Alcohol

I never was the best of students, but I was a particularly negligent pupil in the school of libation education.  My time studying beer was limited to three lessons, the last two only because I was convinced I missed something the first time around.  With hard liquor, I was 45 before I heard about the Three Wise Men, and martinis, tempting because of their coldness, were the drinks men had at my parents’ parties that led to less than noble behavior.  That left one small field, the one referred to in the 70s (sorry) as Girlie Drinks.  Mixed the right way, the imbiber didn’t even know alcohol was involved, until they attempted to do something complex like, say, recite the alphabet.

That was the life experience I took with me one Monday night, to meet a fellow student teacher, so we could catch up and compare notes on the realities of our profession.  I started the night with a Kahlua and cream, the booze-laced cousin of iced coffee.  Following that, I turned to a favorite, the Grasshopper, ever mindful of a lovely summer pie my mother made, with the addition of a barely noticeable kick.  That left my throat dry, and I knew just the trick to cure that, so I ended the evening with a margarita—ya gotta love that limeade.

A wonderful evening of catching up and pretending to be grown ended a little less than three hours after it began.  I was lucid the entire 25-minute drive home.  Unlocking my door was no problem, and I recall my head hitting the pillow and sleeping like a baby—a good thing, since this was a school night.

Tuesday morning came, and both my eyes popped open at the same time.  Cognizant of the previous night’s escapades, I lay perfectly still in bed, waiting to see what would happen.  Nothing did.

OK, I thought, let’s sit on the edge of the bed for a while.  Nothing.

Then, two thoughts did come.  The first one was, wow, nothing happened.

And the second one was Wow.  Nothing Happened.

And that was the end of my drinking career, except for a glass or two of sparkling wine when I graduated.  Understanding, and fully respecting, the strategy many of my peers pursued—find out what your limit is, and always do less than that—I never pursued it.  The sweetness and mintiness of the drinks I knew, along with the best part of champagne, could be found in the right ice cream, followed by a soda chaser, options that were less risky, and generally less expensive.

It turns out I was a bit of a trend setter.  Bars all over the country were getting sued by patrons who decided to blame their drinking excesses on them, so owners responded with Designated Driver programs, where the one member of a party who didn’t drink got unlimited sodas and juices for free.  This was a bonus for a fledgling teacher who didn’t mind visiting bars—I mean, bar food can be pretty great, and catching up with friends often best occurs at happy hour.

Many New Year’s Eves have come and gone since then, and they find me with chilled soda or Welch’s Sparkling Red grape juice.  I once wrote a sparkling cider company, suggesting they make a New Year’s pitch with the slogan “It’s not about the booze—it’s about the bubbles.”  I never heard back, but every dawn has been clear, as has been my recollection of the night before. 

It’s not for everyone, but it works for me.

Auld

I know German
And some of its related languages
Most Latin suffixes
Understand the Scots
When they speak.

All that only helps some
And doesn’t interfere
When my heart tells me
It means
The days that used to be.

Never brought to mind?
If they get in your way, yup.
If they offer a lesson?
Help today make sense?
They aren’t a memory then
But a present thought.

Don’t worry about sentimentality
If it’s part of your here
And now.

Consider it a gateway
To infinity.

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