My mother told me the following story. As a preacher’s kid and growing up next to an obnoxious drunk, Mom had little use for alcohol and claimed never to have taken any. I did point out that she had had a tincture on occasion when the doctor prescribed a medicinal cure contained in the solution of an alcoholic solvent.
DUI
We were acquaintances. Not much more. I would’ve guessed him 10 years older than I. An early riser, I’d done half a day’s work and was having a coffee break. He came in, sat on the next stool and leaned against the counter. The coffee was good; the conversation the usual. Too hot, too dry, too cold, too wet. Rotten politics. Whatever.
Then suddenly, “I sure get hungry for a beer.” Knowing a little of his drinking habits, I asked, “Well, why don’t you get one?” “Can’t. Doctor says alcohol and the medicine I take don’t mix. Lethal. It’d fix me, but good.”
“Too bad; I didn’t know you were on medication.”
“Yeh, that’s life. Guess I’ll be old enough to retire in a few years. Wife and I have a few things planned for then. Sure hope I can have a beer by then.”
He smiled wryly. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I take a sip once in a while when my boy has a drink.” His boy was younger than mine, a teenager.
That was the last time I saw him. His obit was in the paper a few days later. His boy keeps getting in the paper, too. DUI. So far he has escaped the obits. I hope my boy doesn’t drink. Peer pressure being what it is these days, you never know.
If he does, he can’t say, “My mom taught me.” That will be a hollow victory. No. No victory at all.