Transcriber: Delia Cohen Reviewer: Peter Van de Ven
In Afghanistan,
our troops open packages that they receive from an Ohio prison.
Inside one of those packages,
they find an 8-foot, rolled up, canvas mural.
Imagine, days later,
images start appearing around the globe
of those same troops in full military gear,
most of them smiling from ear to ear,
except for this guy.
During the day, he's protecting all of us.
At night time, obviously, he's an art critic.
(Laughter)
That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call a "domino deed":
a commitment to care -
and yes, I am that artist.
We're all familiar with dominoes,
where you line them up, you push one, the rest fall in unison.
My goal is inspiring each one of you to become that first domino,
not to push anyone or to fall,
but to simply do something nice for someone else
and have them pass it along.
There's a lot of needs in the world out there,
be it a simple hug,
take someone to dinner,
help someone pay a bill,
you name it.
There's many of them.
Myself? I paint. I paint a lot.
Simple paintings can do a lot.
You might wonder what made me be the first domino to fall.
Please allow me to take you on a journey.
At 22 months of age, I was adopted.
I was raised on a small farm in southern Ohio by a wonderful family.
My father worked pipeline construction.
My mother stayed at home,
taking care of three children while taking care of the farm.
I was an average student; I graduated from high school.
Fortunately, my father had gotten my union card in the pipeline industry,
and the day upon graduation,
I was away in Michigan building a pipeline.
Not only did I have a well-paying job, I also had a business agent.
How many college graduates do you know
that have a guaranteed job upon graduation,
let alone a business agent?
My father suggested that I invest my first paycheck
in something to show off my hard work.
He suggested Hereford cows.
My suggestion was chrome rims for my car.
(Laughter)
As fathers always do, that argument was won by him.
I purchased two cows.
Those two cows soon turned into four,
then four into six.
Occasionally, I'd make it back home to Ohio.
Working ten hours a day, six days a week was hard work.
One particular weekend while driving past those cows,
I swear I heard one of them say to the other,
"Damn that car would look good with chrome rims."
(Laughter)
Working so hard, I didn't have time for my old classmates, my old friends.
My new friends were different, a lot different.
I started to make really, really bad choices.
The first bad choice was to move out on my own.
Things just got worse.
I blame only myself.
I began to experiment with alcohol and drugs,
mainly drugs.
On any given day, I'd be higher than a laboratory monkey,
to be honest with you.
My circle of friends changed.
I began to associate with criminal elements.
In time, I became a criminal element myself.
One night while driving home,
in my headlights,
I saw a bear hitchiking.
Not just any bear.
This bear had a floppy hat, sunglasses, a scarf, and tennis shoes.
So I pulled over to offer the bear a lift.
While I was waiting for the bear to get in,
I couldn't help but think,
"How odd for a bear to be wearing sunglasses at night."
(Laughter)
Stupid bear.
(Laughter)
Things just got worse.
There are countless stories of things I saw.
Whether they were real or not, who knows?
Shouldn't be any mystery that before long
I would find myself arrested and in the county jail
charged with two counts of aggravated murder.
During my trial, three expert witnesses for the state got up and testified
that in their opinion, I was a borderline retard.
I'm sure in today's society that term would not be politically correct.
So, what'd I do?
I hired my own expert.
Cost me a thousand dollars.
He said I wasn't a borderline retard,
but he said I was pretty damn stupid.
(Laughter)
I should have bought a cow.
(Laughter)
I got convicted of those two counts of aggravated murder.
That was in 1978, thirty-five years ago.
Jimmy Carter was President, if you can remember who that was.
I went to prison at age 21
over at the Ohio Pen, if you know where that was.
Prison life was odd for someone 21,
especially there.
I didn't change though.
I didn't stop my behavior.
I continued my abuses for many years.
I didn't stop to think of the damage I caused to the victims,
the victims' families, my family,
my friends, or the community,
or the peace of mind the community once enjoyed.
My actions, I'd done a lot of damage.
At some point, .
I decided to clean up my act.
I decided to quit the drugs and alcohol,
one day at a time.
For me, I tried cold turkey.
It worked for me; it doesn't work for many.
It's been 25 years I've been clean.
I no longer have a desire to get high or drink.
(Applause)
As my pickled brain began to clear,
I felt kind of helpless.
I needed something else to occupy my time.
I kept watching PBS,
this bushy-haired painter named Bob Ross.
(Laughter)
He made painting look so simple.
So I ordered a lot of supplies.
I got my supplies; I sat down with Bob.
As I'm taking the caps off, I look up. Bob's done with his painting.
(Laughter)
I realized quickly
that I couldn't even draw a stick person.
Me learning to paint was like trying to teach a chicken a card trick.
It wasn't going to happen.
(Laughter)
But I had a lot of paint,
and believe it or not,
red paint doesn't taste like cherries.
(Laughter)
So I kept painting.
Eventually, people started asking for some paintings.
I would give them to them.
I couldn't charge them.
I just asked them to do something nice for someone else in return
and share the story with me.
That was several years ago.
A few years back,
I ran into a wonderful couple named Ray and Yvette.
They spotted this particular painting,
and for whatever reason, they wanted it.
So I made sure they received it.
I asked them to do something nice for someone in return,
thinking they would take someone to dinner,
maybe give someone a hug, who knows?
Something simple.
Look at that painting.
You don't see anything special, do you?
You're wrong.
This couple,
they made a large donation to an orphanage in India
to drill a water well for the children there.
Up to this point, the children didn't have clean, safe drinking water.
