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I. Childhood and college years

Robert Holbrook Smith—eventually to be known to grateful alcoholics as Dr. Bob, co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous—was born August 8, 1879, in the front bedroom of a large, 19th century clapboard house at Central and Summer Streets in St. Johnsbury, Vermont.

He was the son of Judge and Mrs. Walter Perrin Smith. Influential in business and civic affairs, Judge Smith sat on the Caledonia County (Vermont) Probate Court. He was also, at various times, state’s attorney, member of the state legislature, superintendent of St. Johnsbury schools, director of the Merchants National Bank, and president of the Passumpsic Savings Bank. In addition, he taught Sunday school for 40 years.

Dr. Bob, who rarely discussed family background, described his father as being a typical Vermont Yankee—reserved and taciturn on first acquaintance, with a lively if somewhat dry sense of humor.

Many years later, Dr. Bob’s son, Robert R. Smith (nicknamed Smitty), was to describe his father in much the same way. “Upon your first contact, he was very reserved and formal in his relationships, but when you became his friend, he showed a personality which was just the opposite—friendly, generous, and full of fun,” Smitty said.

Under the granite surface, Judge Smith betrayed a good deal of warmth and compassion, with perhaps a touch of indulgence, toward his only son. Certainly, he made an attempt to understand and control the malady that threatened to destroy Bob’s life and work. Many times, with varying degrees of temporary success, he tried to rescue Bob from the effects of his drinking. Unfortunately, Judge Smith, who died in 1918, did not live to see Dr. Bob attain permanent sobriety.

Mrs. Smith, who did live to see Dr. Bob get sober, was described as a stern, tight-lipped, churchgoing lady who busied herself with the countless social and religious activities of St. Johnsbury’s towering, gray stone North Congregational Church.

“Grandma Smith was a cold woman,” said Suzanne Windows, Dr. Bob’s adopted daughter. “Once, she came to the house, and we were all sick with the flu. Instead of pitching in, she went to bed, too!”

Mrs. Smith felt that the way to success and salvation lay through strict parental supervision, no-nonsense education, and regular spiritual devotion.

“Mom [Anne Ripley Smith] blamed her for Dad’s drinking,” said Sue. “She felt the stern upbringing nearly ruined him. When he got the chance, he just broke loose.”

Dr. Bob (who, as we know, was not one to “louse it all up

Healthy Vermont boyhood behind him, medical career ahead,

young Dr. Bob already had a second career—alcoholic.

with Freudian complexes”) merely said, “I just loved my grog.” But he could look back and see certain long-range influences in his childhood.

Although he had a much older foster sister, Amanda Northrup, of whom he was quite fond, he grew up as an only child. In his middle years, Dr. Bob said he considered this unfortunate, because it may have “engendered the selfishness which played such an important part in bringing on my alcoholism.”

And he did find one source of future rebellion: “From childhood through high school, I was more or less forced to go to church, Sunday school and evening service, Monday-night Christian Endeavor, and sometimes to Wednesday-evening prayer meeting,” he recalled. “This had the effect of making me resolve that when I was free from parental domination, I would never again darken the doors of a church.” Dr. Bob kept his resolution “steadfastly” for the next 40 years, except when circumstances made it unwise.

Another sign of rebellion came at an early age. Young Bob was sent to bed every evening at five o’clock. He went with a quietly obedient air that might have led some parents to suspect the worst. When he thought the coast was clear, Bob got up, dressed, and slipped stealthily downstairs and out the back door to join his friends. He was never caught.

From 1885 to 1894, Bob went to the two-story, red brick Summer Street elementary school, two blocks from the Smiths’ house in St. Johnsbury. By the Passumpsic River in northeastern Vermont, St. Johnsbury was, and is, a typical New England village with about 7,000 people then and only about 8,400 by the 1970’s. It is approximately 100 miles northeast of East Dorset, Vermont, where Bill Wilson—Dr. Bob’s partner-to-be in founding A.A.—was born, grew up, and is now buried.

Dr. Bob described the general moral standard of St. Johnsbury as “far above the average.” And the consumption of alcohol was considered a question of morality. No beer or liquor was legally sold except at the state liquor agency. And the only way you could purchase a pint or so was to convince the agent that you really needed it.

