Nobody in my family was big on drinking. There would be wine at Sunday dinner; each of my parents might have a glass of a sweet wine, and we were allowed to have a sip to taste. It almost never appeared at my grandparents’ house, but when it did, Grandma was known to stir in another spoonful of sugar to make it palatable.

During the holidays, or if guests came for a special dinner, some sort of hard liquor might be served. It was mostly kept around for guests, and otherwise stayed on a shelf in the basement.

I think I was fifteen when I found myself standing in front of that shelf one day after school. I was responsible for babysitting my sister and brothers until my folks got home from work, but the truth was I didn’t really do much babysitting. Things mostly just ran themselves. It was a little boring.

I can’t remember what my thoughts were. Maybe it was that drinking was something done by the kids who had more freedom than I did, the kids who drove cars to school and got to go out unsupervised on weekends. Maybe I was just bored or curious. I don’t remember what it was that motivated me, but I remember reaching for the first bottle, taking a careful swig, and putting it back on the shelf, exactly back within its circle of dust. Then I moved on to the next. And the one after that. Four or five bottles. When I got to the end, I went back to my favorites.

I remember the burn, the fiery heat. The whiskey brought back from a trip to Canada burned the most. Creme de Menthe was better, but tasted like mouthwash. Creme de Cacao was disappointing, having none of the chocolate taste I’d hoped for. My favorite was the apricot brandy. It had the burn and the sweetness I liked.

My head started spinning and I laughed. I was more casual about putting the bottles back in the right spot. So this was getting drunk. I was really drunk! I head back out of the basement.

My brothers and sister noticed and commented on my unusually loud behavior. I think my sister even said something about me acting drunk (but how would she know?! I should ask her sometime). I wanted a cigarette…those I’d been sneaking for mom for a while now. I threatened to smoke one in front of my siblings, but then put it away. “Just joking!”

By the time my folks got home, I’d quieted down enough to maintain my composure. I don’t think they ever noticed. I didn’t do more sampling out of a mortal fear of being caught. But when alcohol showed up at occasionally at school, in a punch bowl at a dance or in a cough syrup bottle brought by a friend from home, I’d drink as much as I could. There was never really enough available to satisfy me. I was surprised that the teachers didn’t seem to notice my embarrassing behavior.

I don’t know why I was the only one in the family to take to drink this way. But there I was, the Christopher Columbus of alcohol. A real pioneer.

About seven years later, a convenient career path.