My Story

 

     I was born to my parents, Lydia Martha Morgan (Scotch-Irish, Roman Catholic) and William Joseph Gosy (German, Lutheran).  Their compromise religion was to go to no church at all.  In 1976 I changed the spelling from “Gosy” back to the original name “Goss”—no one could pronounce “Gosy” correctly”.  My mother was a strikingly good-looking woman who looked almost exactly like Marylyn Monroe.  My Father was 5’7” tall, had his nose broken and flattened, and was a bouncer at the Silver Frolics in Cicero, IL in the 20’s—he “loved to fight, break other men’s noses, and make them cry.”  He also loved Al Capone—he had nothing to do with guns, but he did hang around with “the boys”—I guess it made him feel important.  My German grandfather loved Adolf Hitler, so you can see; it was a tough environment to grow up in.  When my father became too old to be a bouncer, he went to work in the kitchen at the Sherman Hotel (known for Don McNeal’s Breakfast Club on the radio) which was also controlled by “the boys.”  Because there was no TV and night shows back then, many of the Hollywood stars would go from hotel show to hotel show, plugging their movie or their act—of course, the mafia was operating at most of the hotels. 

 

With the help of his former associates at the Silver Frolics, etc., my father quickly moved up in his job, becoming the Executive Chef at the Sherman Hotel, and becoming influential in Chicago politics. Once when I got into a fight in a strip joint in Cicero and was in serious trouble, he had one of his friends contact Henry Crowne, who owned the Empire State Building in NY and Material Service in Chicago, have the lawsuit and charges dropped.  My father made a fighter out of me.  With his provoking me, I was in many street fights and bragged for years that I set the fastest knockout record in a high school boxing program which I entered.  I also had my nose broken several times and had it fixed.  In my 30’s I got into a fight with a man that was 6’3”, an ex-captain in the marines (Viet Nam), and played tight-end at Rutgers.  I definitely did not win the fight, but with my uppercut, he went down on his knees.  He later said that was the hardest any man had ever hit him and added that he used to fight black guys in New York.  You can see that I am still in the “tough-guy mentality.”

 

Because my father was an ex-Lutheran and my mother was an ex-Catholic, their compromise in religion was to go to no church, but they did say the Lord’s Prayer every night before going to sleep.  I know this because their room was next to mine and I heard them say the prayer.  Perhaps it was guilt, but they did send my older sister and me to a Catholic grammar school.  My sister did fair at the school, but I didn’t fare so well.  From the third grade on, when I would do something wrong, the nuns would keep me after school and whip me with a pointer.  One of the nuns, I believe it was in the third grade or fourth grade, would take my pants down, including my underwear, and whip my bare bottom.  I do not remember being sexually molested, but later I heard from other sources that the sex organ of an eight-or nine-years old boy is excited from a bare whipping.  When my sister graduated from the school, my mother took me out of the Catholic grammar school and had me placed in Canty Public school.  My mother never admitted it, but I believe that she thought something very strange was going on at the Catholic School.  I do remember the name of the offending nun, but she is long time dead and it would be useless to name her now.  Maybe my mother heard something from one of the other parents.

 

In my teenage years sex, was as it would be expected, a problem.  I was not gay but came close.  I was also accused of being responsible for the pregnancy of a girl by the name of Betty.  I very well could have been guilty of the birth of her twins, but apparently my father paid someone off and Betty denied ever having sex with me.  I carried a heavy burden about Betty for many years and have prayed for her every day for at least 35 years and twice hired investigators to find her, with no results.

 

My father did not believe in education beyond the 10th grade, and when I was a senior, he said that if I wanted a car, I had to work for it.  So, he had me hired at the Sherman Hotel (a forty-minute drive from our house one way) to work Monday through Friday, from 4:00 pm to 12:00 am.  By the time I got home after work it was at least 1:00 am.  I found that drinking a beer or two made me fall asleep faster. Consequently, when I got up to go to school at 7:00 am in the morning, I had 6 hours of sleep and a hangover.  Needless to say, I did not do well in that year.  In fact, I flunked out of high school in my senior year and joined the USAF.  At the time I did not realize that I had a drinking problem and got into some serious trouble in the Air Force in Madison Wisconsin.  But God was looking out for me.  It is stated in the GMC list that God stepped in and saved me in a most beautiful and humorous way (see first page GMC#1 Colonel Klink Story).  By the time I finished my first tour in the Air Force, June of 1962, Jesus had helped me obtain my high school diploma, be nominated to the Air Force Academy, and attain the level of junior at the University of Wisconsin, Madison with a ‘B’ average.  The Air Force wanted me to go to the Academy, but I elected to be separated from the service and graduate from Wisconsin, which I eventually did.

 

In my last two years as an enlisted man, I made friends with Larry Jarrett, a young man from Atlanta, Georgia.  Larry had joined the USAF because he was the eldest of his family, his father was dead, and there were three other children that needed financial help at home.  Larry had given up a scholarship at The University of Georgia as quarterback and the promise he would be first string.  We became very close friends—he eventually asked me to be the best man at his marriage.  Many an afternoon we threw a football back and forth to each other—you could actually hear the threads whistle when he threw the ball to you.  I only got careless once when playing catch with Larry and the ball hit me below the belt.  We would work out for hours, playing catch, and I got better and better with throwing a football.  I became so good that AXE, one of the fraternities rushed me so that I would be the quarterback of their team.  They were having a big game with the Lambda Xi’s (Wisconsin Football team) and wanted me to win the big game for them.  I found out later that our fraternity’s baseball team had beaten Lambda Xi’s baseball team and used a wringer.  What made it worse was our guys on the baseball team would not leave it alone—they kept razzing the other guys until they were furious—not smart to get the University of Wisconsin’s football team mad at you.  Of course, we lost the football game, but it seemed like I was the only player that wasn’t injured—there was a broken nose on one guy and assorted injuries to other players.

 

Unfortunately, after getting my honorable discharge, four things happened:  First, Father Reuter, the priest who had taken me under his wing, moved back to his home in Atlanta, second, I stopped getting personal counseling, third, I stopped going to church, and fourth, I started drinking again.  Within a month I was hooked by a very sexy girl that was impressed with my academic and military success.  She looked the other way when it came to my drinking, and we became very active sexually.  By the end of the summer we were engaged, her parents were delighted, and we became married the following August, when I became a senior at Wisconsin. After we got married, things began to become very dicey.  Her father who, was in and out of AA, started finding valid things wrong with me, and being the alcoholic coward that I was, I took it out on her.  The drinking and the fights went on and got worse, even after I graduated from Wisconsin.

