|Don't let that innocent face fool you...|
My parents didn’t drink alcohol.
But even in such a family, the topic does come up . . .
Christmas was nearing and Mom and Dad had been in Lethbridge all day. Shopping.
It had started out as a joyous occasion, with brightly-lit and garishly-decorated shops to visit. Lunch at an amazing diner with marvelous spinning stools.
That . . . spun.
Okay, they were almost a little too marvelous.
Santa to see and talk to/cry about.
Amazing piles of toys and goodies that were right at the level of mesmerized little eyes.
Heaps of slushy snow scraped up by the grader and specifically designed for small, booted feet.
Little bottoms that had to be repeatedly dusted off because of the heaps of said slushy snow scraped up by the grader and specifically designed . . . you get the picture.
Evening was nearing and, with two tired little kids in tow, the family was standing on the street corner, mentally going over their shopping list.
“Okay,” Mom said. “I think we’re nearly done. The only person we have left to shop for is Jerry.”
I should probably mention, here, that the aforementioned Jerry was now the sad and sorry little boy currently clutching his mother’s hand. As the afternoon had worn on, and his two-year-old patience had shortened, his opinions on everything had increased perceptibly in volume.
For a few moments, Mom and Dad discussed possibilities for their small son.
Little ears were hearing.
Finally, Dad shrugged. “Oh, let’s just get him a bottle of whisky!”
“Mark!” Mom didn’t think it was as funny as Dad did.
“Well, it’s getting to be supper time,” Dad said. “Let’s head home.”
The light changed and the four of them stepped, along with scores of other people, into the street.
Suddenly, over all the noise and confusion of a city street in the throes of ‘Christmas’ rose a piercing, small boy’s voice. “I don’t want to go hooome! I want some whiiiisky!”
And we’re done.