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> From: NewParadigmFund@aol.com
> Date: November 11, 2011 8:58:54 AM EST
> To: perowan@gmail.com, skovaleski@hunton.com, tjd@larashullmay.com, cjtfarrell@gmail.com, duplessisfamily@hotmail.com, peter.judge@cox.net, icelandfish@msn.com, nick_yacoub@yahoo.com, azizasis@yahoo.com, gregtafe@yahoo.com, dshapiro@umw.edu, chriskennemer@gmail.com, jeff@motternmasonry.com, implantfellow@yahoo.com, burnettejosh@ymail.com, tesfaiy@retrievalsystems.com, ronstevens@sunamericasupply.com
> Subject: Fwd: Today and tomorrow
>

> Jim P–11-11-1994;
>
>
> ❀
>
> November 11: a certain Armistice Day with Bill W.
>
> This is November, the 11th month of the year;
>
> • The 11th Tradition reads: Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio, and films.
> • The 11th Step: Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
> • The 11th Promise: We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us.
> _________
> A.A. Thought for the Day
>
> When I think of all who have gone before me, I realize that I am only one, not very important, person. What happens to me is not so very important after all. And A.A. has taught me to be more outgoing, to seek friendship by going at least halfway, to have a sincere desire to help. I have more self-respect now that I have less sensitiveness. I have found that the only way to live comfortably with myself is to take a real interest in others. Do I realize that I am not so important after all?
>
> Meditation for the Day
>
> As you look back over your life, it is not too difficult to believe that what you went through was for a purpose, to prepare you for some valuable work in life. Everything in your life may well have been planned by God to make you of some use in the world. Each person's life is like the pattern of a mosaic. Each thing that happened to you is like one tiny stone in the mosaic, and each tiny stone fits into the perfected pattern of the mosaic of your life, which has been designed by God.
>
> Prayer for the Day
>
> I pray that I may not need to see the whole design of my life. I pray that I may trust the Designer.
>
>
> Source: Twenty-Four Hours a Day, Richmond Walker, Copyright © 1975, Hazeldon Foundation, printed in the USA. Editor’s note: This book was compiled by Richmond Walker (1892–1965) of the Group at Daytona Beach, Florida. I get the text from the following website: http://www.anonymityone.com/h24/0403EN.htm Note 4 numbers after “h24/”: the first two are the day of the month and the second two are the month. Example: To get daily reading for December 21st, you would change the URL to http://www.anonymityone.com/h24/2112EN.htm
>
>
>
> A certain Armistice Day with Bill W.
>
> On November 11, 1934, Armistice Day, the day set aside to commemorate the end of the Great War, the stock market was closed, but Lois had to work, and Bill decided to occupy himself with a round of golf at a public course on Staten Island.
>
> To get there, he first had to take a subway into lower Manhattan, then walk to the ferry terminal. Once on the Staten Island side, a bus would take him halfway across the island to the golf course. The amount and variety of travel involved may itself have been a proximate cause of the debacle that followe. Almost certainly, the fact that, by awful coincidence, Bill’s seatmate on the bus was carrying a rifle also played a role. Bill would say later that the rifle reminded him of one he had had as a boy. Traveling with a stranger with a rifle on Armistice Day must have put him in mind of other rifles as well.
>
> When Bill struck up a conversation with the man, he learned that his new friend would be celebrating Armistice Day with some target practice. His destination was a rifle rage even farther down the island thanthe golf course. As they talked, the bus was struck from behind by another bus. No one was hurt, but the bus they were on was damaged badly enough that they had to wait for a substitute bus. While they waited, Bill’s new friend suggested they visit a nearby bar.
>
> The man ordered scotch. When Bill ordered ginger ale, the man asked him why he wasn’t drinking. In reply, Bill launched into a long-winded presentation of Silkworth’s theory about alcoholism as a mental obsession accompanied by a physical alergy. He also recounted in some detail the difficulties he’d had before coming to the conclusion that he simply couldn’t drink any amount of alcohol, ever.
>
> The substitute bus arrived, and the men continued their journey uneventfully, arriving at the stop near the golf course around lunchtime. The man with the rifle disembarked to take another bus to the rifle range. At his suggestion, they decided to have lunch together at an inn near the bus stop.
>
> Bill had another ginger ale with his sandwiches, and his friend had another scotch. As they were about to leave, Bill fell into a reverie about the wonderful time he had had on the first Armistice Day, which he had celebrated in a small French town. The bartender chose this moment to come over with two scotches and invite them to have an Armistice Day drink on the house.
>
> Bill downed the scotch without a moment’s thought. The man with him could not believe it. “You must be crazy!” he said. Bill, aware too late of what he had done replied in the affirmative. The man went on to his target practice, but Bill continued to drink.
>
> Somehow, he eventually made his way to the golf course. He purchased a bucket of balls at the course’s driving range, but his shots were so erratic and he raised so many divots that he was ejected. Bill kept drinking. He finally arrived home at five o’clock in the morning, so drunk that he fell in the entryway under the stars and gashed his head.
>
> Lois, who had not slept all night worrying about him, raced downstairs as soon as she heard the commotion. She found her husband on the floor, unconscious and bleeding badly. His golf clubs were still over his shoulder, a sad reminder of her hope for a new life when she had bought him the putting green.
>
> I copied this excerpt from Francis Hartigan’s biography of Bill W., pages 55- 56.=2