 

Things went from bad to worse.  I decided to go back into the Air Force to become the pilot that I always wanted to be.  Talking to a recruiter, he said that with my record I would be a natural in the Air Force.  Going back into the military in OTS, Officers Training School, I was told that I would become a pilot upon graduating OTS.  My flight instructor, Captain Griffin, was an ROTC graduate from Ohio State.  Since the school that I graduated from was Madison Wisconsin (two rival schools in the Big Ten), there was no love lost between the two of us.  Thinking that the whole school was there to make me a pilot, and having two rows of ribbons, of course it was natural for me to make fun of Griffin’s one ribbon for longevity and spread some of the humor to my classmates.  Evidently, someone in the training flight told Griffin about my making him a point of humor, what with his being a lowly ROTC officer and only having one longevity ribbon, while I was a “mustang,” had two rows of ribbons, and was nominated to the Air Force Academy.  At about halfway through the training program we were sent out to the firing range.  I felt confident because I had already qualified as an expert in rifle and pistol as an enlisted man.  Griffin was there to monitor his flight and when I finished my shooting, Griffin had a big smile on his face and yelled: “Goss, you missed the target entirely.”  I said, “I don’t think so.”  He yelled to have my target sent in to be examined.  When the target came into us, one of the referees yelled: “Wow!  That is some shooting!”  All my shots were in a tight cluster in the middle of the bull’s eye.   I was awarded an oak leaf (an additional medal) for being an expert—Griffin, standing there with his one longevity medal, was livid.  My smiling at all my classmates who witnessed the incident did not help matters at all.  Really, I probably should not have been surprised when upon graduation from OTS, I was turned down for flight school—Griffin was happy the whole week before and after selections were made.  I was furious.  What did getting along with a ROTC, one-ribbon officer, have to do with flying a $2,000,000 fighter plane?

 

After graduating from OTS, I got my orders to report to Grand Forks, AFB ND.  I was to be a Nuclear Launch Officer.  That is right, the guy with the key to a nuclear megaton missile.  But I was still the mustang, who was nominated to the Air Force Academy with two rows of ribbons and the hottest lieutenant on the base.  Who else should be the one to hold the key that could annihilate a city in seconds?  After a Wing party one night I was arrested for DUI and the senior officers were outraged; I believe that they thought I did it to get out of Nuclear Weapons and get back into flying.  Whatever they thought, they made my life a living hell for the next year.  I decided to get out of the USAF because they had tricked me and I was going to sue them.  When they offered me an honorable discharge, I grabbed it and ran—I should have looked at the fine print—they wrote a nasty note on my discharge which is now forbidden. 

 

My first job was at The American National Bank in Chicago as a programmer.  As an employee there, I quickly got into a fight at of all places, the Silver Frolics in Cicero, and the bouncer broke his wrist when he swung at me and hit the brick wall behind me when I ducked—it made the papers. The bank was very upset about the newspaper’s story of the incident, and I was given a warning—they were waiting to see what happened in court.  The bouncer had decided to sue me for damages and my father got his boys working.  When we showed up in the Cicero Court, the judge laughed and said, “Nick, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, a big man like you, coming into court and suing a little guy like this.  Case dismissed.”  So, the bank was placated for a while.  But for only 3 more weeks, because I punched the bosses’ favorite programmer at the Christmas’ party and he went over the back of a couch with blood flying all over the white carpeting of the bosses’ girlfriend—he had to get 11 stiches over his left eye.  I was told to never darken the door at The American National Bank again—even as a customer.

 

Was my father mad?  Hell no!  He was proud of his little sissy boy who had a college degree from a supposedly great college in the United States.  He went right out and got me a job at Material Service, where his very close friend Pat Hoy, who used to be the President of the Sherman Hotel, had now become the president of Material Service, which was owned by Henry Crowne, who owned the Empire State Building in New York—they were all friends.  A short story on Henry Crowne.  While I was working at Material Service, I was looking out the window at Washington and Franklin when one of our nine-yard trucks flew around the corner and tipped over (the driver was obviously drunk)—there was cement everywhere.  I said to my boss, “Well, that driver is gone.”  He said, “Guess again.  Material Service is the only cement outfit that Richard J. Daly will allow downtown.  Material Service is the only cement outfit that Daly will sign a contract with.”  I believed him, because I once worked in the real estate department of Material Service and Richard M Daly, the mayor’s son, worked in the Material Service real estate department.  It is a fact that when things got slow at Material Service, Henry Crowne, sold it to General Dynamics, I believe the figure was 2 billion dollars.  Henry Crowne bought back Material Service from General Dynamics four years later for 25 cents on the dollar, because Henry Crowne did not sell the Chicago contracts to General Dynamics.  Within two years Material Service was strangling because they could not drive downtown like all the cement companies.  The stories of Pat Hoy, Henry Crowne, and Richard J Daly go on and on.  Also, Richard M Daly eventually became the mayor of Chicago.

 

Being bored and remembering my thoughts of suing the Air Force for several complaints, I decided to follow up on becoming a lawyer and learning the law.  I told my mother and my father, who was still proud of my hitting the guy at the Silver Frolics, and at the Christmas party, talked to some of his friends and had A.J. Foyt the four-time winner of the Indy 500 was my sponsor to Kent College of Law, Chicago.  I enrolled in Kent and did well at the law school.  I was the first student in the history of the law school to have two legal briefs put on display in the Law Library.  Unfortunately, this went to my head and I decided that Ginger was not good enough for me and blamed her for all our problems.  Because I had been elected the President of the local Jaycees and took the credit for our winning the blue-chip award of the state, and everything was going in my favor.  I promptly committed adultery with a neighbor’s wife. I then proceeded to get into an altercation (almost physical) with one of my lawyer-teachers at law school. Being put on probation, and in fear that the other teachers would be laying for me, I resigned from law school.  I honestly believe that I lost my career because of drinking and the resulting adultery.

