Happy Hour 101

[Mom may object to some of the content in this post, but I will point out that the questionable events occurred way more than 7 years ago.]

After Dad's memorial service, Mom invited all family and friends to her house for dessert and coffee. I made the rounds, chatting with people that I haven't seen or spoken with in years. I met with Great Aunt Sylvia and we tried to place when we'd last seen each other. I couldn't place the date, but she remembered, quite clearly, that it was more than 20 years earlier at Jenny and Gary's wedding. And it all became clear to me, too, why I couldn't remember. "You got very drunk. You seemed to be having a really good time!" she said with enthusiasm. With that, all the shame and guilty pleasure of a 16-year-old washed over me. Her depiction of me being "very drunk" wasn't at all an overstatement. I do remember thinking, "I can't believe the bartender keeps serving me champagne." And rest of the evening quickly became a blurry slideshow. I awoke the next morning, with my first-ever hangover after my first-ever drinking binge. I had to do the walk of shame from my bedroom through the kitchen—where Mom and Dad were washing dishes—to my bathroom on the other side of the house. I was doing my best to tiptoe behind them. Dad, without turning, said "Tim?"

"Yes," I croaked.

Mom asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Not so good."

"Good," said Dad. "Then maybe you've learned something."

That was it. Nothing more was said of the subject, although I did get a few raised eyebrows and knowing looks from them for the next few weeks. Julie and I spent the rest of the morning on a long pilgrimage to the store for bagels and other breakfast items. When I told her of my early-morning exchange with the Folks, she said, "That's all they said? Wow. You got off easy." Lessons learned: don't drink in front of the folks, and too much champagne is a bad thing.

There was an unwritten code in our family that allowed us kids, at or around age 18, to partake in adult beverages...within reason and with proper parental invitation. At age 16, I pushed my luck by ignoring the age, reason, and invitation requirements. But around the time of my high school graduation, Dad asked if I'd like a glass of wine with dinner. "Um, okay..." I said, waiting for the punchline. Lunch at the shop was occasionally had at a local dive bar, complete with pitchers of beer. Dad started getting an additional glass for me. While pouring, he'd say, "If you get caught by the bartender, it's your own fault." Certainly acceptable terms to me.

When Peter and Betsy got married, and as with many Ruszel weddings, the reception continued into the night at our house. Having learned my lesson from the previous wedding reception, and having been properly exposed to the unwritten code, I kept to moderate consumption. As the evening wore on and guests trickled away, Dad and I found ourselves sitting in the living room together. We'd finished our beers and Dad made the suggestion that we search for replacements. Dad huddled close to me and gave instructions, "Mom's cleaning up in the kitchen, so we shouldn't go there. I'll sneak out and check the coolers in the backyard, you see if there's anything left in the garage coolers." We headed off on our patrols and met up in the dining room a few minutes later, empty handed. Dad gave new instructions, "I'll check in the fridge, you see if there's anything in the pantry."

Dad was on his knees, digging through the refrigerator. Mom asked him, "What are you looking for?"

"Nothing in particular."

A moment later he turned and held a 20-ounce bottle of Japanese beer that had been given to him from our neighbor, Don. Grinning from ear to ear he called out to me, "Hey Tim! Look what I found!" His smile soon faded as Mom took the bottle from his hand and placed it back in the refrigerator.

"I think you boys have had enough for tonight."

With that, our quest for the last beer came to an abrupt end. There was no protest, no argument from us. We knew we were beaten and had to just resign ourselves for the evening. Dad put his arm around me, "We tried. I guess we better just call it a night, huh?" With that a new lesson was learned: be careful around Mom.

I've come to realize that the real lessons learned are: 1) it's important to drink in moderation; 2) don't flaunt privilege; and (the most important) 3) it's much more enjoyable to drink in the companionship of others you know and love. Sometimes we need to push our limits to learn those lessons the hard way, and blessings to Aunt Sylvia for fondly remembering my comeuppance.