Dix Hill, North Carolina. A padded cell and the smell of an inebriate ward. Dave C. spent his twenties cycling through insane asylums and chain gangs, a man who could no longer guarantee his own behavior after a single drink. He describes the "high cost of low living," a wreckage that included writing bad checks for outboard motors and nearly taking his mother's life. He was a man who had to be "beat down from my knees" before he could see the leper in the mirror.
The turning point came in a Roanoke back alley on September 11, 1957, where he was found immobile and broken. He recalls being carried up the steps of the Easy Does It Club, where a man named Old Man John told him he’d never have to be alone again. Through the firm hand of sponsors and a Higher Power, Dave traded the "ropey" coffee of the club for a sanity that stopped the running. He learned that the only way out of the bondage of hatred was to follow the directions.
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