 

After dropping out of law school, I decided to get a master’s degree in math from Loyola University, Chicago.  On my very best behavior I applied for and received a fellowship at Loyola—for a semester I received good grades at the master’s level.  My advisor had his PhD in math from the University of Chicago (at that time ranked first in the nation). The strange thing is that my advisor loved me and used me for an entire semester to teach set theory to the students under a fellowship.  As it turned out, when I graduated, two of the other students in our class refused to go to Commencement because I had the highest average at the master’s level.

 

Because I was “extremely clever and intelligent,” I decided to build a house from a library book.  Anyone who does well in law school and gets a master’s degree with the highest grades should be able to build a house with half-way decent plans.  Believe it or not Ginger went along with the idea and helped me physically build a rather nice home in the Wisconsin woods on 2 ½ acre lots that I bought from one of the locals.   He was a friend of the pastor and he charged us $2,000 (a little alcohol lubricated the deal).  Whether she hates me now or not, whether she holds resentment or not, I have to give her credit.  She was willing to help when it came to hard work.  She handled those 16” blocks like a construction worker.  By the way, there were 1600 of those blocks that we laid for the foundation.  When the house was finished and I could not get a job in the area, I went on a television show to appeal to all the people of Green Bay Wisconsin for a teaching job and got it.  I got the job at the Northeast Wisconsin Technical Institute, teaching math and data processing.  I will do some serious bragging here.  We sold the house in Glendale Heights, IL for $24,000.  When we sold the house that we built in Wisconsin, it sold for $28,000—it turned out quite nice—it was 2 ½ acres of woods and it had seven beautiful white birch trees in the front yard.

 

I taught at Northeast Wisconsin Technical Institute for about three years.  It was an old reformatory converted into a legitimate school—many people thought that it did not get any better than the reformatory that it used to be.  One of the other instructors advised me to roll up some magazines to use as a weapon with some of the bad students.  It was while I was working at NWTI (during summer vacation) that in a drunken rage I shot and killed my dog and threatened Ginger with the gun, pulling the trigger.  If one of the bullets had not have gone off in the dog, you would not be reading this right now.    When I shared what I did at the next AA meeting, after the meeting one of the guys stopped me and said: “I have been watching you come in and out of these meetings for about 2 ½ years, and I think I can help you.  Who do you call your Higher Power?”  I said, “Jesus.”  He said, “Why don’t you ask Jesus to help you accept that you are an alcoholic and not just admit it?”  I walked away from that meeting really angry and thought to myself, “Who does that guy think he is, a counselor?”  Although at the time I was angry, I did start praying to accept that I am an alcoholic, and funny things started happening.  For example, one night at 2:00 am I was out with my latest girlfriend and had her laughing like crazy.  Suddenly, this crazy thought went through my mind: “If you can get her laughing like crazy while you are drunk, why can’t you get her laughing while you are sober?”  I thought: “Where did that come from?” 

 

One month later, on June 29, 1973, I woke up with an incredible hangover.  To pass the time I started watching the Phil Donahue Show on WGN TV and Donahue’s guest was a psychiatrist who was talking about alcoholism.  He said alcoholics use excuses to drink. It hit me square in the face.  I used to use my wife as an excuse, but she was gone.  I used to use my kids as an excuse, but they were gone.  I used to use my neighbors as an excuse, but I was living in 40 acres of woods, so I couldn’t blame my neighbors—there were none.  I used to use my job as an excuse, but I was a teacher on summer vacation, so I could not use my job as an excuse.  Every excuse that I had ever used was gone and I was still drunk.  It was then that I finally accepted the fact that I am an alcoholic.   I admitted total defeat and begged God for help.   He took away my addiction to alcohol.  I was looking at Sallman’s picture of Christ (the picture with 7 symbols painted into it) and crying like a baby because of all the bad things I had done—but also crying in joy because I knew that something special had happened.  The compulsion to drink had been lifted from me and it has never returned.  joined AA, and it is Jesus who has saved me.   About two months later I returned to work.  That semester I had a Viet Nam Vet student (6’3” 250 lbs.) that was mad about a grade he got in my class.  He put his arm around my shoulder and said: “It would be a shame, Mr. Goss, if that house you and your wife built was burned to the ground.” I immediately expelled him and had a terrific fight with administration when they tried to have him put back in my class.  The administration fired me.  The teacher’s union backed me and the case was tried locally and I lost.  The union appealed and the case was tried at the Appellate Court—we lost.  The case was put on the docket for the Wisconsin Supreme Court.  When a case like this goes through the courts in Wisconsin, everyone knows about it.  I got a job at Kimberly Clark in Neenah, WI and when things went good for our case, the job got tougher, when things went bad for our case, the job got easier.  After about two years at Kimberly Clark, I was fired. 

 

When I joined AA for real, I asked Les to be my sponsor.  It was one of the smartest things I ever did.  Les was my sponsor for 17 years—when he died, I cried like a baby for 3 days—I still remember things he taught me about staying sober:  Do not ever go more than a week without a meeting.  Keep in touch with him.  Do a fourth and fifth step as soon as possible. When I took my fifth step with Les, he told me some things from his fifth step that had kept him sober for 6 years—he gave me hope that I could stay sober. Work the HALT program—do not get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired.  After being sober about 3 months I called Les and told him that my work had considerable strain involved.  I asked him if I could take a tranquilizer.  He said, “Bill, I am not a doctor, but do you want to go through life in a fog?”  He continued, “In AA we use three things for stress:  Music, Prayer, and Exercise—you look like you are about 40 lbs. overweight—you could use some exercise.”  I went to the Appleton YMCA and started swimming.  I swam three times a week (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday).  I started swimming a mile and eventually could do a 32-minute mile.  I very seldom missed my swimming, no matter where I was in the US.  For 16 years, I swam every other day.  A quick calculation says I swam 1600 miles.  When my life was threatened by melanoma nodular, an oncologist research specialist told me to not take the chemo—he said I should run for my life.  He said that under the extreme pain while running, my body would release massive endorphins which were pain killers, but more importantly, cancer killers.  I became Forrest Gump and ran everywhere.  When my chest was cut open with a six-and-a-half-inch scar, I ran for my life instead of swimming for my life (35 miles/week)—I ended up running 10 marathons (26.2-mile race), taking 3rd place in my age group at the Tallahassee Marathon.  At 200 miles training for each marathon the figure is 2,000 miles for all 10 marathons I ran.   I have never taken a tranquilizer in any form.

