Why I No Longer Drink

by Nancy Grossman-Samuel

     Does Whiskey go bad?

     I recently cleaned out a cabinet and noticed I have about ½ a Costco sized bottle of Early Times. I bought it the early 90s. I know that because it’s resided with me in at least three different residences, and I've been in South Orange County since about 1993. I bought it not because I drink, I rarely drink, and when I do it's a little wine, or if I'm feeling feisty, Kahlua, but I purchased the whisky because a friend extolled the virtues of a hot toddy as a soothing and healing flu remedy.

     Though I didn't need it at the time, the conversation came back to me when I was in Price Club (I told you it was a long time ago), and I thought, heck, why not get some? I'm sure it must have been on sale!

Though I rarely got or get sick, when I do, I am willing to try just about anything to get well quickly. I remember getting a really bad flu, and saw, while looking for soup, the bottle of whisky. I made hot tea with lemon and honey and a dash, well, maybe more than a dash of Whiskey. I think I had several of these drinks which actually tasted pretty good, and it actually worked. Knocked me out so I got the sleep I needed, and when I woke up, I felt human again.
     I think the reason the whiskey is still in my cabinet is two-fold. First, a vicarious learning. While visiting the east coast in 1969, the summer before my senior year in high school, I got to go to Woodstock. We even had tickets though by the time we got there the fences were down. After a day and a half I came back to my grandmother's house late at night to find the house smelling like vomit, and my sister’s best friend in a tizzy because my sister was out of her mind drunk. I didn't understand why my parents or grandparents weren't up. It was a horrible mess.

     I guess I don't learn that well vicariously and so the other was a more personal lesson. My college boyfriend was going to pick me up for a party on St. Patrick's day in 1972. I knew he'd start drinking early in the day because he loved to drink and he was Irish.

     Though underage, a friend of mine agreed to purchase for me a small bottle of rum and some cola. I mixed myself some drinks, sat on the stone bench in front of the sorority house, got smashed, rowdy and eventually, when Oaks was over an hour late - maudlin.

     Finally, two of my sorority sisters decided it was time to get the laughing/crying/singing spectacle out of the public eye. With one sister under each of my arms, and tears running down my cheeks, I lauded and extolled their virtues as caring, loving, RELIABLE friends.

     They deposited me in my room with a box of crackers. I was told to eat them. I said I wanted to go downstairs to dinner, but they said I was not allowed to in my condition. They would bring me something later. Two rejections in one night. So I ate some crackers with tears running down my face until I looked up startled by the realization that the room was spinning. I barely made it to the bathroom where I spent the next few hours hugging and spewing into the porcelain god.

     Exhausted, I finally lay face down on the cool bathroom tile, but not long after I was again escorted to my bedroom.

     The next thing I remembered was Oaks' low, loud, gravely voice calling out my name.

     He had somehow managed to get upstairs into the bedroom area and was pulling me out of bed. Against my better judgment I got dressed as he got ushered back downstairs grinning and flashing his smiling Irish eyes at my less than stern sorority sisters.

     We stumbled out the back door and through the bushes separating our houses, not sure who was holding up whom.

     After about 30 minutes of dry heaving in the back yard, and not having a clue where Oaks had gone, I crawled back through the bushes, and up to my room where I slept until I awakened with my head pounding and a promise, which I have kept, to never do that again.