“Without this proof,” Dr. Bob said, “the expectant purchaser would be forced to depart empty-handed, with none of what I later came to believe was the great panacea for all human ills.”

What about those who sought to circumvent the spirit, if not the letter, of the law? “Men who had liquor shipped in from Boston or New York by express were looked upon with great distrust and disfavor by most of the good townspeople,” Dr. Bob said.

But some of the townspeople had local sources of supply. Young Bob had his first drink one summer day when he was just turning nine years old. He was at a neighbor’s farm, helping the men bale hay. Wandering off, he found a jug of hard cider hidden by one of the farmhands in a corner of the barn.

He pulled the cork and sniffed. He gasped, and his eyes watered. Powerful! Still, he took a drink—probably, more because it was forbidden than for any other reason.

He liked the taste, but he was evidently able to “take it or leave it” at the time, for his reminiscences included no mention of further drinking until some ten years after that first drink.

As a youngster, Bob had other ways of escaping discipline. From his earliest years, he loved the outdoors, a refuge from the stuffy schoolhouse he was forced to attend each day—until summer. Freedom from some of the musts came with vacations. Bob was released then to wander the hills, to fish and hunt and swim.

Close as he was (and remained throughout his life) to his foster sister, it was chiefly during these vacations that he could spend time with Amanda. In the summer, they picnicked, hiked, and swam together. They also spent many hours building and sailing their own boat at the Smith summer cottage on Lake Champlain, on the Vermont-New York border. After one of these visits with the Smiths, Amanda, who later became a history professor at Hunter College in New York City, received from ten-year-old Bob the following note on lined paper:

St. Johnsbury Vt

May 4 1890

Dear Miss Northrup

I have been meaning to write you every day but have been putting it off till now. I thank you very much for sending me the pictures and book. I have enjoyed the book very much and hope you will read it when you come up here again. I went over to Mr Harrington and played with Rover the dog. They have a bull calf and he said he would sell it to me for a dollar. Mama says if theres anything we need it is a bull. I went fishing Wednesday and caught about ten fish and a lizard. I have got the lizard in a pan of water and I expect to put him in alcohol. Pa got me a new bridle and saddle blanket and I ride every day. I enjoy it very much. Come up here as soon as you can.

With much love

Robert H Smith

(Even in adulthood, Dr. Bob never developed into much of a correspondent. His letters to Bill Wilson were one-pagers, short and to the point, with the words scrawled across the sheet.)

During these summers, young Bob became an expert swimmer and at one time saved a girl from drowning. (This convinced him that children should learn to swim at an early age. He taught Smitty and Sue to swim when they were five years old. The three of them would set out every vacation morning to swim the channel near their summer cottage at West Reservoir, Akron, Ohio. Misled by the sight on one occasion, an alarmed neighbor called Anne Smith to tell her that her children had fallen out of a boat in the middle of the channel.)

As the boy grew older, he wandered farther afield. Once, he and some friends went to Canada on a hunting trip. Game was so scarce that they lived on eels, blueberries, and cream-of-tartar biscuits for three weeks. Finally, they flushed a particularly large woodchuck. When they had him within range, they started blazing away.

After being shot at for some time, the woodchuck disappeared into its burrow. This episode later caused Judge Smith to remark that the woodchuck probably went in to get away from the noise.

Another time, the boys were wandering in the woods. As they sauntered along, kicking at stones, laughing and joking, they suddenly came upon a huge bear. The bear, probably more frightened than the boys, lumbered deeper into the forest. The young hunters were hard on its heels, yelling and shouting encouragement to one another. Still, the bear got away. “However, I don’t believe we ran after him as fast as we might have,” Dr. Bob used to say.

Vacation time shrank as childhood faded. In his teens, Bob began to spend summers either working on a Vermont farm or juggling trays and carrying suitcases as a bellhop at a summer hotel in New York’s Adirondack Mountains.

In 1894, the 15-year-old entered St. Johnsbury Academy. Now an impressive, ten-building complex, the academy was established with the philanthropic aid of Fairbanks Morse Company as an independent secondary school “for the intellectual, moral, and religious training of boys and girls in northeastern Vermont.” One of its alumni was Calvin Coolidge, the 30th President of the United States.

