Booze and a Boy from Kentucky

This is in tribute to one of my favorite authors, Walker Percy.  Here’s an excerpt from his essay, “Bourbon”, written in 1975 and included in his book, Signposts in a Strange Land: 

Not only should connoisseurs of Bourbon not read this article, neither should persons preoccupied with the perils of alcoholism, cirrhosis, esophageal hemorrhage, cancer of the palate, and so forth—all real enough dangers. I, too, deplore these afflictions. But, as between these evils and the aesthetic of Bourbon drinking, that is, the use of Bourbon to warm the heart, to reduce the anomie of the late twentieth century, to cut the cold phlegm of Wednesday afternoons, I choose the aesthetic. (page 103)

Part One: Wondering About the Rules

Since I was a little boy, I have wondered about booze, a fairly natural thing I think, given that I grew up in Kentucky.

This is how I was introduced to social drinking. When Uncle Clay and Aunt Ethyl came to “sit a spell” and talk on a Sunday afternoon, my father would sometimes go to the kitchen. I would hear a metal cabinet open and know that he was slipping a half pint from the shelf, unscrewing the cap, and taking a big swig. We only had three rooms in this house, so it was pretty hard to hide what was going on. He did not acknowledge his action. He did not offer a drink to anyone else. Unless Aunt Ethyl (who back in the day was known to drink quite a bit, and also had an extreme stutter when drunk, which, behind her back was cause for lots of stories from my mother, but who was now an extreme, evangelical teetotaler) was outside the house away from the action; then, my daddy might offer Uncle Clay a swig, and pass the half pint bottle. Then put it back in the cabinet.

My parents were Primitive Baptists. My home town was filled with Baptists and evangelicals, none of whom had positive feelings about alcohol consumption. Shortly before I was baptized into the Methodist Church (at about age 7), members were required to sign oaths not to drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes. Although the rules had changed by the time I became a member, I was never present at any church function at which alcohol in any form was served to the adult members of the church. There was lots of cigarette smoking, but it was Kentucky and that’s another story.

The Kentucky county in which I grew up was “local option”, meaning that periodically the issue of alcohol sales came up for a vote of county residents. That did not mean there were no alcohol sales in the county, however. I don’t remember much moonshine being made and sold, although I’m sure it was there. “Bootleg” (booze bought in “wet” counties, brought into my county illegally, and sold for a premium price) was much more common.

“Baptists, bootleggers, and the police are all in it together to keep this county dry,” my daddy would opine.

On election days in this dry county, the local taxi would transport people to and from the polls. It was not uncommon for there to be a half pint included in the free ride.

I remember going with my daddy or with my daddy and uncle to bootleggers’ homes, usually on Saturday or Sunday mornings, to buy bootleg beer and whiskey. I would wait in the car, sometimes for a long time.

Wondering time for me. I still wonder:

·       Why is it that we in the South particularly were/are so preoccupied with drinking?

·       Why did my people view drinking as sinful and against the wishes of God, when my Bible contains positive stories about Jesus and wine?

·       Why did my people sneak a snort rather than engage in cocktail parties?

·       Why did wine become grape juice in the practice of communion in my church?

There is probably a vast body of literature in theological schools devoted to this topic that should join the literature we all know and love.

I hope.

Part Two: Wondering over Drinks

I did not take a drink until my 21^st birthday. I had no moral issues with alcohol. I just did not find it appealing. Plus I was a “good boy” who did not want to break laws. Plus I had plans—there was a big old world out there that I wanted to see and did not want anything to interfere with those plans.

On my 21^st birthday, the beginning of my senior year in college, I drank my first beer, sitting in the Country Club in Bowling Green, Kentucky. It tasted awful. The second one tasted better, especially when combined with a hamburger.

When I graduated from college, I moved to Athens, Georgia. At that time, the only place where one could buy “hard” liquor was in black night clubs after midnight. Beer and wine were sold in restaurants, “spirits” were not.

This was 1966 and I, as a young white man, was still tolerated in black establishments (not the case the next year when black folks started to develop a black consciousness), so I found myself drinking white liquid from unlabeled bottles many nights after midnight. I liked it.

As I have aged, I wonder about the notion, particularly in the South, that alcohol consumption is somehow immoral, frowned upon by God, and evil.  At the same time, moonshine makers have become legendary folk heroes. And, also at the same time, countless novels, plays, and short stories, involving hot toddies, mint julips, and other forms of alcohol, usually Bourbon based, have been placed in the highest ranks of artistic literature.

I do have an affection for Bourbon. My ability to drink Manhattans and Bourbon on the rocks has declined substantially, however, and I’m not sure I could drink the white stuff I once drank in the bars of Athens, Georgia. Reflux issues, among other afflictions brought on by age (and good sense, or is that my Methodist background talking?).

Thank you Walker Percy for your body of literature, including your treatise on Bourbon.

Anomie still exists in the 21^st Century. Hearts still need to be warmed. And there is still “cold phlegm” on Wednesday afternoons, needing to be cut. 

As I write this, Wednesday afternoon is at its mid-point.