The Whiskey Run

I was reading a blog earlier today about a Grandmother who would use whiskey in her cough medicines, but she would never allow her daughters to buy the whiskey. That job fell upon the shoulders of the men in the family. This brought about memories of an earlier experience with my own mother and me.

As my parents aged, my mother found herself in the position of being the sole care-giver of my father who had since become bedridden and was suffering from pain that we had no way of knowing whether was real or contrived in an effort to keep my mother by his side every minute of every day.

The doctor really wasn't much help as to what was the cause of his pain, but he had a remedy for it, or at least a suggestion for us to try. We were to get a bottle of whiskey and Mother was to give him a teaspoon a day, or maybe several times a day, to calm him.

I suspect the doctor didn't recommend a larger dose because he knew we came from a family that was teetotallers, and he guessed she would never go along with anything stronger. But desperate times call for desperate measures as the old saying goes, and we found ourselves desperate after a while, and I reminded Mama of the solution to our problem.

There was a solution to the one problem, but we had an even bigger problem lurking. Where would we get our booze? We lived in a town that was dry at that time and our only experience with real-live bootleggers had dwindled over the years. (No, we didn't use them at anytime, but the boot-legging family name was well-known throughout the community. I guess by the time we could have used them they had gone underground or died. I don't think they ever went to jail. Just had their business whacked up by the feds. They would just take a short vacation and then they would re-established.)

Where would we find our whiskey? The doctor hadn't given any addresses so we were on our own for creative ways. Of course, my sister would never allow her name or face to be a part of our endeavor, so Mama and I were in this thing alone.

Every trip down to see my parents, I would pass a little hole-in-the-wall building which, based on the muddy tire tracks surrounding the building, was obviously pretty popular with some of the residents, and I suspect people from the surrounding "dry" counties more during the night time than daylight hours. This had to be the place we could find our "gold". I suggested she and I make a trip by that little business and find that whiskey we needed.

She was desperate and since she was couped up in the house most of the week, alone with someone who needed her constantly, she was more than ready for a little adventure in her life, so off we went to find our "medicine". Now that I think about it, I guess my sister did contribute to our sneakiness because someone had to stay with Daddy while we were gone. We just had the "dirty job".

We did indeed park my car in the back of the little tavern so no one would see us (not that they would have known who we were or that it was my car, but it just made for a little more fun in our devilment of the day.) You know how kids are...they like to flirt with danger and that was our danger. She did not sit in the car hiding away; she joined me as I went inside that establishment, explained our situation, and bought our whiskey. She was always one for any added excitement, and I was most likely the one who would provide it for her.

We must have been quite a sight for that lone employee. He must have snickered for days seeing one little old lady and her daughter explaining away why they were buying that liquor. He may even have suspected we had a recently emptied bottle hidden away in the car and were looking for a full bottle so we could finish it off.

We made our purchased, hid it away and giggled all the way home about how we had bought our first bottle of whiskey. Partners in crime once again. Enjoying a renewed childhood we had both been deprived of before.

She did give Daddy that bottle of whiskey a teaspoon at a time until the bottle was empty. We never bought a second bottle. I don't know if she thought it didn't work or if she was afraid she and I would be busted and our reputations shattered if we attempted another buy. After all, I did have two small children and maybe she was protecting them as well. We just never bought another bottle that I remember. We would never pass that little Tavern across the county line and up the road without thinking about our fun run that day.

I wonder sometimes if the doctor didn't think maybe if he suggested the whiskey, my Mama would have used it instead of giving it to my Daddy. She definitely was the one who could have used it with all the responsibility she had taking care of him. She almost never complained, never even entertained the thoughts of putting him in a nursing home and outlived him by quite a few years. Still, always ready for a little fun whenever I could think up something for us to do.

As a footnote: In my childhood the only alcohol I ever saw in our house was a bottle of whiskey that my parents kept tucked away in the back of the old chiffarobe in their bedroom. The level never went down on that bottle from where it was the first time I ever remember seeing it. It was kept there only for medicinal purposes. Probably the last time it was opened was at my birth--at home where and when that was probably the only option for pain.

And no, I was never, ever tempted to taste it. What kid who is raised to know that medicine is only used in extreme circumstances would ever, ever want to sample the big bottle of medicine. If it tasted anything like that gosh-awful castor oil, why would you want to? Castor oil cured everything...even a desire to even taste that whiskey!