were finished for good.

As time passed, I eventually began dating other women. This is when I met Belinda. On our first date, we drove over to visit my brother, Donald, but there was no answer. He lived in a small duplex. Belinda and I were partying pretty heavy that evening, and we had smoked some angel dust on top of all the booze we drank. We both knocked on his door earlier, but there was no answer. The second time we returned, I knocked and the door mysteriously opened. I swear it was locked before. This strange occurrence has always bothered me. Why did the door pop open so easy the second time we knocked?

As the door opened, I noticed it was very dark inside--pitch dark. I didn’t notice if both of his cars were parked in front of his place. He owned a yellow 1974 Vega Chevrolet station wagon and a white 1964 Impala Super Sport Chevrolet, two-door hardtop. I suppose I was too blitzed to take notice.

As I entered through the door, I fumbled for the light switch, but couldn’t find it. When I reached to touch Donald’s toes to tickle them so he would wake up, it didn’t feel right. As messed up as I was, I knew this wasn’t normal. It was a very warm, summer night in August--and his toes and the rest of his body was cold and hard.

I finally found the light and I was astonished by what I discovered. Belinda backed up and went outside. There I discovered my brother, with his head blown to smithereens. He was lying in bed on his back. There was brain matter and blood splattered all over his bed clothes, the headboard, and the walls and ceiling. His revolver was locked in his right hand. I freaked out and grabbed the gun from his hand, went outside and fired it twice in the back yard. Then I frantically buried the revolver under some leaves beneath a hedgerow. I was so high and so traumatized. I didn’t know what I was doing. Why I took the gun from my brother’s hand and took it outside and

give them up. She insisted she would drive. I insisted I was-- so I pulled on her hair and wrestled the keys from her hands. Then I was in the driver’s seat. On the way home, we were involved in a terrible rear-end collision--only six months before she left me. I was drunker than a skunk. The collision nearly sheared off the roof of my 1971 Dodge Dart. Apparently, there was an accident present on the two-lane highway we were traveling--before we crashed. I remembered there weren’t any flares up along side the darkened road, and my sight was impaired--so was all my other senses. We collided partially underneath a semi-truck. It shattered our windshield and rippled the top of the roof of my vehicle. It was a very close call. Sue had to have glass removed from her forehead.

Ironically, we escaped death and I wasn’t even charged with drunken driving, but I was cited for negligent driving. I was reeking of booze on my breath. Why the deputy never charged me of driving drunk is beyond me. My vehicle was totaled. The deputy gave us a ride home. Then just before I passed out in my bed, I heaved up the spirits of the evening on an empty stomach. When I came to my senses the next morning, I was surprised she was still there. I was lucky she was breathing and still living. This was the very beginning of my disease of alcoholism. I denied I had a problem and I would laugh it off. Sue left me and we never reconciled. We were finished for good.

As time passed, I eventually began dating other women. This is when I met Belinda. On our first date, we drove over to visit my brother, Donald, but there was no answer. He lived in a small duplex. Belinda and I were partying pretty heavy that evening, and we had smoked some angel dust on top of all the booze we drank. We both knocked on his door earlier, but there was no answer. The second time we returned, I knocked and the door mysteriously opened. I swear it was locked before. This strange occurrence has always bothered me. Why did the door pop open so easy the second time we knocked?

As the door opened, I noticed it was very dark inside--pitch dark. I didn’t notice if both of his cars were parked in front of his place. He owned a yellow 1974 Vega Chevrolet station wagon and a white 1964 Impala Super Sport Chevrolet, two-door hardtop. I suppose I was too blitzed to take notice.

As I entered through the door, I fumbled for the light switch, but couldn’t find it. When I reached to touch Donald’s toes to tickle them so he would wake up, it didn’t feel right. As messed up as I was, I knew this wasn’t normal. It was a very warm, summer night in August--and his toes and the rest of his body was cold and hard.

I finally found the light and I was astonished by what I discovered. Belinda backed up and went outside. There I discovered my brother, with his head blown to smithereens. He was lying in bed on his back. There was brain matter and blood splattered all over his bed clothes, the headboard, and the walls and ceiling. His revolver was locked in his right hand. I freaked out and grabbed the gun from his hand, went outside and fired it twice in the back yard. Then I frantically buried the revolver under some leaves beneath a hedgerow. I was so high and so traumatized. I didn’t know what I was doing. Why I took the gun from my brother’s hand and took it outside and

rtying pretty heavy that evening, and we had smoked some angel dust on top of all the booze we drank. We both knocked on his door earlier, but there was no answer. The second time we returned, I knocked and the door mysteriously opened. I swear it was locked before. This strange occurrence has always bothered me. Why did the door pop open so easy the second time we knocked?

As the door opened, I noticed it was very dark inside--pitch dark. I didn’t notice if both of his cars were parked in front of his place. He owned a yellow 1974 Vega Chevrolet station wagon and a white 1964 Impala Super Sport Chevrolet, two-door hardtop. I suppose I was too blitzed to take notice.