 

Three months after the incident with the dog, Ginger came home and we went forward.  All was rather good for a year or more.  I went to AA meetings and did what my sponsor told me to do to build a solid program and Ginger went to Alanon meetings—all was very pleasant and I was very happy with Ginger.  She then started to complain about the people in Alanon and then stopped going to meetings—this scared me.  She started to come home late while she was obtaining a master’s in Chicago—she was commuting on weekends—one night she said that she wanted a divorce.  When I told Les, he said, “Bill, you can’t allow this to go on: she has asked for a divorce from you at least four times since I have been sponsoring you and this is not good for your sobriety.  If she wants it, let her have it.”  I accepted the divorce.  After many tries to re-establish my relationship with the children and being repulsed, I gave up and now, many years later, have a telephone relationship with the youngest.  Of course, I am not welcome at any of his family functions, which include Ginger’s family.

 

When Ginger divorced me, I went to live with my parents near Lake Geneva, WI.  Strangely enough I met John, an AA friend of mine from Green Bay.   What is strange is that neither one of us knew the other was moving to Lake Geneva.  John and I spent much of the summer going to meetings together and double dating.  John got mixed up with some guys that I warned him to avoid—he would not listen—we eventually went our separate ways.  I was dating Ann L, who was a retired June Taylor dancer and worked on the Jackie Gleason show.  She was about 5 years older than me, but she was in incredible shape.  We really enjoyed the summer.  We danced competitively at the Wagon Wheel Lodge (mainly cha-cha).  When the summer ended, I knew that Ginger would be coming after me for money so I got a job as a programmer at Woolworth’s in Milwaukee and obtained an apartment.  Ann was angry that I was moving to Milwaukee permanently.  She was terribly angry!  When I called her from Milwaukee and asked her how John was doing, she said, “Oh, John is dead.”  I was shocked and immediately called my sponsor, Les K.  I asked him, “Les, was John drinking when he committed suicide?”  I will never forget what Les said.  He said, “Bill, I am not God. Maybe God took him to his bosom when John died.  But I will tell you that when John committed suicide, he was not sober.”  At any AA meeting I go to, if the subject of suicide comes up, I tell the people what Les said about John and his suicide.

 

While working at Woolworth’s, I went to AA meetings regularly, but spent my first Christmas alone—I missed my three kids. After crying a while, I started to read the Bible.  I read about Joshua bringing the Hebrews across the Jordan River and I pictured it in my mind’s eye.  At that instant I knew I was going to Israel.  There was a shooting war going on over there, the trip was canceled two or three times, but I was in Israel on Easter Morning.  When I was hired at Woolworth’s I made the stipulation that I was going to take the day off when my case was heard at the Supreme Court in Madison.  When the boss heard my request, he smiled as though he knew about the case, and nodded as though he knew that I did not stand a chance. When the day came for my hearing, I took the day off and headed for Madison WI.  I was sitting in the Supreme Court Room in Madison, WI when the Chief Justice stated: “We ought to have more teachers like this man.”  I thanked Jesus from the bottom of my heart.   My lawyer called me, congratulated me, and said that I had changed Wisconsin law.  I found out later that Ginger had to release the news on the radio at her job that I won the case (she was extremely embarrassed), and Les, my AA sponsor told me when I said that I would win the case; he thought that I was just another raving alcoholic. He said that he was stunned when he heard the news on television.  When I got back to Woolworth’s, I was fired but Bud Becker, the vice president of Informatics, NY, hired me on the spot for a job at CNA in Chicago, IL.  I worked for Bud Becker for the next 10 years—he fired me and rehired me at least 10 times—twice with a raise.

 

Moving to the Chicago area, I picked out a small house in Palatine IL and attended AA meetings at the Palatine Club.  One of my female friends at the Palatine Club was a stewardess for American Airlines and she was taking pilot lessons.  When I told her that I envied her, she said, “You can become a pilot, anybody can become a pilot.  The lessons aren’t that expensive and the tests are not that difficult.”  Because I was making good money as a contract programmer and had money left over from the sale of our house in Glendale Heights, IL, I began taking the lessons.  About a year later, I had earned my pilot’s license and was flying around the Midwest.  It went to my head and I started dating many women.

 

While at the Palatine Club, I sponsored two people:  Don W, who I was extremely proud to sponsor because he had won the Silver Star in Viet Nam.  After we got to know each other, he told me that he had applied to thirty police departments when he got out of the service and because of the Silver Star he was offered a job at every one of the departments.  He told me that he respected me for becoming an officer in the Air Force and becoming a pilot in Palatine.  Don was eventually offered a scholarship from Harvard University in drugs and alcohol counseling and went out east where we lost track of each other.  Another of my sponsees was Joe C.  At the very first meeting with him I was chairing the meeting and there were about 17 people around the table.  When about 15 of them had shared, it was Joe’s turn.  He almost shouted, “I hate all you bastards!”  About seven people got up and left the table.  My reaction was one of humor.  I leaned back on my chair and said to myself, “This guy has hope, how honest can you get?”  I believe I said to him, “Relax, I’ll talk to you after the meeting.”  After the meeting we had a talk which encouraged him and he asked me to be his sponsor.  I was his sponsor for 31 years—I have moved around the country and have tried to keep in touch, but Joe’s job also has him moving around the country and he is better off with a local sponsor—he is in Chicago and I am in Indianapolis—the last I heard he was doing O.K.

