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July 1970. I'd just wrecked my 1967 Corvette by driving too fast while too drunk. I was in the Canadian Province of Quebec operating a crew of twenty doing seismic mapping along the south side of St Lawrence Seaway. I was working long hours and partying hard in my spare time. We were staying across the river in Trois-Rivières. The town had a delghtful beer garden with a great band, and the French-speaking ladies were good dancers.

A good friend, an old boss, had recently died of emphysema complications, and I was smoking over two cigarette packs each day. The company I worked for wanted me to spend the next winter above the Circle on Banks Island. The money was good, but I ended by saying no thanks, I think I'll just quit and go back home to Oklahoma. And I did, giving them a month's notice.

On the trip home,I quit smoking and mostly quit drinking. That's probably why I'm still alive.
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