The Day the Drinking Died

This July, I'll be celebrating my twenty-seventh year on the wagon. But, while some boast that they sobered up by way of AA or Jesus or whatever, the situation that took me from Mogen-David to Maxwell House was by far more effective.

You see, after I was released from the Army in 1970, my taste buds began to actively crave the fermented liquid I'd only sampled with my buddies during our weekend passes. Although I kept it from my new wife (as best I could), the bottle began to have a soothing effect on me. I even began to enjoy the taste, and eagerly looked forward to the next time I could sneak out and buy more.

But the drink had its down side: After three years, my wife (and young son) left me, and, since much of my pay went to either food or liquor, I soon found myself evicted and out on the street, literally.

While there, I found refuge in a cheap, roach-infested hotel where I began to buddy up with seasoned veterans of the booze. We'd share bottles and war talk, ultimately crashing in the lobby -- too drunk to go upstairs to our respective rooms. Fortunately, since I still had my job as a restaurant dishwasher and an understanding boss, I was able to get another apartment in the same complex where my ex-wife and I used to live.

There were a few near-misses over the next few years, and all due to my indulgence; an arrest for public intoxication, a couple of auto accidents, but nothing that could make me think about quitting.

In fact, I re-married in 1978, and my new wife didn't seem to mind that I had an "occasional" drink (don't you always "dress up" what you do when you're in love?). A year later, she presented me with a handsome son, and I was the proudest man in the world! A few nights after he was born, I even went out to a local bar to celebrate!

In 1980, we moved to a nearby town to save money and be closer to my parents, and I began working for a local telemarketing firm. My manager was just as keen on the sauce as I was, and we soon developed a good relationship. It was an easy job, with good pay and a crew that was fun to work with. On occasion, we'd go out for a quick beer before going home, but no more than that.

On the morning of July 17, I left for work as I always did: by kissing both my wife and our little boy, who was sound asleep in his crib. Upon arriving at work, I was asked to pick up some forms and calendars from our printer who was about a hundred miles north of town. Since it was "straight-interstate" to the printing company's door, and wouldn't take that long, I agreed.

After returning late that afternoon with the goods and having them inspected, my boss decided that we'd close for the day and head on down to a local lounge for a few drinks before going home. We walked into the darkened building, found a table, and ordered white wine and Crown Royals. Soon, the light banter between us somehow turned to mocking a few of our customers and sometimes-uncontrollable laughter. Two hours later, I loudly announced that I had to get home. Not only was my little family waiting, but, quite frankly, I was getting sick from the drinking.

I drove thirteen miles to get home, trying to act as sober as a judge (though I was as drunk as the proverbial skunk!). If any cop had seen me, I knew I'd be heading to jail. Twice, I pulled off the road to throw up.

Somehow, I pulled into the drive a little after six. After tripping up the steps and fumbling around for my house keys, I slowly entered the living room. My ears were ringing, and everything looked like it was moving.

As I slowly shuffled my way into the kitchen, I was met with my little, tow-headed son (who'd just fully learned to walk shortly before) toddling around the corner from the bedroom. He had his little yellow pajamas on and carried his favorite stuffed doggie. At first, he looked at me like he was thrilled at my return. But then he stopped in his tracks and, with a look of fear and uncertainty on his face, slowly backed away.

I went toward him and called his name, but he kept on backing up, whimpering as if he were afraid of me. At that point, I realized that my drunken state probably scared him, and was heartbroken that I'd done so.

It was at that point that I knew something had to change. I'd been a good father and worker on one hand, but a drunken "sot" on the other. And now the drinking was interfering with my personal life. Something had to give, because I couldn't live with knowing I'd turned my son against me.

So I fell down on the bed, drunk and dizzy but with tears beginning to flow from my eyes as I thought of that cherub's scared expression (to this day, it still haunts me!). I began praying that, if God would let me get up without a hangover, I'd never touch another drop again. I had to do it - for my son, and for myself. Suddenly, I heard a swishing noise and glanced back to see Timmy, staring at me from the foot of the bed, still scared but, I swear, with a look of worried love on his face! He looked down at the doggie-doll in his hands, then laid it down at my feet, sniffling, "HE make it better, daddy!"

I couldn't take it! "GOD," I yelled, "The deal's OFF! I'm stopping NOW! My son NEEDS me, so if you want me to have a hangover, I'll TAKE it!! In your Name and Timmy's honor, I'm not going to drink ANY MORE!!"

And, to this day - twenty-seven years later, with Tim and his younger brother, Mike, grown up and serving proudly in the US Navy, I still refuse to drink anything stronger than soda or coffee.

The Bible says, "...and a little child shall lead them." They can also, by virtue of their purest love, lead you to one of the greatest turning points you could ever make.