 

While living in Palatine IL, I worked at various projects for Informatics, NY.  Three of the projects that standout most in my mind were FMC Chicago, White Motors, Mundelein, IL, and Allstate, North Brook, IL.  FMC stands out in my mind because of a man by the name of Robin Griffin.  I met Robin while working in data processing at FMC in Chicago (I was working for Informatics and he was working for EDS).  He would come into the office every morning singing “Blue Bayou.”  At the time I remember thinking that he had a beautiful voice, but that he was an “uppity negro.” I did not like him.  At a coffee break one day Robin asked me if I played tennis and I said yes.  He then said, “You should come over some time and we’ll play some tennis, take a shower and have lunch.”  I then had even a worse mental opinion of Robin.  I asked him how long he had played, and he said about six months.  I said that I did not play with people with six months experience because it ruins your game.  After working with him for another month I got to know him better that he was happily married and had a child. Then I decided I was safe to go over to Robin’s house and I played 24 games with him.  He won 24 games.  I then knew that I was in the presence of athlete greatness.  He told me that he was a running back at Syracuse and when he turned pro, he played for Tom Landry with the Cowboys.  It was while he was with the Cowboys in Dallas that he met Ross Perot, the owner of EDS (Electronic Data Systems). He told me of how he was cut from the team because he pointed out the same as Bennie Barnes, but Tom Landry had to go with Barnes because Barnes was a Dallas boy.  Robin also shared that intercepting Staubach during scrimmage did not help him with the Cowboys. After he got out of football, he went to work for Ross at EDS.  We became close—like brothers. We took all our breaks together, including lunch—we would walk around the Chicago loop and I would get a thrill out of people yelling from passing cars, “Hey Robin, how are you doing?”  One time the surprise was on Robin.  We were down in the Loop when two black guys came running up to me, one of them yelling: “Hey, coach. Hey, coach.”  I have been told many times that I look a lot like Mike Ditka.  The people on my father’s side came from the same area that Ditka’s parents came from.  We are supposed to have some long--distance relationship to his family.  This was in 1985, when the Bears were on their way to the Super Bowl.  Anyway, the other black kid said, “Shut up, stupid.  He’s too short to be Ditka.”  We all got a big laugh out of it. Robin was eventually promoted to being our project leader of about 17 people.  When he was offered a good job back East, he recommended me to be the project leader and I was promoted.  Obviously, we were good friends, and respected each other’s professionalism.  Not too long after Robin was gone, we had a visit from one of the boys from Detroit (he was in a silver silk suit) that was not very flattering to him.  It was not too long after that the project was sold to his company and I left very angry.

 

In anger I stormed out of FMC, called my son Patrick, and we jumped on a plane and flew to Tampa on President’s day.  I called Bud Becker in New York and told him I quit at FMC, was in Tampa on vacation, and needed money.  He said, “You have some nerve.  You take yourself off a project, fly to Florida, and call me for money on President’s day”—he sent the money.  When I got back to Chicago, I was sent to White Motors as a DOS elementary programmer.  Within a month, I was the running the OS programming at White Motors as the project leader.  Emmett Moore was the client’s project manager at White Motors (eventually bought by Volvo), and after I solved a serious problem for him in his inventory system, he put me in charge of 23 people (head project leader) and he made the statement, “As far as I am concerned, you walk on water.”  He had me running multiple projects both in the Chicago area and the Cleveland Ohio area for the next year and a half—he had me doing the hiring and firing at both locations.  Emmett left White Motors to accept a job at Allstate, Northbrook, IL.  He got a particularly good job where he reported directly to the Chairman of the Board.  Emmett used me for several extremely sensitive projects at Allstate, where more than several people were fired, and where a contract company was removed from Allstate solely on my advice.  He had me train Tallmadge Smith, a student at Northwestern University, working for the summer at Allstate.  When Tallmadge went back to school in the fall, I cried, on the first 2 days because I missed him. 

 

  Because of my friendship with Robin at FMC, years later I landed a two-year contract at GM in Kokomo, IN, when GM bought EDS—at GM Ross Perot was running everything—and the question was going around: “Who bought who?  I met Ross Perot at General Motors in Kokomo.  There were 10 of us contract programmers at GM that were brought into Kokomo from Chicago.  Ross came into Kokomo and had all of us contract programmers meet in the auditorium.  At 5’5” tall he had a lot of nerve to tell 250 contract programmers (at an average of 25 dollars an hour) that in 6 months from that date, they would either be an employee of EDS or they would be gone.  Because I knew Robin (who knew my work) who knew Ross Perot, I was the only contractor from Chicago that was retained by GM as a contract programmer. What is interesting to me is that I had met two of the most powerful men in the country, Ross Perot and Henry Crowne, and they were both 5’5” tall.

 

After renting planes, mostly Cessna’s or Pipers for about 7 years, I decided to build a plane that would be fast.  After researching many kits for building a plane, I decided that the best plane for me would be the KR2.  The plane took about 5 years to build. The KR2 is built for speed. Cessna’s and Pipers cruise at about 90 knots--the KR2 cruises at about 245 knots.  My logic for building the KR2 was unchallengeable:  I had built a boat, a 15-foot runabout with a 60 hp motor; a house; and many model airplanes.  My reasoning was that if the KR2 kit was anything like the models I built and flew, it could be done. Many Airplane magazines that I bought showed completed kits and planes built from scratch.  In addition, a mile from my house was a guy who had a shop with many customers and had built a KR2. I bought the kit and began to build the plane.  The plane was also a selling tool.  To a potential customer I would state, “How many contract programmers have you spoken to that put their lives on the line by flying a plane that they built and requires one to follow directions exactly?” When it came time to do high altitude testing, I realized that I should use a parachute—I rented one from the airport.  On Memorial Day in 1990, before taking off in the KR2 (experimental airplane), I said a prayer to Jesus, “Jesus, you know I am crazy and I know that I am crazy.  Please watch over me.” Five minutes later, after the airplane crashed, my leg was severely injured (it needed 300 stitches to put it back together again).  My back was black and blue—the parachute had probably saved my life.  When they were wheeling me into the operating room, the nurse said, “Nobody knows why you are alive.  God must have a plan for you.” (Two years previous I had asked Jesus to help me give Chris a baby girl.)  At that point in time, I cried like a baby because I knew that God was going to give Chris and myself a daughter.  With Jesus’ help, after the first day using Darvon, I used Tylenol for the next nine weeks (at night to sleep) while my leg was mending—this experience has helped me in countless other situations where painkillers were tempting.

 

When my father was alive, he said to me, “For 14 years you have gone through women like changing socks.” I never missed church on Sunday, but it is a miracle that I never came down with some form of STD, because my sex life was insane.  I did such things as joining Parents without Partners, Singles Groups, and even Christian Groups for Singles.  Subsequently, I have read that such a life is another symptom of alcoholism without drinking.  When I told all of this to Joe C, who I was sponsoring and who was reading a newspaper at the time, I thought that he was going to react like I was a hero or some sort of super stud.  Instead, without even looking up from his newspaper, he said, “It sounds like an awful amount of pain to me.”  I was stunned.  He was exactly right.  The beginning, middle, and end of each relationship were horrible.  Going home and waking up the next morning, while I was saying my morning prayers, I said to God the Father, “I have been praying for 14 years. When are you going to give me a wife?”  I definitely heard, “When you are ready!”  I said, “O.K.”  The following week at a Phoenix Christian group meeting I met my present wife—we celebrated 25 years of marriage on July 1, 2015 (actually, by the advice of a priest, we lived together for 2 years before getting married). 

