The Teetotaler

My Mother does not drink.  She has, in fact, never been a drinker.  I would expect that there were times in her life when she had a drink here or there, but it was, genuinely, not her thing.  Indeed, in the last several years, anytime that the subject of alcohol has come up, anytime the subject of my own alcoholism has come up, she has said, point blank, “I dodged that bullet.”  She has discussed her own family’s association with alcohol with me.  Her grandmother (“Granny”) could drink anyone under the table - many times Mama has said, “Granny could really put it away,” and she wasn’t talking about beer or wine.  Granny was Scots-Irish and she drank hard brown liquor, which she could (apparently) really put away.  My Mother’s mother, Marjorie, was a beer drinker, and she liked her beer, she really, really, liked it.  I can remember, growing up, that Grandmother always had a beer on hand.  And Mama’s father, Benny, drank, though I never saw it.  Mama has told me he would sit in his room and drink.  Later in his life my Grandfather lived in a mobile home, a trailer set up right next to the house in Reedley, where he would sit and drink.  I don’t know what the drink was, but he drank.  My Mam was predisposed to having a problem with alcohol, but she never did it - she has told me many times, “I don’t like being out of control… alcohol makes you out of control.”

Mama dealt with the drinkers in her house with a no-nonsense attitude.  I wouldn’t call Me Father an alcoholic, although I would say he has enjoyed his alcohol.  These days he is limited to a tiny glass of wine or a half a beer, both on an every-now-and-then basis, but in the past he really enjoyed his alcohol.  One weekend morning during the Switzerland years I awoke, came into the kitchen to find Mama making breakfast, and I asked “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s asleep in the car.”

“Why?” I wanted to know.

“He had too much to drink last night and couldn’t get out of the car, so I left him to sleep there.  It’s not my responsibility to get him in the house when he’s like that, so he can just sleep it off out there until he can get himself inside the house.”

Mommy wasn’t unkind.  But she did believe in accountability, which is a trait she taught me, whether it was from situations like this one, or like my own night of drunkenness…

In Bern in the early Nineteen Eighties, there was a strong military and embassy presence.  The American Marines lived in The Marine House, which was more than just there residence, it was a place where there was a bountiful game room and bar - there was a pool table, a dart board, and lots of room for socializing, and on Friday nights The Marine House was open for business.  People could come and hang and socialize and drink (for pay) and enjoy each other’s company (the pay went back into the fund to replenish the supplies).   High School Seniors at the International School of Berne who had associations at The Marine House were welcome, and since the residents of The Marine House were friends of Me Mother and Father (himself, a former Marine), I found myself at The Marine House from time to time, hanging and partying with my parents and their friends.  I usually wore white and I usually drank white wine because I thought white was elegant and sexy and I wanted to be elegant and sexy.  Also, white wine was my speed, easier to drink that liquor and less bloating than beer (which I was developing a taste for… I just liked the grape juice better).

The white outfits and the white wine may have been sexy but nothing is sexy about drinking too much while out with your parents, and having to be driven home at the end of the evening drunk, which is what happened during one of those nights out at The Marine House.  And I’ve never been the drunk person who passes out - I always got to be wide awake, alert, and fully, miserably aware of the experience, for the whole thing.  There I was, that night, lying on top of my full bed in the navy blue quiet of the night, unhappy, tortured, and with the room spinning and the bed flip-flopping.  I had never been this drunk and did not know how to react to it.  I didn’t know if there was something I could do to make it stop, so I just lay there, not learning the lesson that would take me years to learn - don’t drink like this, and don’t drink at all.  That’s when it happened for the very first time, though it would not be the last.  I threw up.  The sound of me vomiting echoed through the house as I sat bolt upright in my bed and hurled onto the wood floor.  I was so unhappy and miserable.

After a few moments, as I was lying on the bed trying to get a hold of my senses, the door to my bedroom opened, and in the shaft of light cascading in I could see the silhouette of my Mother as she leaned into the room.

“I’m not cleaning that up.  You are.”

And the door closed behind her, once more.

Juana has been surrounded, her whole life, by people who drink, often to excess.  She decided early on that it wasn’t for her, and she stood by that decision for the rest of her life.  She would not participate in the alcohol thing, in any way.   And those of us who did drink… we were on our own.