Whiskey Making and the Art of Raising Sons

Younger Son, who will turn 16 next week, has always provided the comic relief in our family. He has a wry sense of humor and a vocabulary that has always been beyond his years.

He has not always possessed, shall we say, “tact.” When he was about eight, his grandparents took him and his sister to the Jack Daniels distillery that is about an hour’s drive from here. The grandparents, to my knowledge, have never touched alcohol, but enjoy history and local culture and loved the outing with two of their grandchildren.

Younger Son enjoyed it too. So much so that, the following Sunday in church, it was reported that he took the floor in his Sunday School class and gave a very detailed narrative of the whiskey-making process. I assured the teacher (who was maybe a little too tightly wound and might have benefited from a shot of Jack himself) that, while I was not overly concerned about his becoming an alcoholic at such a young age, there would not be a repeat performance. I was able to finish that conversation with a straight face before I stepped around the corner and died laughing.

He has always believed in the benefits of a clear conscience. When he was younger and was reprimanded at school -- or church -- or by a friend’s parent -- or the coach of whatever team on which he was playing at the time (you get the idea), he was always quick to come home and confess, figuring the consequences might be less severe if he came clean before we got the call from the authority figure whose feathers he had ruffled.

He was probably right. It was hard to get too upset with him. His transgressions were always minor, involving typical boyhood mischief and/or running his mouth about something and continuing after a polite request to refrain from doing so. We have had numerous conversations over the years about “speaking when spoken to.” Eventually maturity took hold and, although he can still pontificate on most any subject and likes to have the last word, he has become a fairly responsible young man who is well liked by his teachers and peers.

He still sees the advantage of preemptive confession, though – even when he’s innocent.

He is on a two-day fall break from school. Three friends spent the night last night. Wife and I were in bed long before they were. We found this note in the kitchen this morning, next to a broken plate, one of those decorative types that hangs on the wall:

Mom, I know what you are thinking but this was not us. All 4 of us were in bed at the time this happened and Powell and I both heard it. I know that it is extremely convenient that this happened on a night that 3 friends slept over. The current time is 4:10. We were all in bed by 3:40. I’m sorry if this plate has some kind of sentimental value but please know that this was a freak accident which had no people involved. Love, David

The boy can spin as well as any politician I know of.

Evolution of Communication

I might have been the last person I know to get a cell phone. I fought it for years but a few years ago, when Wife upgraded us to the “Family Plan,” she handed me my phone and welcomed me to the family. Now, several phones and upgrades later, it is indispensable to me and I could not imagine life without it. But sometimes I wish I could.

I can remember living in a house with one telephone. This adequately served a family of four. It was on a wall in the kitchen and it belonged to the telephone company. It had a rotary dial.

Local callers could be heard perfectly. Long distance calls (which were very infrequent in my house) were a little scratchy and I can remember my dad hollering into the phone talking to his mother who lived out of town. But, generally speaking, parties on each end could be heard pretty well.

Eventually my parents got a phone in their room. We had really moved up in the world. Then we moved into a two-story house and actually had three phones. At that point we had defnitely arrived. Again, the phones belonged to the phone company.

I don’t remember there ever having to be any repairs made to any of these phones. The phone company never visited our house that I remember, other than for installation. We might have occasionally lost service during a storm but it was quickly restored.

Somewhere along the way the government intervened and broke up Ma Bell. It was about that time that we had to start buying our own phones. They were junk. One would last a couple of years at best and of course, once it broke you had to go replace it. I’m guessing landfills today are full of old, crappy phones.

As technology progressed, so did changes and advances in phones. Push-button keypads replaced rotary dials. Telephones became a part of home décor and Mickey Mouse could just as likely be cradling your ear-and-mouthpiece as the boring black or white nondescript base unit.

Wireless remote technology made it possible to carry the receiver and walk around the house unattached. Answering machines (now called “voice mail”) allowed us to never miss a call and “call waiting” gave us the ability to be rude and stop one call and take another. Eventually – and this one really sent me over the top – we were even able to tell who was calling us when the phone rang, allowing us to pick and choose what calls to take!

Then, of course, cell phones came along. They are great, but how many times do you get cut off in the middle of a conversation? How often do you hear, “I’m losing you” or, “You’re breaking up” when you are talking to someone? (“Can you hear me now?” is the question asked in the popular commercial, mocking the company’s rival carrier. In reality, though, neither is better or worse then the other). This never happened when the phone company owned the phone that resided safely in the house and was wired into the wall.

