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 |   Tales from real life |
| Well, if they're not true, they oughta be! |
| I was just sixteen when my older sister, Linda, got married. She and Greg Connor had a cozy wedding at the Missionary Alliance church in Ronan, Montana. It was a nice ceremony, and I served as usher and chauffeur for the happy couple. Afterward, I drove them to the Round Butte Woman’s Club for the reception party. The clubhouse was a small place out in the country, only a mile and a quarter from my parents’ house. I felt so important and grown up that I didn’t even sneak a peek at the rear-view mirror. Greg’s family was from Minnesota, and they were pretty strait-laced. His younger siblings were half expecting to arrive by dusty stagecoach with wild Indians in hot pursuit. The real Montana was a bit tame and disappointing for them, at least until the reception party got up to full speed. There were two punch bowls, one for kids and maiden aunts, and another that was spiked for the adults. Mom kept things in check for a while, but the adult’s bowl got ‘punched up’ until it was pretty strong. There was music from a portable record player and the Fisher side of the crowd got louder and more rambunctious as the night wore on. There may even have been dancing. Greg and Linda’s friends joined in, and the Connor family found themselves in a very small sober minority. I’d had an occasional sip of beer while growing up on the ranch, and as a kid, I didn’t like the taste. I’d never even been close to drunk. But at sixteen, I was ready to show off my maturity and party hearty. The punch was a mixture of juice, soda, and rum with chunks of fruit blended in. It tasted a lot better than beer and went down easily. I snuck a few glasses from the adult bowl and already felt a bit tipsy by the time Dad broke out the hard stuff. He was happily celebrating his daughter’s wedding, and already pretty drunk, when he surprised me by declaring that I was, “by God, old enough to drink like a man.” I wasn’t about to argue, so I choked down some Black Velvet whiskey mixed with Squirt soda. It didn’t taste all that great, so I gulped it quickly. That was a mistake because Dad wouldn’t allow my glass to stay empty. Things got blurry in a hurry. The next thing I remember is getting in the car to go home. It was only a quarter mile up a slight hill, a left turn onto a mile of gravel road, and then another left into our driveway. Dad insisted that he was perfectly okay to drive, exclaiming over and over, “I can drive right around the corner!” Every time he said it, I echoed him, and we laughed like a couple of loons. I guess the idea of driving ‘right’ around a left-hand turn was hilarious. At least for a couple of drunks. My sister Marcia was in the back seat. She says it was a scary ride as we wobbled from one side of the road to the other. Dad made a big, sweeping arc and took that first corner at about 10 mph. It might have been scarier at a higher speed, but at least the slow pace made Marcia’s terror last longer. Dad proved that he could navigate ‘right around the corner’ but he probably drove an extra quarter mile with all the weaving back and forth. We eventually got home without accident, followed by uncle Roy and my cousin Joe. The whiskey was long gone, but Dad found a bottle of vodka. We continued the party for a little while without any ice or mixer. We swilled warm vodka from a water glass. The memory still makes my stomach churn. Dad soon decided to take a nap, “just for a few minutes.” Uncle Roy tried to keep the party going, and periodically sent Marcia to wake Dad. She didn’t have any success, and at some point, I passed out too. I don’t remember undressing, but the missing buttons on my shirt the next morning were mute evidence of my state of mind. Roy and Joe stayed on until the vodka ran out. Milk cows must be milked, so Dad had to get up the next morning. He also rousted me out to do my chores. A hangover wasn’t unusual for him, but it was a new experience for me. I was fairly certain that I was going to die. And it would have been a blessed relief if I had. I woke covered in my own vomit, congealed but still sticky. The sour stench of rejected fruit punch and vodka was nauseating. As were the half-digested fruit chunks. Words can’t describe that sick, disgusting feeling. Or the debilitating pain that pounded between my temples and twisted my gut into knots. I dry heaved several times as I shuffled slowly through the morning routine, unable to even stand up straight. I was so sick that I didn’t drink again for a full year. I’d like to say I learned a lesson, that I turned my back on demon rum, but that’s not how life works. By the next summer I was cruising with friends, drinking beer and attending keggers in the woods. But I still don’t care for the taste of Vodka. |
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