Bob was to become an avid reader in later years, but he rarely cracked a book throughout his scholastic career. There were repercussions and accusations of “waywardness” from parents and teachers. Nonetheless, he managed to maintain passing, even creditable grades.

Although his scholastic neglect may have disgraced him with his elders, Bob was popular with his schoolmates. Perhaps his sometimes adventurous revolts against authority gave him a glamorous aura. Maybe his contemporaries sensed some special traits of character obscure to adults. Or maybe he was just a likable fellow. Whatever the attraction, he had many friends, then and throughout his life.

It was in his senior year at St. Johnsbury, at a dance in the academy gym, that Dr. Bob first met Anne Robinson Ripley of Oak Park, Illinois. A student at Wellesley, Anne was spending a holiday with a college friend.

She was small and reserved but had a cheerfulness, sweetness, and calm that were to remain with her throughout the years. She had been reared within a family of railroad people. It was a very sheltered atmosphere, although there wasn’t much money at that time. Anne, who abhorred ostentation and pretense, always pointed out that she attended Wellesley on a scholarship, because her family couldn’t have afforded to send her there otherwise.

Bob’s meeting with Anne was the beginning of what could hardly be described as a whirlwind courtship; it was to culminate in marriage after 17 years. No one today can be absolutely certain of the reason for the delay. There were years of schooling, work, and internship ahead for Bob. There was also the possibility that Anne had a healthy fear of entering the state of holy matrimony with a drinking man. Perhaps she waited until Bob gave evidence of being sober for a time before she agreed to marry him. However, they saw each other and corresponded regularly during this period, while Anne taught school.

After his graduation from St. Johnsbury Academy, in 1898, young Bob set off for four years at Dartmouth College, sixty miles south at Hanover, New Hampshire.

The photograph in his college yearbook shows a young man with strong, classic features, who could have posed for an Arrow collar advertisement—the standard for masculine good looks early in this century. Bob grew to be more than six feet in height, with wide, athletic shoulders and big bones.

Reminiscing about the Dr. Bob of later years, several people recalled that what first struck them was the size of his hands, which appeared to be uncommonly large and strong—seemingly too awkward to have handled the delicate business of medical surgery with such skill. And not even those horn-rimmed glasses could hide the penetrating gaze.

Dr. Bob had a deep and resonant voice, which never lost its New England twang but undoubtedly got huskier and raspier as his intake of whiskey increased.

Emma K., who, with her husband, Lavelle (an A.A. member), cared for Dr. Bob and Anne Smith in their last years, on Ardmore Avenue in Akron, Ohio, described Dr. Bob as “very Eastern. Nobody could understand what he said half the time.

“When I said ‘aunt,’ he used to tell me, ‘Don’t say “ant.” That’s something that crawls on the ground. Say “ahnt.”’ Imagine saying ‘ahnt.’ Or he was at the telephone ordering something. When he’d get ready, he’d look at me and laugh and he would say—I can’t say it—but he would say, ‘Doctah Ah H. Smith, 855 Ahdmaw. No, I said Ahdmaw — Aahdmoah!’”

In Bob’s Dartmouth years, of course, his New England accent hardly set him apart. He embarked on college life with zest. Freed from his parents’ restraining supervision, he saw this as a time to seek out and enjoy new experiences without the necessity of having to give an accounting.

Dartmouth had a name then for being a rugged backwoods school where the 800 or so students spent the long winters ignoring their books and drinking as much beer and hard cider as they could hold. It seems, however, that the real rebels and rakehells in this “wilderness college where there is an unaccountable degree of immorality and vice” were those periodically admonished in the school paper for wearing sweaters, “which cover a multitude of sins,” to church and dinner.

Joe P., an Akron A.A. who went to Dartmouth several years after Bob, recalled, “Dartmouth was the drinkingest of the Ivy League schools when I went there. New Hampshire was dry and you couldn’t get whiskey, so you’d take the train down to a little town in Massachusetts. Everybody ran over and loaded up, then drank all the way back home. Sometimes, we’d go up to Canada for liquor—or have the brakemen on the trains bring it back to us.

