I grew up believing that alcohol-consumption was an automatic part of adulthood … like driving and voting.
The only adults I knew who didn’t drink were alcoholics clinging to tenuous seats “on the wagon.”
As teenagers we considered the first alcoholic buzz a rite of passage. Mine came at age 15 with two buddies and a bottle of blackberry brandy in a woodlot near our Detroit neighborhood. As sick as I was the next morning, I felt like I had accomplished something ... an initiation.
For most of my life, society seemed to encourage drinking, or at least wink its eye. It was a social thing, a way to lift the spirits and relax. It was cool. The experts told us that moderate drinking was benign; some even said an occasional drink was good for us.
Suddenly, we’re told that we should take the phrase “pick your poison” literally - that the toast “to your health” is purely ironic.
Well, my poison happens to be bourbon - Woodford or Maker’s Mark - and although I generally ignore the latest health-fad trends, I must admit that the latest news about alcohol is curtailing my consumption.
On the other hand, I’m pretty sure my life will always included an occasional drop of poison.
