Dearest Rachel –
I think you knew this without my having to tell you; on my family’s side (and setting my uncle and his family aside, since he and they were either in Austin or Buffalo throughout his career as an academician, and therefor having no influence on me), I was the one member of my family out of three generations with the least objection to alcohol.
You’ll remember that one night off campus at Bob Sweeney’s place where we (well, maybe mostly I; I don’t recall how much you had of it) proved the truth of ‘in vino veritas’ over a bottle of champagne. I don’t recall what, exactly, we were celebrating, even, although I’m pretty sure it was after I’d confessed to you, and you’d accepted that confession; I was just visiting the campus at the time to see you. I can’t remember what was said (more due to the passage of time than inebriation), but it must have been meaningful, because it was the night that sealed his position among my groomsmen, for having provided the venue for us to get together like that. So yeah, in its place, I don’t have an issue with it, unlike my folks, and especially my dad.
To be fair, he had a grandfather who he described as “a lush,” and whose wife he characterized as a cruel pathological liar (thereby explaining why he would crawl into a bottle to hide from her), so I understand his antipathy towards the stuff. One of my roommates at university (the year before you arrived on the scene) had a similar distaste for the stuff for such a reason, although his was more of a genetic predisposition toward alcoholism, and had no desire to go down that road. He wasn’t preachy about it (not that he would have needed to be around me; you know how little I drink), and likewise, his social circle was perfectly accepting of his stance.
Thus far – and again, you already know this – I don’t seem to have that genetic inclination. I can take or leave the stuff – mostly leave it – although I like a good cocktail like a grasshopper now and again (although I’m told that’s “an old man’s drink,” oddly enough, despite it seeming to me like an adult version of a Shamrock Shake. I can’t say that I like the idea of my taste in beverages confirming my advancing age). What generally give me pause about drinking has to do with the calories involved; when two shots of Bailey’s supposedly has the caloric impact of a large (regular, non-alcoholic) milkshake, it can get you to swear off the stuff for a long time. I have enough of a gut that adding to it this way isn’t worth it.
But there are times when thing get dark, and one is supposedly “driven to drink,” much like Dad’s grandfather. It’s ironic that, in reading the scripture mean as your tribute, our niece began with the passage from King’s Lemuel mother having nothing to do with the good wife, but everything to do with alcohol:
Give ·beer [T strong drink; v. 4] to people who are ·dying [perishing]
Proverbs 31:6-7, Expanded Bible
and wine to those ·who are sad [who have bitter hearts].
Let them drink and forget their ·need [poverty]
and remember their ·misery [or hard work] no more [Eccl. 2:24–26; 3:12–14, 22; 5:18–20; 8:15; 9:7–10].
Of course, she’s saying that drink is not so much for rulers and leaders like himself, but for those who have nothing they can control, nothing to hope for; in the midst of their spree, the pains and cares of their existence can be set aside for a while (whereas by contrast, folks like Lemuel need a clear head to keep things running). Now, for all that I keep saying that I drink more than anyone else in my immediate family (which is to say, more than nothing), I’m not sure I agree with even that; once the morning arrives, the poor drinker still has all that awfulness in his life, plus a nasty headache from a hangover, and minus a considerable amount from his wallet. It hasn’t done him all that much good, either, apart from delaying what might be the inevitable.
I suppose, though, that’s the point of the “eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we will die” ethos. If there isn’t a tomorrow, then by golly, one might as well indulge as much as one wants; there won’t be a hangover the next morning if there isn’t a next morning for someone to begin with. Which, I suppose, is why Lemuel’s mother refers to “the dying” as those rightfully due their drink.
The thing is, I’m not seeing any end of days just yet. There are moments when it feels like the end is near, but that’s all they are; moments. Once you get past them, life continues to stretch out, as far as the eye can see. And in order to walk that path, one needs clear eyes and a clear head, not double vision and a hangover.
Still, the occasional refreshing beverage would not be amiss, now and then. I’ll raise one to you at some point, honey.
