drinking

Friday Firesmith – 300

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Two years ago, I was still removing storm debris from my yard, and I will be doing it next year, too. I started working right after lunch, and took a six pack with me. The heat was enough to make me sweat as I worked, and used the chainsaw, and then started drinking once I was done with the Many Toothed Death Machine.

I’ve seen men who have used chainsaws all their lives make mistakes that cost them blood, skin, clothes, and in one case, part of a shin. I’ve never been drunk enough to pick up a chainsaw while I was drinking. Or jump off a dock and cannon ball an eleven-foot-long alligator.

The six pack was gone in due order, the third debris pile grew larger and larger, and after the sixth beer, I lay in my garden wagon, yes, it’s pretty big, and took a nap in the woods. The sun was shining brightly, and wind was blowing gently, and I dozed off, my legs dangling out of the back of the garden wagon.

I awoke with the sun shifted hard to the west, my back hurting, and one of my feet asleep. The beer was gone, and I had to pee. But I remember at that moment wondering why I drank the way I did. I brushed the question off and kept working.

The issue danced around in my head. I was only drinking a six pack a week, one day dedicated to self-anesthetizing, and that was all. But it was costing me money, and it was costing me the down time that I couldn’t write, or drive, or get on social media. Now, social media isn’t necessary, or particularly useful most of the time, but like chainsaws, social media is not something you should do while drinking.

A woman I knew many years ago contacted me and wanted to get together again, but the next day she sent me a message saying she had been drunk and didn’t want to mess up her marriage. I think it was already messed up, but was happy to see her pull out of a dive.

Drinking, like chainsaws, can precipitate disasters both large and small. I have to use a chainsaw, and an axe, and a couple of other tools in debris removal. I made sure what I was doing that was truly dangerous was done before the first bottle was open. Staggered a bit, feeling no pain, I put my tools away as I ought to, cleaned the sawdust and dirt off the saw, sharpened the axe, and took a long hot shower. Day done.

But I realized I was working around the alcohol. I was scheduling around it. I was planning what I did around six bottles of 9.5% beer when I might have gotten in another hour or so.

This seems small, a tiny thing, unlike people who wreck cars and sleep with people they know better than to sleep with, for whatever reason that turns out to be a bad thing. At the same time, at this stage of my life, time is running ever faster.

So Sunday with be my 300th day of no drinking.

Take Care,

Mike

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Friday Firesmith – Dry

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Stephen King says he doesn’t remember writing “Cujo.” It’s a forgettable tale, with the antagonist being a Saint Bernard dog who is bitten by a bat that has rabies. Animals with rabies aren’t usually active enough to trap people in cars and that sort of thing, and the movie was worse than the book.

King freely admits he was drunk most of the time he wrote “Cujo.”

Writers and alcohol. I swear.

Once upon a time, I had enough alcohol in my system to be legally dead. But the Army bred substance abuse and sometimes I wonder if it was intentional.

I was down to a six pack a week, but I was drinking 9.5% IPAs. And I would drink the six pack all in one day, usually in a few hours. The next day I would check social media and my phone to make certain I didn’t day or write anything that would piss anyone off. I never did, of course, but the thing that bothered me is I did write things I didn’t remember sometimes.

None of this had anything to do with a rabid Saint Bernard.

The day after my birthday, I took an empty six pack to the trash can, tossed it in, and stopped drinking. That was the 10th of November. The 10th of December made an entire month.

I started drinking at age 13. By high school I had a serious problem. I would pass out in class or out in the grassy area where we ate lunch, or in my car. The 1970s were a time where hard drinking was a rite of passage, and even though many teachers thought my liquid state was a terrible thing, no one said anything to me about it. Ever.

Part of the reason was they were afraid to fail me out of a grade in school because that meant I would return the next year. I think their plan was to just get me to graduation, and then I would no longer be their problem. The Army put up with drinking by sending soldiers to AA. AA kicked me out because I steadfastly refused to admit I had a problem.

I evolved from drinking every day to drinking only once a week, over the course of the years. But I was still getting so hammered I couldn’t write and sometimes forgot what I had done the night before.

I’ve flirted with this for a while. There isn’t a real reason to drink except I always have, and for most of my life, hard drinking was a sign of manhood and strength.

The younger crowd has it right again. Those people born after Y2K do not feel compelled to pick up a self-destructive habit.

And it’s time for me to step away from a habit that has never really proved anything to anyone, except I am a product of my culture. I’ve never felt like I was that kind of person. Now, finally, maybe, I am not.

Take Care,

Mike

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A tale of the Baptist Cowboy

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A cowboy, who just moved to Wyoming from Texas , walks into a bar and orders three mugs of Coors.

He sits in the back of the room, drinking a sip out of each one in turn.

When he finishes them, he comes back to the bar and orders three more.

The bartender approaches and tells the

cowboy, “You know, a mug goes flat after I draw it. It would taste better if you bought one at a time.”

The cowboy replies, “Well, you see, I have two brothers. One is an Airborne Ranger, the other is a Navy Seal, both serving overseas somewhere.

When we all left our home in Texas , we promised that we’d drink this way to remember the days when we drank together.

So I’m drinking one beer for each of my brothers and one for myself.”

The bartender admits that this is a nice custom, and leaves it there.

The cowboy becomes a regular in the bar, and always drinks the same way.

He orders three mugs and drinks them in turn.

One day, he comes in and only orders two mugs.

All the regulars take notice and fall silent.

When he comes back to the bar for the second round, the bartender says, “I don’t want to intrude on your grief, but I wanted to offer my condolences on your loss.” The cowboy looks quite puzzled for a moment, then a light dawns in his eyes and he laughs.

“Oh, no, everybody’s just fine,” he explains, “It’s just that my wife and I joined the Baptist Church and I had to quit drinking.

Hasn’t affected my brothers though….”

Via

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