My dad could do most anything--a master of figuring stuff out. Except one thing, and that was staying sober on Saturday in his younger and vigorous years. Well, not every Saturday, but enough of them that it pained me. Mom and Dad did have a social life of playing weekend card games with friends. Everyone had a cocktail during those parties, but it was a group activity with boundaries.
This was especially true during holidays. Many of the companies that bought parts from the company for which he worked showered gifts on him. Numerous bottles of liquor. The huge poinsettias and Easter lilies were not a problem, but the booze definitely was. It was not uncommon for Dad to come home on Christmas Eve day and head for bed at about three in the afternoon, then rise in time for our family to celebrate with my grandma, grandpa, aunt, uncle, and cousin.
These incidents grew more troublesome for me in my late teens and early twenties. And, it was then that I began a campaign to forestall what would be a soul-crushing disaster for me. For years I would implore him not to drink on my wedding day. As getting married became a likely event, I begged him to pledge to me that my special day would be free of ignominy.
At twenty three years old on April 11, 1963, the day on which my fear was focused was here. My fiancé and I had a very small wedding at the church in which I grew up. Following the marriage vows, we all went to my family home to celebrate.
My begging paid off--Dad was the perfect host and was a charming bartender. When they were ready to drive home, my new sister and brother-in law and two new nieces could not find Lillian. Turns out, my new mother-in-law was over-served, passed out in the bathroom, and asleep in the tub.
Nonetheless, Dad kept his promise.
No comments:
Post a Comment