“The natives would have hard cider. Every window in Dartmouth had a jug of hard cider sitting on it. On those horribly cold days, they’d drill down through the ice and take the alcohol out. A cupful would knock the hat right off your head.

“It was a school way up in the mountains, and there was nothing else to do. There were about six girls in town who were waitresses at the Hanover Inn. We were known as the Dartmouth animals, and we tried to act the part. You were supposed to be rough. There was no way to get rid of your exuberance, except when you finally got to go down to Smith, or to Wellesley down near Boston.”

Bob’s first discovery in his search for the facts of campus life probably did not come about by accident. More likely, it was exactly what he hoped to find: that drinking seemed to be the major extracurricular activity.

“Almost everyone seemed to do it,” Bob said, using the time-honored words that “almost everyone” uses to justify heavy drinking in a particular place, profession, or society. So, with a combination of dedication, perseverance, and natural ability, he set out to become a winner in this new sport.

In the beginning, he drank for the sheer fun of it and suffered little or no ill effects. “I seemed to be able to snap back the next morning better than most of my fellow drinkers, who were cursed (or perhaps blessed) with a great deal of morning-after nausea,” he said. “Never once in my life have I had a headache, which fact leads me to believe that I was an alcoholic almost from the start.”

At Dartmouth, the oncoming illness was no more apparent to classmates than it was to Bob himself. E. B. Watson, who was president of Bob’s class of 1902, later became a professor at the college. Still later, as a professor emeritus, he commented in a letter that Bob had been friendly and well liked at Dartmouth for his frank and unpretentious ways of speech. “Although he indulged somewhat excessively in beer (the only beverage then obtainable in New Hampshire), he did not become a slave to alcohol until his graduate schooling.”

“I roomed with him in my junior year,” recalled Dr. Philip P. Thompson. “I remember him as a tall, lanky gentleman, a little bit abrupt in manner. He was restless. I have no recollection of ever seeing him study, although he was always up in his classes.”

Dr. Thompson described his roommate as “rather quick-spoken,” remembering a Saturday when several members of the class were having a seemingly endless discussion about where they would go and what they would do that afternoon. Evidently, alcohol was mentioned a time or two, for Bob said, “Well, if we’re going to get drunk, why don’t we get at it?”

In that junior year, Dr. Thompson noted, Bob was devoting more and more of his time to playing billiards and drinking beer. “He told me he had liked the taste of liquor ever since he had had some hard cider as a small boy,” Dr. Thompson said, noting that Bob could drink liquor in quantities “that the rest of us could not stand.”

In addition to learning his way around a billiard table at Dartmouth, it was probably there that Bob started to attain his eventual high proficiency with a deck of cards—whether bridge, poker, or gin rummy. In these and any other games, Dr. Bob was highly competitive and always played to win.

He even learned to pitch horseshoes somewhere along the line. One of the pioneer members in Akron A.A., Ernie G., recalled that a number of A.A.’s including Dr. Bob used to go up to a Minnesota fishing camp in the early 1940’s.

“You couldn’t get him in a boat to go fishing,” Ernie remembered. “I’d say, ‘You ought to get away from that card table.’ Then I said, ‘I’ll beat you in a game of horseshoes.’ He said, ‘Okay, we’ll just see about that. How much are we going to play for?’

“I said, ‘I won’t make it tough on you. Let’s make it a quarter.’ Hell, I didn’t know he was a horseshoe pitcher. He could throw ringers like nobody’s business. I thought I was pretty good, too, but he took me two out of three. If he had been in practice, I wouldn’t’ve stood a chance.”

Smitty often remarked jokingly that his father’s skill at pool, cards, and other games of chance was the result of a misspent youth. Dr. Bob would just smile and say nothing.

Another trick Bob picked up along the way was an ability to chugalug a bottle of beer without any apparent movement of his Adam’s apple. “We said he had a patent or open throat,” said Dr. Thompson.

Dr. Bob never lost the knack of not swallowing, a bar-room trick that must have been good for a free shot or two here and there in his drinking years. In his sober years, he would take a day’s supply of vitamins or medicines and toss them down his open throat all at one time, without water. “What’s the difference?” he’d say. “They all go the same place.”

In addition to describing Bob’s proficiency at chugalugging, Dr. Thompson told of two incidents, with a significant detail that foreshadowed the future.