And of course obtaining cell phone service is like getting a bill through Congress. I long ago had to turn it all over to Wife after it became evident that I would be imprisoned for assault or murder if I had to talk to another representative who tried to help me decide what plan would best meet my needs and lifestyle. For the love of everything holy, all I want is a phone. It does not have to do anything but make and receive calls. It does not have to have a personal ring or be a certain color or anything like that.

And do you think these things are reliable? I could not even begin to tell you how many of them we have replaced in my family of five. We used to get the insurance but decided that was a waste. There are supposed to be warranties on them but of course they don’t apply when phones are dropped. Or immersed in water. Or thrown like a ball. Or slammed up against a locker at school. Or run over by a pickup truck.

Don’t ask.

I have suggested we discontinue home phone or “land line” service at our house since we all have cell phones. Wife disagrees, saying if we have an emergency, the 911 dispatcher might not be able to find us if we call from a cell phone. I guess she is right.

And since the emergency might well be related to my having thrown our cell phones into the street to allow vehicles to run over and crush them, it will probably be a good idea to have another option.

Good Friends, Good Times

I am ready to write about something other than politics. In fact I am today writing about something much more important -- the goings on in my family.

Older Son is a recent graduate of Auburn University and Daughter is now a sophomore there. Auburn played Vanderbilt this past Saturday (and, unfortunately, lost). We live about 20 minutes from the Vandy campus so we were a perfect stopping-off place for college friends old and new.

Well we were much more than a stopping-off place. They started drifting in mid-day Friday. By the time Wife and I left for Younger Son’s football game about 6 p.m., there were about a half dozen or so. Wife had made two big pots of soup which we left in the able hands of Older Son and Daughter to distribute.

We dropped by after the game. To say the numbers had swelled is an understatement. People were everywhere. The former pots of soup were bone dry. Several nice looking young ladies were engaged in a game of pool in the playroom. A couple of nice looking young men were not far away watching, generously offering their assistance. Several sat at the kitchen table nibbling on brownies. One young man asked Daughter what she was doing here, allowing as to how he knew both her and her older brother and had been invited by the latter, but did not know the two were related.

Younger Son stood firmly and said he was not leaving but Wife and I, when we had begun hearing of the possible numbers, had made arrangements to sleep at some friends’ house. We felt somewhat like the hired help, getting things cleaned up then leaving to go to our temporary quarters about 11:30 p.m.

We returned Saturday morning. We did not do an official body count but the estimate was about 25 sleeping at the house. Every bed and sofa was occupied. Makeshift arrangements of sleeping bags and recliners were in use also. We assigned boys’ and girls’ bathrooms and the only disagreements we heard were as to whose turn it was in the shower.

By lunchtime Saturday things were in full swing. We set up our tailgate tent in the backyard and set up a long table and chairs under a tree. It was a pretty warm day here in Middle Tennessee, so most opted to stay inside in the air conditioning. Other college football games were being broadcast so the hardcore football fans did not stray far from the TV. We think we served about 40 in all.

Older Son’s fraternity brothers and friends of legal age brought their ice chests with libations, which were confined to the back deck. I did not check IDs but invoked the honor and trust system that has, for the most part, served me well since becoming a dad nearly 23 years ago. And best I could tell nothing got out of hand. We made sure there were designated drivers when it came time to go to the football game which had a 5 p.m. kickoff.

Though the game had a poor outcome for us, the fun at our house continued. Wife and I again did the late night cleanup and she rolled out her famous homemade cinnamon rolls to rise overnight. We again went to our friends’ house to sleep, then returned Sunday morning to start baking. As the smell drifted through the house, bodies began to rise and make their way to the kitchen. I will tell with you with no hesitation that one of Wife’s cinnamon rolls just out of the oven with a cold glass of milk will bring tears to your eyes. You can’t do it every morning if you don’t want to gain a zillion pounds and see your cholesterol skyrocket, but for an occasional treat, oh my, it is sheer heaven.

The exits began mid-morning and by early afternoon most of them were gone. Older Son quickly went into cleanup mode, as much, I think, to assuage the twinge of sadness he feels that these friends are no longer a part of his everyday life, as to help us. But what a great heritage he has and, knowing his personality as I do, I know many of these friendships will remain strong.

Wife and I were worn out last night but also extremely gratified. We have made a lot of mistakes – more than we would care to count -- as we have been parents to three children, but one of the things we did right was to make a decision years ago to invest in their relationships and get to know their friends. It’s costly in more ways than one. Our house needs painting and we desperately need new carpet and I’m sure some of the people noticed that over the weekend. But as they left yesterday, hugging us and vowing to return, I don’t think those things were uppermost in their minds.

What I hope they will remember, and what I know I will remember one day when this house screams with quietness, is a home filled with laughter and good cheer, good food and good times. Memories of such things last a lifetime.