 |
| 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.