 

When I had been sober, for about 10 years a friend of mine (we played racket ball together) and I went to an AA meeting in Palatine, IL.  At the meeting, my friend kept talking about being battered as a child.  As the meeting went on and he kept talking, I was getting madder and madder at him.  When the meeting was over, I went home and called my sponsor and said, “Doug I was at a meeting today with Richard and all he did was talk about being battered as a kid.  What the hell is wrong with him?  He should be talking about alcoholism!”  Doug said, “You are wrong, Bill.  He should talk about anything that helps keep him sober.  Another thing, did you know that 98 % of all people on death-row were battered as children?”  I realized that was a reason why I had trouble trusting men in AA. 

 

Doug had me read a book called I‘m OK, You’re OK.  It talked about 4 or 5 personalities, one of which is “I ‘m OK, You’re OK.”    This is a healthy personality.  Another is “I ‘m OK, You‘re not OK.”  This is the personality of the person who was beaten and maltreated as a child.  This person has serious anger problems as an adult.  When I was fourteen years old, my older sister was teasing me and had me locked out of the house.  I went around the side of the house and jimmied an open window and crawled into the house.  As my back foot hit the floor, I was hit in the face with a backhand that knocked me unconscious—it was my father who hit me.  He later shared with my mother that he was afraid that he had killed me—he said my legs were twitching.  Remembering that incident stopped me cold.  I suddenly realized why I had trouble trusting not only women, but also men in AA.  I am sure that there are thousands of men who have experienced violence like that.  One other thing, my sponsor asked me a question.  He asked, “I thought you said that your father worked nights?”  I said, “yeah, so what?”  He asked me a question that I will never forget: “What was he doing home at 3 pm in the afternoon and why did not he intervene in the trouble you were having with your sister?”  I felt like I had been punched in the stomach—it was apparent that the whole situation was a setup.  The answer is that my father wanted an excuse to batter me—I found out later that he was also battered as a child.  Battered children many times grow up to be Batterers.

 

During those 14 years I married 4 women outside the church (one I married twice and divorced her twice)—I felt that the marriages were invalid and would easily be annulled.  I told the girls that I considered the marriages to be little more than an engagement, and that when they were ready to make it final, we could get married in the Catholic Church. I fully admit that my attitude was that of a chauvinistic male and these poor women had no idea of what they were getting into. 

 

It was Chris Stuhrberg that listened to me.  She arranged that I get counselling on how to stay married and finished all the arrangements—it really turned out to be a great marriage in in Lake Zurich, IL where almost all the guests came from Amoco (where I worked as a contract programmer for three years).  Jesus helping us, on July 1, 2015, we celebrated 25 years of a holy Christian marriage.

 

After being married to Chris for 25 years and going through the problems that Chris and I have gone through together that we live in a Christian relationship and I am profoundly grateful to be in a Christian marriage. I fully admit that my behavior was poor to say the least. In my Story I talk about the fact that Chris has not missed going to church once in the 25 years that we have been married.  When we were in Church on Palm Sunday we were singing, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?”  As we were singing, I heard Chris sniffing.  Looking at her, I saw that she was crying every time something bad happened to the Lord in the song.  I could not help it—I began to cry. 

 

In addition, I ran 10 marathons all over Florida and Chris was there for every race—she spurred me on in the Tallahassee Marathon to win third place in my age group.  Chris helped me build our first house in Lakeland, FL from the ground up to putting the shingles on the roof when the daily temperature hit 95 degrees and she never complained once.

 

 

Life did not become Utopia after Chris and I got married.  As mentioned earlier, In October of ’92 I was diagnosed with melanoma nodular and given 7 months to live—that was a death sentence to me.  Later in the year, we had a horrible winter, and in January ’93, there was a massacre at the Palatine Brown’s Chicken (7 people killed—it went unsolved for 9 years) 5 blocks from our house in Palatine, IL. My first reaction was to get Chris and Chrissy down South before I died. We quit our jobs, sold our house in Palatine, and moved to Lakeland Florida in March of ’94.  With my building experience in Wisconsin (with Ginger) I started to build my second house in Lakeland with Chris.   It took us approximately 5 months to build the house and move in.  I was able to get some programming jobs in Florida, but when the KR2 crashed, my sales pitch took a terrible nosedive.  Clients would now think I was just another 53-year-old contract programmer, but now I was a contract programmer that had crashed a plane that I had built—maybe I should have been more careful building the plane and more careful in implementing the plans.  Maybe I would now miss an important part of their new system going in and screw the whole thing up! I kept training for marathons, working as a substitute teacher, and contractor programmer wherever possible for the next 5 years.   I kept plugging and, in the summer of 2000,, I went to work for AIC in Indianapolis IN.  My project was at Lilly.  When the contract began, there was money to burn—we all had the best of equipment, including colored phones on our desks.  When the project was nearing its end, Lilly and AIC started playing money games.  Now they were trying to squeeze blood out of a turnip. AIC would not make a commitment for any further work—we just had to use our own money to stay in Indianapolis until AIC and Lilly signed a new contract, which was not going to be done for a while.  I quit, took my family, and went back home to Florida.  AIC said that because I quit, they would not pay unemployment.  Florida refused to pay me the unemployment.  Three Florida lawyers refused to take my case—they said that there was no way that I could win.  With Jesus’ help I kept digging and found a lawyer that gave me some tips.  I went ahead and did the research online.  Practicing Jesus’ presence at the meeting, I participated at the hearing (phone hearing) alone and won the case. Thank you, Jesus.

 

It was also during this time that it became apparent that most companies do not like to hire men as a programmer when they hit 49 years old.  I came up with a new gimmick—it was running marathons.  I would stress at every interview that I was running marathons and that I took third place at the Tallahassee Marathon in my age group.  For a man to run a marathon, he has to be in very good shape and have a lot of stamina (this is true). I ran and trained for marathons continuously.  I ended up running 10 marathons and had more contracts coming my way—some of the companies even allowed me to train on their property—AT&T graciously allowed me to train at every site I worked at.  This all worked fine until I hit the age of 59—now it was almost impossible to get a job.  Then Jesus put Eddie Duffy into my life as my new sponsor.