I didn't know at the time,
but 24,000 children die each week around the world
from unsafe, [un]clean drinking water.
Imagine that.
One child shouldn't die from that cause.
Thanks to the generosity of Ray and Yvette,
that water well was drilled
and those children in that orphanage today have clean, safe drinking water.
In the future, the same children ending up in that orphanage
will have the same luxuries,
the luxuries we take for granted each and every day.
Those were some of the kids.
Not so long ago while walking down one of these corridors,
crowded as it was, at a distance,
I saw a big, black hat.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
You know what I thought:
"That damn bear."
(Laughter)
(Applause)
As it got closer,
I saw it was a man.
I saw suspenders.
Who wears suspenders?
It was an Amish guy.
You don't see Amish people in prison ever.
(Laughter)
You stand a better chance of seeing Bigfoot
than to see an Amish person in prison.
(Laughter)
This man's name is Eli.
Fortunately, I befriended Eli,
and over the course of a few weeks,
I found out Eli had a friend named Ola, from Indiana, a businessman.
Ola knew of a farmer in Indiana
that had suffered a tragic farm accident
and needed help:
money, medical bills,
a large family to provide for.
I suggested that maybe I could donate a couple paintings,
and they could auction them off somehow
and give the money to the farmer and his family.
This businessman, Ola, took it one step farther.
He made these frames.
Now these paintings, each of them were 8-foot long.
You've probably purchased frames before; you know the expense.
They're wonderful frames.
Then he took it a step farther.
Ola enlisted the aid of the entire Amish community
in Indiana.
They pitched in goods and services and held a silent auction
to raise money for this farmer.
I'm happy to say enough funds were raised
to pay off the medical bills
and provide a wonderful holiday for the entire family.
(Applause)
That's what domino deeds is all about:
a commitment to care;
people working together toward one cause.
Over the past 25 years,
I've been involved in a lot of charities,
hundreds of them:
be it the Down Syndrome Association of Central Ohio;
Hannah Neil Center in Columbus,
where we sent 64 children to the Columbus Zoo;
560 children
from Richmond County Children Services
that we provided a Christmas party for;
dog and cat welfare, you name it;
battered women's shelters, you name it;
children's homes; the burn center; children's hospital.
I mean, there have been so many, I can't even count them.
Every time I've done any kind of charity,
you know the people I've asked to help me, and they've jumped in full force,
old-law lifers, yes, convicted murderers.
Who would imagine these people would have compassion
to help anyone else?
You would think they'd be miserable,
hating the world, hating the parole board,
hating society that doesn't want to see them out again.
They say that we will never get out.
We want to.
They say we're not suitable for society.
I beg to differ.
I've worked side by side with these men and women for years.
I know what they're about.
In this room, there's a lot of talent.
You'd be amazed how many lifers are among you right now.
Over the years, I've been reminded to stay grounded.
Not too long ago,
a friend of mine who owns a company locally -
she deals with mentally challenged individuals -
one of her clients is 28.
I'll call her Jordan, because, well, that's her name.
(Laughter)
I sent Jordan a painting of a lighthouse,
nothing special, just a pretty painting.
I wrote on the back of it to let her know how special I thought she was.
I made a phone call,
and I asked Danielle, the owner of the company,
"What did Jordan say?"
She says, "Oh, she liked it."
And she says, "Oh, it's beautiful."
I said, "Well, that's nice. Please thank her."
Danielle tells me, "Don't get a big head.
She says the same thing every time she walks past a smoke detector."
(Laughter)
But,
you stay grounded.
Sometimes,
you run across a need that makes you feel helpless.
Not too long ago,
I learned of a small family in Ohio,
in a small town in Ohio.
The father works long hours to provide for his family.
The mother stays at home taking care of their two small children.
Their youngest daughter Amy loves Disney characters.
Her entire bedroom - her ceiling, her walls, her curtains,
her bedspreads, her clothes, her lamps - everything has Disney characters on it.
You've probably met someone like this.
Amy doesn't laugh and smile as much as she once did.
You see, Amy's sick.
Stage four cancer, the doctors say.
Amy's four years old.
What can you do with that?
What can anyone do with that?
Any time Amy goes to the hospital,
countless needles invade her tiny body.
Who would have thought, at some point,
someone had the thought to put Disney characters on bandaids?
So anytime Amy would get a needle mark,
they would put a bandaid with a Disney character.
That would make her cry less.
Domino deeds can't cure cancer.
Domino deeds can't cure the common cold.
But domino deeds can show people that we care
and try to make people smile.
What I do?
I went to the people that I can trust.
I went to fellow, old-law lifers,
men that I know will stand up for the right thing.
Together, we pitched in our resources.
You'd be amazed at the amount of arts and craft talent
we have behind these walls.
They donated everything they possibly could.
I donated 50 paintings myself.
A silent auction was held.
Doctors and nurses and strangers -
countless people donated money to this cause.
I'm happy to say we were able to raise enough money
to send Amy and her family to Disneyland
to create memories, smiles, and laughter.
(Applause)
Again, that is what domino deeds is about:
people working together toward one cause,
a commitment to care,
showing people that you love them.
Today, each of you will be given a domino deed gift.
Every single outside guest here,
when you leave today,
I have handpainted a painting for each of you.
I ask in return, when you leave,
please spread the word about domino deeds.
Please do something nice for someone on the outside,
and share that story with us.
If we can make a little bit of a difference from behind bars,
just think what you can do with all of your resources.
I thank you.
(Applause)