September 1, 1997

Voting Dry, Drinking Wet

In the early years of America, children discovered alcohol at home. Hard cider, near beer, corn squezzings, and fruit brandies were all part of the table since everyone drank and no one thought much about it until the temperance movement was born. The busy bodies are never happy unless they can figure out how to take away whatever it is that makes you happy so that everyone can be miserable together. In their equation, alcohol makes people happy, so it must be bad.

Most of the country recovered from this crazy logic soon after the repeal of prohibition but, in the rural South where they love nothing better than a Lost Cause, it became part of the theology. There are still towns where not even a beer can be bought and forget about drinking on Sunday in all but the largest cities.

I took my first drink while sitting on the back of a tractor in the hot July sun. It was a Miller High Life, the Champaign of Bottled Beers, recently liberated from the melted ice water in the Igloo cooler that was rammed up against the cab in the back of the pickup truck -- one of the remnants the July 4th hangover that was hanging on Farmer Mathis's face when he picked me up that morning at 6 o'clock while his daughters tut-tuted in the front seat. It tasted, well, like beer. I had never tasted beer so I had nothing to compare it.

I sipped that bottle very tentatively. Every Sunday of my life I had been told that beer made you drunk and, once besotted, the gates of hell would open to admit you.

The Methodist Youth Fellowship had made a chicken wire cross at the church and filled it symbols of every sin teenage minds knew of -- cigarettes, dancing, sex, cards, and empty bottles of alcohol. There had been a great debate over what to place in the cross for sex because we had the choice of the cover of a Playboy magazine (the rest of it safely stowed at someone's house) and some prophylactics. The cover was chosen because our advisor didn't want to have to explain where the rubbers came from.

One Youth Sunday, I was part of a team of Youth Ushers. Our big job was to take in the collection plates, gather in the money, and then take it up to the preacher while the congregation sang the "Glory Be". One of our number cached a liquor bottle from the chicken wire cross inside his suit coat. After we handed over our plates of money to the Pastor, the bottle magically appeared on the altar rail. He saw it just before we parted to leave. Never saw a preacher move so fast. That bottle was in his jacket before even the choir noticed it.

I didn't really like the taste of that beer.

The bottle had been thrust into my hands when my friends at the tobacco drying barn discovered that I had never had a beer. They sat and marveled at me like scientists watching a white mouse.

"Don't drink it too fast!", one warned, "it will go straight to your head."

I began testing one sense against the other, not knowing what I was waiting for but certain something would be there -- if it wasn't already there and I didn't know it. What I did know was that beer tasted better after the first sip, but it was still different from anything else I had ever had.

Just like they warned in church, one sip and I was on the road to hell. From that one drink came many fun filled evenings of which I can remember very few. I have some hazy memories of campfires, illicit beers bought from the back of honky-tonks, and a bunch of fraternity dances. Thankfully, the mists of time have also covered over most of the memories of morning afters -- although there is still that three day hangover that followed a bout with tequila, cards, and some silly drinking game.

It is O.K. to drink like a fish in the south and go to church on Sunday as long as you don't own up to it. My first marriage was to a Southern Baptist and at the wedding reception we only had soft drinks - until. The entire party knew the identities of each die-hard teetotaler in attendance and when the last one hit the door a shout went up for refreshment. A closet was opened and case after case of whisky was produced. I understand that several tuxedos were ruined in the drunken party that lasted to the wee hours, but I wasn't a witness as my bride and I had already ducked out to start our honeymoon.

If I had stayed true to Southern form, I would have sobered up and then made my living recounting my life as a hellion. The more entertaining church services are those revivals where someone tells the story of their lives in the thrall of alcohol and how the Lord has forgiven them. Me, I don't think that reminding HIM is that good of an idea and besides, these days I am an Episcopalian.

Back at the tobacco patch, I reached the bottom of that bottle and started to feel, hey, pretty good. So good that I wanted to sit down and not do anymore work. There was this stale taste in my mouth and I wanted another one. The scientists in attendance allowed that I had had enough for one day and promised to take me off to the woods that weekend and let me drink all I could.

But, I'm saving that story for my next sermon. . .

© Copyright 1997 Merrill Guice, All Rights Reserved