 

Eddie (5’ 8”) was the toughest man I ever met—he was a “screw” at Rikers Island, NY.  He was half Irish and half Italian.  When I met him, he had 25+ years of sobriety and was a leader in the local AA groups in Florida.  He told me that when he went to work in New York, 280 people wanted to see him dead (the inmates that reported to him).  He had retired and moved to Lakeland, FL. When I got into an altercation with a truck driver on Christmas Eve (2000) and quietly told the truck driver to get out of his truck, the truck driver could see that I was insane and begged off.  The next morning, I realized that either the truck driver or I could have been seriously injured, or maybe killed in the fight—I was afraid that if I went to jail that maybe I couldn’t stay sober and called Eddie to tell him I was scared to death—he said to me, “Don’t worry, Bill.  Just don’t drink and go to meetings.”  He told me the following story.  “The last time we were in Vegas and saw the Tyson-Holyfield fight, we were coming out of the Arena and an Andy Frain usher pushed my niece.  When I grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the wall, a Vegas cop came along and asked, “What the hell do you think you are doing?”  Eddie said that he flashed his badge and said, “If you touch me, I am going to turn this guy off.”  Eddie said that when things cooled off, the usher apologized for pushing his niece and everyone went their separate way.  Again, he said, “Just don’t drink and go to meetings.”  Thinking that I had been sober for 20+ years and Eddie had been sober for 30+ years, this was not acceptable.  I called Eddie the next day and said, “Eddie, you know that I love you—when Chris and I were in serious financial trouble, you got us disability, which helped save our house.  When I ran my first marathon and was ready to quit on the day of the race, you said, “You trained for a year—you might as well try it—you might even do better than you think you would do.”  You have helped me in more ways than I can count, but I have a serious problem with anger and I think you have a serious problem with anger.  I am going to get a sponsor that can help me with anger and I think it would be a good idea for you to get a sponsor that could help you with anger.”  He tried to joke it off and said, “I think you are making too much of this, but I wish you luck.”  The next time Eddie went out to Las Vegas, he came back in a pine box.  His wife refused to talk about what happened and refused to let us talk about AA at the funeral.  This whole story showed me that no matter how many years I am sober, I will need a spiritual advisor and that I should make at least one AA meeting a week.

 

In 2001 Doug Hess, my third sponsor, an ex-marine, after five years of knowing me and hearing my story, said,” The Air Force gave you the shaft and we are going after them.” I said, “Doug, I thought the Big Book says that we stop fighting anyone or anything.”  He said, “We did not join AA to be a floor mat, and I am your sponsor—we are going after them.” He had me file a disability claim.

 

In 2003 the neighbor down the block ran into some bad times.  His wife died, he lost his job, and his teenagers went wild.  There was many a day that the smell of marijuana would waft down the street from his house and a little later one of his teenage sons would come roaring down the street in a noisy car or on a motorcycle.  Drugs had seemed to have taken a bad turn in Florida.  A cop told me the problem was that about half of the cops were on the take, so you really did not know who you were talking to when they came out to investigate any disturbances.  If you were talking to the wrong person, you were apt to be quickly visited again by the people that you were complaining about to the police.  Also, though I really enjoyed training for marathons, teaching as a substitute teacher, and an occasional data processing contract, we were starving. While complaining to my Vet Rep at James Haley VA hospital, Tampa, FL, about my situation and the USAF, he said that if what happened to me had happened to him, he would think about legal action.  He planted the seed.  In 2002 I started the legal action against the military which would take 10 years to complete—it was brutal.

 

If one were to do a google search for “Viet Nam Vet and Suicide” the result would be that there have been close to 100,000 Viet Nam Vets that have committed suicide, mostly since returning home.  I am a Viet Nam Vet, who obtained 3 years of education, including college level work with a B average in the USAF, obtained a BS in math, an MA in math, and was the first student in the history of Kent College of Law, Chicago to have 2 legal briefs put on display in the Law Library, was nominated to the Air Force Academy, by Senator Dirksen, IL, was elected the Vice Commander of War Veterans Post 1917, Lakeland FL, in 2002, and then the Full Commander of War Veterans Post 1917, Lakeland, FL in 2003 (men who faced death on the battlefield elected me their Commander).

 

During our 10-year quest for a VA disability, we lost our house in Florida, we lost our daughter due to a drastic drop in our income and her losing a chance to go to good schools both in Florida and Indiana—being 65 years old did not help obtaining employment in my old career field, data processing. The VA was not generous to say the least.  For example, when we attempted to use the SSA disability findings for a basis for a VA disability, which we sent to the VA, we waited one year for results and submitted a request to the VA asking what the problem was.  The VA responded with they never received the SSA “or it was lost.”  After we requested a copy of the SSA from Social Security and offered to send it to the VA our request was refused.  Asking why the offer was refused the VA responded that the copy we were willing to submit could very well have been forged—that SSA documents had forged in the past.  A call to Senator Nelson, FL was the only way that we got the VA to move at a critical point in our case.  As stated earlier, the attempt to get a VA disability was extremely stressful and nerve shattering.  The supposed people and organizations designed and organized to defend and help the disabled veteran dropped off of the project quite early in the fight, leaving us alone to write the appeals to the Board of Veteran Appeals (four of them in all).  The tension during that 10-year battle was horrible.  During the fight for our VA disability, going to a dentist was too costly and grinding my teeth became a real problem. What is ironic is the VA has recently criticized my bruxism as though it is a nasty habit that I sometime, somewhere else in my life developed when I asked them to fix my teeth after I won the disability.  There have been 5 or 6 civilian dentists that have recommended a major restructure of my teeth and gums, but the VA has denied giving me any such changes or help for my mouth, as though I was the guilty person responsible for my poor dental health.