“Bob and I liked to take long walks. One day, we walked to White River Junction. As we approached through the rail yard, a voice came out of a freight car: ‘Hey, Bub, get me a sandwich, will you?’

“It was dusk and we couldn’t see who it was, but we went into the restaurant and bought a couple of sandwiches, which we put in the car door. ‘Thank you,’ said the voice. We asked him where he was going, and he said Portland, Maine.

“Later that year, Admiral Dewey returned from Manila to his home state of Vermont, and there was to be a great reception for him in Montpelier. Bob had the idea of going up there and said that since we didn’t have any money, we should try to hop a freight the way that tramp did.

“We found a car with an open door and jumped in, not knowing whether the train was going to Montreal or Boston, upriver or down. Fortunately, it went up the Connecticut River, stopping at every little station along the way as it got colder and darker.

“We made it to Montpelier the next day. When we arrived, covered with straw and somewhat disheveled, Bob decided we needed a few beers, though it was only around breakfast time.

“Going out into the street, we met a Dartmouth man whose father happened to be Governor of Vermont. When we told him we had come to see Admiral Dewey, he invited us to view the parade with the Governor at the State House. So, in spite of our appearance, we were honored by sitting with the Governor (in the background, of course) and watching the procession in real state.”

On the whole, that seems to be a harmless escapade; a youngster who would flout his parents’ five-o’clock curfew by sneaking out of the house might be expected to grow up into a young man who would hop a freight on impulse.

But the boy who savored a first taste of hard cider, on the sly, had also grown up into a man who considered “a few beers” to be perfectly sensible refreshment at breakfast time.

Dr. Bob spent his last years at Dartmouth doing, by his own account, “what I wanted to do, without regard for the rights, wishes, or privileges of others, a state of mind which became more and more predominant as the years passed.”

He was graduated in 1902— “‘summa cum laude’ in the eyes of the drinking fraternity,” in his own words, but with a somewhat lower estimate from the dean. (More formally, he was a member of Kappa Kappa Kappa.)

In most Dartmouth classmates’ recollections of Bob, there was a notable gap of almost 35 years—for reasons that eventually became obvious.

The Alumni Magazine of November 1936 included this brief note: “Some of you fellows have been wondering about Bob Smith, but you can let up on it now. Bob says that while he has been in Hanover many times, he could never make it at reunion time. He hopes now to be present in June 1937.”

In November 1942, the class reporter noted: “Bob Smith as we know him is now Dr. Robert Smith. [He still hadn’t made the reunion.] He has sent me a book, ‘Alcoholics Anonymous.’ In the past few years, he has been very interested and, I judge, a prime worker in the field of rescuing the pitiable souls who have lost themselves in drink, so far having rescued over 8,000. I know of no more splendid work in the world. 1902 is proud of you, Bob.” And in March 1947: “Bob is one of the founders and prime movers of Alcoholics Anonymous, and the story of its growth and achievements is inspiring—especially when I can dig it out of Bob in his own picturesque language. A physician has grateful patients, but Bob has people coming here from all about who worship him. He has redeemed them from worse than death.”

(In 1947, A.A.’s Twelve Traditions — including the Eleventh, on maintaining anonymity in the public media—had not yet been accepted formally by the Fellowship as a whole.)

Professor Watson, in a 1958 letter to the A.A. General Service Office in New York, eight years after Dr. Bob’s death, mentioned that he had been a subject of discussion among five classmates at a house party on Cape Cod. Two of them had known Bob intimately in college and had later met him on and off in Chicago, Florida, California, and Ohio.

Professor Watson wrote, “We think there has hardly ever been a more widely beneficial uplift effort of any sort so genuine, so fruitful in human rescue, and so practically sensible as your wonderful Alcoholics Anonymous.” Using language more flowery than Dr. Bob might have liked, Professor Watson described his late classmate as “a great reformer of himself and others.

“As a class, we are proud to have had as a fellow member so dynamic and socially beneficial a creative figure as Dr. Robert Holbrook Smith, whose influence now extends to the ends of the earth,” he said.

But to the youthful Dartmouth graduate of 1902, such a far future would have been even less imaginable than the decades of painful experience that lay immediately ahead.