Home
Tales
of My Father
My
father was one of those rare individuals
who could make a whole lot very plain
without saying much at all. It’s not
that he was blunt particularly, or plain-spoken;
he just had a method of not saying much
that made it quite plain what his
feelings were.
My first year in college was a textbook
example of trials at being a grownup. One
of the trials involved hard liquor. Since
I lived at home and went to school,
it was hard to get in much mischief.
Since my Dad taught, and the academic
community was small and tight-knit,
whatever trouble I got into was bound to
find its way home all too soon.
It was a fifth of Jim Beam and the annual
Forestry Club Banquet. My chance to see
what real manly drinking was all about.
Dad always went to the banquets, so I
didn’t think it was going to happen.
I asked him that morning if he was
going.
“No, son, I don’t think so, not
this time.”
HOT DANG! My friend and classmate, and
the owner ofthe fifth of Jim Beam, had
invited me earlier to go with him. As
nonchalantly as I could, I told my Dad I
would be going with Cecil. I called Cecil
and the plan was set.
The banquet was 7:30 that evening,
consisting of dinner, talks and a fair
amount of imbibing. Cecil was a sophomore
and had been to the banquet the previous
year. I didn’t know where we were
going, but I trusted he did. We left the
house about 7:00, and the bottle was
passed around as soon as we got out of
sight. We were headed for the Elks club in
Opelika, Alabama some 5 or 6 miles
distant. It (the Elks Club) wasout in the
country somewhere between Auburn and
Opelika. I knew roughly where it was. It
was almost dark, but I wasn’t
worried.
The bottle passed around several more
times on the way.
Where was the way? Suddenly (or so it
seemed) we were on a very dark secondary
road, passing the occasional dark farm
house, and clueless. The bottle passed a
few more times, considerably drained.
About 8, we stopped at a country juke
joint and asked directions. We finally
got to the Elks Club 30 minutes late
and more than a little under the weather.
We hurried in. The food was just being
served. There was my Father!
I headed straight for the restroom and
cleaned up as best I could, avoiding Dad
as much as possible. I came back out with
my face wet with sweat and cold water.
Very carefully I sat down at the banquet
table, but somehow I missed the
chair and wound up on the floor. I got up
quickly and glanced at Dad, but he was
talking to someone and didn’t seem
to have noticed. After that, I was very
careful and deliberate, both in speech
and eating, doing my dead level best to
maintain an appearance of sobriety. The
effect was somewhat spoiled when my face
hit my plate, but all in all, I felt I
had carried it off.
I don’t remember going home. I
remember waking up the next morning,
feeling as if five yards of intestine were
dragging behind me. I wandered, wretched
and hung over, out into the kitchen where
my Dad was fixing a cup of coffee.
My condition was pretty obvious.
Dad asked, “Are you feeling alright,
son? Want some coffee?”
“Nooo, Daddy, I feel terrible!”
“Good.”
That’s all he ever said about it,
but it was more than enough.
©Phil
Hodgkins 2001
Sign My Guestbook View My Guestbook
|