 

In 2004 we had 4 hurricanes go through Lakeland, FL.  Three of them were not too bad, but Jean was another story.  Hurricane Jean (Sept of 2004) was coming through Lakeland and the watery driven winds were reaching to 60 or 70 miles/hr.  Chris, Chrissy, and I held hands and prayed to the Father in Jesus’ name that He watch over us.  When Jean passed through, she had damaged the roof of every house around ours and even tore down some pool houses.  She also destroyed a good part of Widow Margaret’s house (inside) after tearing the roof off.  The four houses closest to us all had to have their roofs replaced as a minimum.  The only damage to our property was that an old rotten tree lost a large branch—we later cut the tree down.  It might have been our attitude, but it also seemed like Florida was getting hotter earlier and staying hotter longer each year.  In late 2005 we were ready to move.  The financial situation, the weather (hurricanes and hot temperatures), and drug problems seemed overwhelming. 

 

In 2006 we sold the home that we built in Lakeland FL and moved to Zionsville, IN. We bought a house in Zionsville.  I continued training for marathons, and became an active substitute teacher in the local suburbs, and I continued writing the law briefs for my legal case against the VA.  I continued writing the briefs for four more incredibly difficult years and 99% of the time I would ask the Father in Jesus’ name if He liked what I wrote.  If the answer was, “Yes.” It remained.

 

During the 10-year battle with the VA for my disability, being over 60+ years old, the only employment that I could obtain was to be a substitute teacher.  My wife worked to help the family. My daughter was extremely unhappy about our being reduced to actual paupers—she left the house when she became 18 and never returned. 

 

On February 5, 2010 I worked at Stokes Elementary and a horrific snowstorm hit that day.  After work I spent about an hour plowing and shoveling out the driveway.  When Chris and Chrissy came home, Chris said that I had some mail.  It turned out to be the printed reports from the VA.  In the reports Dr. Bhagar states, “50 % or more probability that each diagnosed disability is the result of injury or disease incurred or aggravated in the service…”  Dr. Bhagar also states, “This illness first manifested itself while he was in the service.  There is no record of him having [problems] prior to his military service.”   The doctor also says, “He continued to drink while in service and he received a DUI in 1965.  There is more than 50% probability that its course worsened for him during his 2nd tour, due to the rejection of not being allowed to become a pilot, (before the DUI in 1965) and the harassment (after the DUI).”  It took almost 10 years to have the VA admit that I have a service-connected disability.  The second highest appellate court in the land found in my favor and granted me a disability because of the atrocious behavior of 4 high ranking officers in the Air Force. Six months later, the disability was raised to 100%.  With all income considered, my pensions are equivalent to that of a Captain who flew for 20 years in the Air Force and retired—exactly what I wanted when I re-entered the USAF.  Talking to Chris and Chrissy about the present situation and that there is probably going to be a considerable amount of money received for the service-connected disability and the 10 years of strife with the VA, it occurred to me that God had brought this about so that we (Chris, Chrissy, Patrick, and his family, and I) would be able to go to Jerusalem—I cried with joy.  Early the next morning (say about 4:00 am) I got up to go to the bathroom and started reading a book that I have been reading, Soul Harvest, a religious book by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins.  When I got to page 169 the author talks about a hospital in Palatine, Illinois (where Chris and I lived) and Kenosha, Wisconsin (where GMC 11 took place when we were living in Palatine).  What are the odds of an author mentioning these two locations?  These two locations were separated by only one sentence.  I told Chris that if God was not telling us that the thought that I had was real about Jerusalem, He was telling us that He is totally in charge!

 

On Wednesday, May 12, 2010, the subject for the meditation for the day in Daily Reflections was “THE PAST IS OVER.”  When I read it, I said, “Are you trying to tell me something, Lord?”  We had been waiting for over 9 years for the VA to determine if and how much my service-connected disability would be and end the 45 years of nastiness caused by the alleged DUI mentioned above.  That night I jokingly said to Chris, “Do you think that God the Father has been holding back the disability money until you make a Cursillo?” A Cursillo, or in this case “Great Banquet” is an extremely intensive retreat.  It is so emotionally draining that one needs to be sponsored to the retreat.  The following night I took Chris to the three-day retreat.  The following morning, I was getting ready for work and I scanned our bank account.  There were a lot of zeroes there!  The money was there! It was the back-pay from the VA for the 10-year legal battle which I had won.  Thank you, Jesus. 

 

LG was my 12-year-old, 110 lb., German shepherd, who did exactly what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it.  We got him at a shelter, 3 hours before he was to be put down.  We named him Let Go and Let God (LG for short).  A short story.  We were in St. Augustine (about 175 miles from our home in Lakeland, FL), when he was about 3 years old and he ran off.  We thought he was gone for good—at the time, I had mixed emotions (I was mad at him, but as time went on, I felt bad).   At about 9:00 p.m. our room phone rang and a woman in the lobby was wondering if we had lost our dog!   As it turns out, she worked at a restaurant down the street and found LG digging in the garbage and noticed his tags from Lakeland (knew he was from out of town and started calling all the hotels and motels in the area, asking if anyone was missing a German shepherd).  Being pretty and probably quite busy with life, I asked her why she did such a nice deed.  She said that she belonged to a fellowship which believed in doing good acts and not being found out!  I asked her, "Are you a friend of Bill Wilson?"  She said, "Why, yes. Are you?"  When LG was 12 years old, he was extremely sick and lying in the living room.  I walked up to him and said, “Hey, LG how are you doing?  He licked my hand as if to say good-bye (I am crying right now) and he walked out into the yard and lay down and died.  When we got our new puppy, I asked Chris if we should name him “LG” and she said, “No, there was only one LG”.  So, we named him LT, for L-Two, or my rank in the Air Force, or in Roman Numerals, 52, or added together “7,” my incredibly lucky number.  I was just telling Chris that he is the happiest dog I have ever seen. He just goes crazy when we let him outside in the snow—he uses his nose as sort of like a snowplow and runs across the yard scooping all the snow aside. He is constantly chasing Chris and nipping at her pants, with Chris yelling at him.

 

To recap, my pensions are now equivalent to that of a Captain (due to winning the 10-year legal battle with the VA at the second highest appellate court in the US and eventually awarded a 100% disability because of the inexcusable behavior of 4 senior officers in SAC, Air Force), which it would have been had I become a pilot in the USAF and stayed for 20 years. Since winning the legal case, we have gone to Israel three times, Orlando, FL at least 3 or 4 times, Memphis, TN, Washington DC and were able to stay in some really nice hotels.  We owe it all to Jesus.