As I entered through the door, I fumbled for the light switch, but couldn’t find it. When I reached to touch Donald’s toes to tickle them so he would wake up, it didn’t feel right. As messed up as I was, I knew this wasn’t normal. It was a very warm, summer night in August--and his toes and the rest of his body was cold and hard.

I finally found the light and I was astonished by what I discovered. Belinda backed up and went outside. There I discovered my brother, with his head blown to smithereens. He was lying in bed on his back. There was brain matter and blood splattered all over his bed clothes, the headboard, and the walls and ceiling. His revolver was locked in his right hand. I freaked out and grabbed the gun from his hand, went outside and fired it twice in the back yard. Then I frantically buried the revolver under some leaves beneath a hedgerow. I was so high and so traumatized. I didn’t know what I was doing. Why I took the gun from my brother’s hand and took it outside and fired it, then hid it, I will never be able to explain--other than I was in shock. By doing this, I was obviously raising suspicion in the eyes of the law.

Belinda awoke the landlady next door, and then the police and fire responded. I can’t remember what the police were asking me in their investigation. My statements and the details of the crime scene, must have been believable--thank God for that. I never had shot a gun in my life before. The coroner claimed he had been dead for at least twenty-four hours. It was peculiar why nobody heard the shots--not even his next door neighbor or the landlady.

My other older brother, Allan, was called and arrived at the scene. We took Belinda back to her place. She was so freaked out. That night ended any possible future we might have had in a relationship. I never heard from her again.

Now it was time to inform my parents. My mother seemed to have expected it. There was some bad blood that strained their relationship. It wasn’t long ago, that Donald beat up my other older brother, Mark, because he informed on him about some other matter. My mother always took Mark’s side. Donald was the black sheep of the family. Donald put Mark in the hospital with some very bruised ribs, a swollen head and a black eye.

It was my father who took the news the worst. Of all the days this had to happen. It was my father’s 72nd birthday and his health had been slowly declining from a stroke he suffered three years before. After all, Donald was his first son. There was a bond between them.

My father wasn’t one to show his emotions. One day I went down to his basement, and I found him looking at some old pictures and letters Donald had given him--and he was crying. I don’t think I ever seen my father cry before. This news hit him hard. He never was the same since.

It was only two days before he killed himself, that Donald telephoned Mark to apologize for the beating. Mark had hung up on him. After Donald's death, Mark said he regretted not accepting his apologies. He carried that guilt with him for years.

Looking back, 1975 was one of the worst years I experienced. My drinking became worse. I was drinking the hard stuff now. I was missing a lot of work. My attitude changed dramatically. I really didn’t want to live anymore. Sue was gone and Donald was too. Nobody seemed to want to be around me anymore.

On the weekend of Thanksgiving that same year, I had been drinking and I had taken a hangman’s noose I had and secured it to the balcony of my apartment. A woman living beneath me heard the commotion and alerted the authorities. I was determined to hang myself. I couldn’t go on living like this. Before I could do this unspeakable deed to myself, a deputy was dispatched to my apartment and talked me into getting some help. I spent the Thanksgiving weekend in a locked mental ward. I was given Thorazine and other drugs to calm me down. I felt I didn’t belong there with all these mentally disturbed patients. I begged to be released, but my commitment was for seventy-two hours. I was told to stay on my medications after my release. I was falling asleep at work quite often, so I quit these drugs on my own. It made me feel like a zombie.

I had endured quite a lot for a twenty-two year old. After my brother’s death, I was arrested for drunken driving numerous times. By 1977, I resigned from my civil service job before I was fired, then I checked into an inpatient alcohol treatment center for three weeks. It was a part of my probation requirements from a drunken driving offense.

After my release, I maintained being abstinent from alcohol and drugs for only a couple months. Then it was drinking as usual. I couldn’t stand being sober. I would rather have died. I was incorrigible.

I had gone through a near-fatal auto accident with my fianc?e, Sue, I managed to screw up an important date at the alter and permanently destroy our relationship, then I witnessed the aftermath of my brother’s suicide, then I attempted to kill myself, then I was confined to a mental ward facility, then I lost my civil service job, then I was confined to a three week inpatient alcohol treatment center, then I had gone through numerous failed relationships, then through the years--I accumulated a total of eleven drunken driving arrests and numerous jail terms and more inpatient and outpatient alcohol counseling. Then many years later, I seen my wife, Bobbie, suffer and succumb to cancer, then seeing my brother, Mark, suffer from cirrhosis of the liver from years of drinking and finally drinking himself to death--I finally figured it all out.

The truth is I finally had seen and felt enough pain in my life. I was fifty years old and I was feeling the ravishes of the results of alcoholism first hand. Thank God, I was very fortunate not to have injured anybody in my drunken driving escapades. Maybe that would have been next to add to my unsavory resume’ of my stupidity and very ill mind.

I have every reason to celebrate every 4th of July for the rest of my life. I resigned the demons in my life and put them to rest on July 4th, 2003--the day I quit drinking. I have a coin in my pocket that reminds me every day and each day forward, that I am a survivor of this dreadful disease of alcoholism--the destroyer of happiness and demon of tragedy.