Fireworks and Liquor

My dad tells a story about the time when I was a little boy, maybe two years old, my great-grandfather decided to give me a taste of his whiskey. Now, before you get all bent out of shape, remember, it was the early sixties and it wasn’t a crime to give a baby whiskey. That does sound bad, huh? But it was a time when the Flintstones and the Rubbles smoked Winston’s behind Fred and Wilma’s garage. A time when Darren on Bewitched came home every night to a pitcher of martinis whipped up by Samantha. And, back then, the way your house became child-proof was that someone would give you a paper clip and tell you to stick it into the electrical socket. After that, your house was child-proof. So a teaspoon of whiskey wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

My great grandfather lived in an old, one-story house oh, about a half-mile or so from us. It wasn’t in the city, but it wasn’t in the country either. It was in the township. This was Port Huron, Michigan, though, so there really wasn’t much of a difference. Maybe paved roads. His name was Beneditto, but his friends called him Ben and the rest of us called him Grandpa. He was born in 1874 in a little town in Italy named Attina and lived to be 103 years old. I wish I had a picture of him to show you, because you could just see the mischief in his eyes. Grandpa was a wiry guy, probably about five and a half feet tall and a hundred and thirty pounds. He was nearly bald and sported a broom-style white moustache and when he smiled, it was a gentle, relaxed smile.

Grandpa’s house had a distinct smell, like old cigar smoke and fried spaghetti. Well-worn stairs and old furniture. It smelled like Grandpa and whiskey. Whiskey. He always had an open bottle of Seagram’s 7 handy and some in a glass. I never saw him open a bottle, never saw him empty one. He never had to buy one either, because he’d get a year’s supply every Christmas. I also never saw Grandpa drunk. I heard stories, but never witnessed it myself. I get the feeling he wasn’t completely sober very often, though.

Okay, I’ll tell you more about Grandpa and his house down the road, but back to the whiskey story. Like I was saying, Grandpa figured, according to my dad, that if he gave me a taste of whiskey when I was just a baby I would be repulsed and never have the urge to drink again.  After all, why would I want to be as content as he was?!  So, Grandpa poured a little of his Seagram’s 7 into a teaspoon and put it in front of my face. I reached out and pulled the spoon to my mouth and sipped some. My dad said my face scrunched up and both he and Grandpa laughed. I smacked my mouth a bit from the bitter taste, then, after a few moments, reached out towards Grandpa and said, “Wickey”. I had acquired a new taste. My dad said that he and my Grandpa stopped laughing, but I’d be willing to bet Grandpa was at least smirking. He’d found a kindred spirit.

When I was a freshman in college, my drink of choice was Seagram’s 7 & 7, but that’s another story. Several, actually. Until then, best wishes to you.

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Steve Mancini is co-author of the best selling satirical novel “Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend“