Horrific Crimes . . . or Not

Amazon

I re-read this great novel during my recent vacation with my family, and I liked it just as much this time as I did the first time I read it.

I must confess, however, that the book has a few (very few) flaws, for example:

- page 127:

"Well, then, Mr. Bousted, good night, until we meet again, and thank you for your kindness to your [my] brother."

This sort of error above is more common than one might think, as is the following kind of error:

- page 253:

me -- a man who had not touched a drop of spirits since that evening when I met Snyder in the saloon on Ohio-street. [Has not drunk alcohol more than once.]

Compare:

- page 219:

By this time, but for the roaring pain in my head (which a bit of Colonel Goode's excellent brandy had blunted somewhat). [Has drunk alcohol more than once, one time in the saloon, a second time at the Goode mansion, this second time being prior to the reference to alcohol on page 253.]

- page 121:

I pressed the glass to my lips and took a tentative sip. At once my mouth was filled with burning bitterness. [Has drunk alcohol for the first time and wants no more of it due to its taste and the drunken condition in which he finds Snyder.]

Despite the words of the protagonist on page 253 that he had not touched a drop of spirits since the tentative sip on page 121, he tells us on page 219 that he had drunk some excellent brandy (since that tentative sip on page 121).

This is not some dreadful lie, nor any sort of lie on the part of the protagonist; it is merely a moment in which the author has erred in memory, forgetting that the protagonist has in fact had a drink.

If any readers happen to read these words and imagine that 'Dr. Boli' is careless, let me assure all readers that after one has written and rewritten and again rewritten a passage several times -- and I speak from experience -- nearly every author would have difficulty recalling what has been kept and what rejected.

In the spirit of crowd sourcing editorial work, I note these minor errors as assistance to 'Dr. Boli' when he releases his next edition of The Crimes of Galahad.

The first American soft drink?

Franklin Orders

Another Sprite

Benjamin Franklin was first to use the name of America's truly first soft drink:

A house without woman and firelight,
is like a body without soul or sprite.

He neglected to capitalize the name (and to capitalize on the name), but we see to our surprise that "Sprite" - not "Coke" - was our first soft drink!

Death of an Old Friend

Jack McCollum

Photo

from

Baker Funeral Home

Salem, Arkansas

My brother Shan emailed me the sad news that my old friend Jack McCollum had died:

Sad news: Jack McCollum died a few days ago. He had been in bad health for a long time. I knew you would want to know. He was a good guy with a bad problem with alcohol.

Sad indeed, but even back in high school, I had expected Jack to develop an alcohol problem. I recall him driving around town with me in the passenger seat and him so drunk that he imagined the cops were tailing him when there wasn't a policeman anywhere to be seen.

Shan had it right, though. Jack was a good guy with a bad problem. Excessive drinking was his only flaw, and even then, he was a friendly drunk. Nobody ever had anything bad to say about Jack.

I knew him well. We not only went to school together, we even worked together in the hay fields, and that was the kind of work that bonds young men to one another in friendship.

Jack was the kind of guy you could call on at three in the morning on a cold snowy night to come help you get your car out of a ditch, and he'd get up out of bed and drive over to help you.

He was that kind of good guy. You can read his obituary here.

Soju-Shi

Kim Seong-Kon

Google Images

In my book of poems, Radiant Snow, I've titled one section "Plagiarisms," in which I strongly mimic poems by well-known poets, sometimes as parody, other times as serious indebtedness, as is this one:

Soju-Shi

Though bright old moon yet may,
My best of five friends fine,
Implore me still to stay,
Drink in the night's moon shine,
I see another way,
'long sunken columns' line

I was inspired to write this by one of Kim Seong-Kon's Wednesday columns in the Korea Herald, a column in which he presents a similar poem from the Joseon period, if my memory serves me well.

I called my poem to Kim's attention, and he wrote back:

[Thank you for calling my attention to] your poem . . . inspired by my column. I am as flattered as I can be. It is a moving poem and I like it a lot.

I leave to my readers the homework of finding the poem and poet cited by Kim in his column . . .

Fantasy: Hand Over Bush!

Wikipedia
"sweet imagination"

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush if fantasy's your forté.

If fantasy's not your forté, then drink before you think!

Those Emasculating Burgers! That Hideous Drink!

Chivas Regal
Aged 38 Years!
Not Fresh!
Wikipedia

In an item from Memri about three years ago (January 13, 2013, Clip No. 5291 {Transcript}), we learn from Saudi Cleric Ali Al-Malki that the "West Tampers with Burgers, Whiskey to Induce Birth of Girls among Muslims":

Ali al-Malki: Unfortunately we have problems in this country and we call upon Allah and the Saudi political leaders to protect us and to protect our children.

Jeffery Hodges: So far, so reasonable . . . but what's the problem?

al-Malki: Our Milk has been tampered with. Our Juice has been tampered with. Everything imported into this country has been tampered with . . . Even the hamburgers. By Allah, when I was in China, I got a study in English, translated into Arabic. It said that the hamburgers sent to McDonald's, to Harvey's, and so on, contain a substance . . . Look at the level of scheming by the West. By Allah, I read this, and I am willing to attest this on the day I face God. They put into the meat that comes from abroad, a substance that kills the male genes both in men and in women. They kill the male genes in the man or his wife, so that there will be more women than men. They know that men are tantamount to future power, army, and hope among all the leaders in the world. Imagine how they came up with the idea of putting that substance in the meat.

Hodges: Ah, hamburgers . . . I now understand the name given to the character in the Popeye cartoons who so loved to eat hamburgers: "Wimpy."

al-Malki: Unfortunately we take all our dates from Al-Kharj and the north, and all of our grain, corn, and milk, and export them to America . . .

Hodges: Is that so?

al-Malki: . . . whereas they export whiskey to us. By the way some of that whiskey is not even fresh. It's defective. I'm a member (of the staff) at the narcotics hospital so I know. They send us defective alcohol, I'm sad to say."

Hodges: Saudi Arabia imports whiskey? And whiskey that's not even fresh? Like that Chivas Regal above that's at least 38 years old! I just happened to stumble upon this very old Chivas Regal, and damned if it doesn't provide evidence for al-Malki's concern about whiskey that isn't fresh . . .

Conspiracy theories are sometimes right! As this case shows! Mr. al-Malki must therefore be right on all his other points about the dreadful conspiracy that confronts Saudi Arabia.

Sul Gaeguri (술개구리) - Makgeolli Bar in Seoul

Booze Frog Terrace
Photo Borrowed from MAKGEOLLI MAMAS and PAPAS

My friend Yang Seung-Tae and I went to the Hongdae area on Friday evening looking for the 'Sul' Frog Makgeolli Bar and trying to hit on a proper translation of "Sul" in the context of the bar's full name, "Sul Gaeguri" (술개구리).

I suggested "Drinking Frog," "Drunken Frog," even "Alcoholic Frog," but I now think that the Makgeolli Mamas and Papas nailed it: "Booze Frog"!

I hadn't especially looked forward to a makgeolli bar, even telling Seung-Tae that drinking rice beer is pushing the envelope as far as I'm concerned.

But this bar was great! We drank three different types of makgeolli to go with our conversation, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

I woke up late Saturday morning, however, and had a lot of editing and apartment-cleaning to do, thus explaining why this report is so short.

For more on Booze Frog, go to Makgeolli Mamas and Papas, from whom I borrowed the picture above, for that's the terrace table where Seung-Tae and I sat.

Teetotalization?!

Andrew O'Hagan?
Contemplating Teetotalization
Jessica Craig-Martin/Trunk Archive
"PS1 Benefit Gala, New York, 2006"
NYT

In an article titled "A Farewell to Ales" (New York Times Magazine, November 28, 2014), Andrew O'Hagan owns up to currently being plagued by the thought of giving up even the ghost of a chance to partake of the spirit of Christmas, namely, of strong drink, for as you see in the photo above with its sight gag, an insightful visual pun on his wavering decision to forego another stiff one, this man is in need of therapy, and that ought not be too hard, given that he's already stretched out on a Freudian couch.

Who's Andrew O'Hagan, you ask?

Merely a Scottish novelist and non-fiction author, Editor at Large of Esquire, London Review of Books Critic at large for the New York Times Magazine, and currently creative writing fellow at King's College London, according to Wikipedia.

But I knew that . . . sort of.

Anyway, Mr. O'Hagan had better take care in giving up his high-spirited life, else he might turn out like the protagonist of my novella, caught up in metaphysical events beyond his control, let alone his comprehension!

Absinthe makes the heart go founder?

Absinthe
Photo by Niels Ackermann
The New York Times

Apparently not, rumors to the contrary notwithstanding. Absinthe does not drive its drinkers mad.

Or so implies an article, "On the Absinthe Trail," by Evan Rail for The New York Times (July 4, 2014). Rail belies his surname and instead praises the disreputable drink, and he ought to know, for he's a booze writer, author of In Praise of Hangovers and Beer Trails: The Brewery in the Bohemian Forest.

And even if he -- counterfactually -- know not, an expert he met near the 'Valley of Absinthe' would: American writer Scott MacDonald, author of Absinthe Antiques: A Collection From la Belle Époque. The two met in the French town of Pontarlier and compared notes, though MacDonald obviously knew more -- and treated Rail to a special drink:

Mr. MacDonald approached with a glass. "Try this," he said.

The drink seemed thicker, perhaps just in terms of the density of its aromas, with a long-lasting bitterness hiding behind a slightly oxidized, licorice-like anise nose. It was an absinthe verte, but the taste was more gentle than the others I'd tried, with an alcoholic warmth that seemed to expand into infinity.

I felt a strange sense of disappointment when Mr. MacDonald told me what I had just tried: one of the distillery's own pre-ban absinthes, made just before the drink was outlawed in France in 1914, and poured from one of the last remaining bottles as a gift for Mr. MacDonald by the distillery's owner. Until then, I thought that I had found what I was seeking on the route de l'absinthe, and that was Swiss absinthe bleue. But this had been one of the best sips of my life, and unfortunately I would almost certainly never taste anything like it again. Not even in the Val-de-Travers, beside a mountain spring, just a few steps ahead of the Green Fairy herself.

A mite overwritten, and the disappointment is not entirely clear -- one has to think about the meaning -- but I infer that the disappointment was over having sought the special Swiss absinthe bleue, only to discover a sip of absinthe verte exceeded in taste any other absinthe he might imbibe for the rest of his life . . .

Happy Ballantine's Day . . . Belated?

Ballantine's Whisky
You Tube

Sorry for missing Valentine's Day, all of you'uns out there, so here's to a Happy Ballantine's Day:

Ballantine's Whisky - Old Commercial

Enjoy the multiculturalism! Or the multiethnicity! Or the Scotch whisky! Or all three!

Cheers!

American Whiskey Makers and Takers: George Washington, James Madison, and Uncle Cleo

James Madison

Whiskey Taker and Constitutional Thinker

(Image from Wikipedia)

According to Daniel Okrent, in The Rise and Fall of Prohibition, as reported by David Oshinsky in "Temperance to Excess" (New York Times, May 13, 2010), Americans have long had a strong constitution for alcohol:

Americans have always been a hard-drinking, freedom-loving lot. George Washington had a still on his farm. James Madison downed a pint of whiskey a day, a common practice at a time when liquor was safer than water and cheaper than tea.

I suspect that boiling the water would have been cheaper than whiskey, but who am I to object to what America's Founding Fathers were up to? After all, my own paternal ancestors were moonshiners. Some readers will recall this Ozark story about my Uncle Cleo:

One of the local moonshining families whose surname "Hiram" was pronounced "Harm" offered my 13-year-old uncle a job keeping an eye out for the law. He must have done a good job because he was promoted to run moonshine as soon as he was old enough to get a driver's license.

That was about as far as he got in the business, however, because one time he was running some moonshine along an unpaved back road when he saw the sheriff's car coming up from behind. Ordinarily, he would have kept his wits about him, but because he had a pistol on the seat, he panicked and sped off in a cloud of dust. The sheriff gave chase.

My uncle could see the sheriff gaining on him and decided that he'd better get rid of the gun if he wanted to avoid prison, so as he was crossing a low-water bridge, he tossed his pistol into the water.

That, at least, was his intention, but the pistol hit a rock and bounced back up onto the bridge, where it caught the sheriff's eye. As the sheriff stopped to confiscate that evidence, my uncle eluded capture.

But his narrow escape made him think about his life and what he wanted from it. He told himself, "If I go on like this, I'll end up dead or in prison."

Figuring that the law was coming for him, he left home the next day, signed up for the army, and was off to boot camp. Six months later, he had leave to visit his Ozark home. All dressed up in his uniform, he went downtown to impress the girls. As he was flirting with them on the town square, the sheriff noticed and called out to him from across the courtyard:

"Cleo," he said, "I've got your gun if you want it."

"No thanks," my uncle called back, "they gave me another one."

That was many, many years ago, but Uncle Cleo is still alive, though just barely hanging on at nearly 95 (born October 12, 1915), for he's getting very frail and is currently in the hospital. His grand-daughter Rachel, who's helping care for him, recently emailed to let me know that she'd read the anecdote about her grandfather:

When I came across your blog and read the moonshine story I laughed because I could actually hear his voice flippantly telling that Sheriff that the Army gave him another gun.

She visited him in his hospital room a day or two ago and asked him about the story:

I asked him about running moonshine across the county, and he said, "Well I may have dealt in a little whiskey." Then he laughed and laughed. (He never told any of his girls that story.)

Rachel thanked me for the "beautiful words," but they weren't my own, as I explained:

I'm glad that the moonshining story posted on my blog was a source of delight for Uncle Cleo. I first heard it from Aunt Pauline, then Uncle Cranford offered more details.

Since posting that moonshining story five years ago, I've learned that while Uncle Cleo may have done some moonshine-running for the Hiram family, he was actually working more with the Hodges family itself, for in a somewhat variant version of the tale, Cousin Bill Hodges informs us:

Grandma Nora told me a little wine was made on the [Hodges] farm, and would then laugh and chuckle, and would never finish telling the rest of the story. Her brother Elbert Stephens and [Grandpa] Horace's brother, Rev. Robert Hodges did run a moonshine operation on the Hodges farm near Elizabeth[, Arkansas] . . . .

Dad recalls the still operation being shut down by the county sheriff, stating, "We heard the shots, and after the law left, us kids went to the woods and saw the barrel shot full of holes."

Dad's brother Cleo acted as a "watchdog" and did a little moonshine running for Elbert and others in Fulton County[, Arkansas]. Cleo's moonshine running ceased after he was being pursued by the county sheriff and tossed the pistol he was carrying out of the car window while crossing a low water bridge. The sheriff stopped and retrieved the pistol. Cleo joined the Army to avoid prosecution by the county sheriff. Following training, six months later, Cleo returned to Viola, strutting around in his Army uniform, and [when] the sheriff told Cleo, "Cleo, I've got your pistol," Cleo replied, "Don't need it sheriff, the Army gave me another."

Some folks might object that what Uncle Cleo and the rest of my Ozark clan were doing was highly illegal, especially for a dry county, and I don't doubt that Uncle Cleo would agree, but whiskey making and taking has an illustrious American pedigree going back to George Washington and earlier, and since most people agree that Prohibition was a historic mistake (and 'prohibition' lasted on in many counties of the Arkansas Ozarks), then I think that we're justified in extending Uncle Cleo and my kinfolk a bit of indulgence.

And for anyone who wants to leave a message of encouragement for Uncle Cleo's grand-daughter, Rachel, who's helping care for Uncle Cleo in his decline, feel free to do so here in the comments.

"it all came at once . . ."

Traditional Korean Drinks

(Image from Korea Herald)

I can't get quite as worked up and excited about some traditional Korean drink as Jean Oh does in a recent, breathless description:

The deep and sweet, intoxicating scent . . . . released an aromatic prelude to . . . . [t]hat moment . . . that . . . . an institute employee uncovered . . . . and pulled it out, dripping, full of fruity grain and liquid. The beauty of it all came at once. Why would anyone pass up an opportunity for . . . this? What wouldn't one do for a mouthful of that silken, malty nectar?

I may just have to give up Korean drinks altogether . . . particularly if that top center photo reveals the typical production technique!

But at least it's not makgeolli . . .

Uncle Cran's True Confessions...

Miller Lite

For 'Lite-Wait' Drinkers

(Image from Wikipedia)

Uncle Cran has sent me another post documenting his long, slow backslide into substance abuse, which has come to dominate his life so totally that he even . . . well, you'll see (and would have seen already one week ago if not for Uncle Cran's having reported me to the Blogger authorities for "Terms of Service" violations!):

Recently Jeffery suggested I submit my confession regarding an event that caused a mild sensation at son James' Pin On Ceremony at his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. I have swallowed my pride, in much the same was as I did the Miller Light, in one large gulp:

MY LAST DRINK OF BOOZE

Uncle Cran means "last" in the sense of "most recent," but let's not delay his confession:

It is with much trepidation that this confession is being made to a cynical and unforgiving nephew, and thus to my kinfolk, who exhibit the same traits.

Note that Uncle Cran is accusing our entire extended family of sharing his weakness for the bottle.

After all the receptions to my true, honest and compelling stories, you would think that yours truly would have learned to keep things to himself.

But the desire to bare my sins, and by so doing, pointing others to the straight and narrow way, and keeping them from the same pitfall, compels me to relate this incident.

Notice that Uncle Cran would rather "bare" his sins than "bear" them. One would almost imagine that he enjoys it.

Not to mention the mild thrill of another five minutes of fame in an otherwise drab and dreary existence.

It's nice to be right rather than vain in my imaginings.

I remember this incident, as it occured nearly three years ago, during the Ides of March, bringing to mind the downfall of a certain Julius Caesar, of Roman fame.

With great anticipation my wife Linda Gay and I departed on our great adventure. First a drive to Kansas City, then a flight directly to Reagan International Airport, where we were taken to be with James, his wife Julee, and sons Jefferson, Bryson, and Anderson. Why did all three have the addition of "son" to their names? Well, it sounds better than Sonjeffer, Sonbry, and Sonander, in my opinion.

Note: Uncle Cran is trying out his humor on us. Humor often fails to cross cultural boundaries -- such as the cultural boundary between Uncle Cran and normal people. Please humor him by laughing.

We had a good visit in their home. Then the great day arrived. James and a fellow officer were both being promoted from the grade of Major to Lieutenant Colonel, which is considered a major step for an officer. The event was hosted at the headquarters of Major General (2 star) Fox, whose title is THE CIVIL ENGINEER OF THE AIR FORCE. This is the highest position for one who is in the Civil Engineer field of the Air Force.

We all put on our best clothes, and arrived at General Fox's headquarters. Before the ceremony, we were ushered into General Fox's office, where we were introduced to the general and his wife They were very gracious hosts.

From there we were escorted into the reception room for the ceremony, to await the ceremony. After a brief wait, we were called to attention, General Fox and the two officers being honored came in, and we were seated.

It was an impressive ceremony. General Fox read the awards and honors James and the other officer had earned, then the families of the two did the pin-on ceremony. Following was the reception, with food and drinks provided. Everyone was having a good time visiting and meeting James' fellow officers and attending dignitaries. Then things kind of went downhill for yours truly.

I selected some delicacies, got myself a bottle of Dr Pepper, and was having a good time. After awhile I was visiting with one of the officers, and set my drink down while we were talking. I took a bite of my food, and without looking down, picked up a bottle and took a good, long swig. I swallowed, and immediately thought, "WHAT AM I DRINKING?"

I looked down, and lo and behold, I had a bottle of Miller Light in my hand. The officer laughed, I looked around and another group of officers were looking at me. General Fox's aide, a female Lt. Colonel was gazing wide eyed at me, and said, "YOU'RE DRINKING MY BEER!"

I did the only thing I could think of . . . I replied, "Maam, I'm so sorry. Go get you another one, and I'll just slip into another room and pray for forgiveness."

Just listen to the man! First, he drinks some woman's beer, then orders her to go get another one!

It was too late! The story made the rounds . . . "THE REVEREND DRANK THE COLONEL'S BEER!: I had to endure a good bit of teasing about this, and it was kind of the highlight of the evening.

Now, Uncle Cran's proudly claiming that he stole the limelight from his own son!

Even Linda Gay laughed about it. But I made the best of the situation, and joked with the others.

When we got home I wrote General Fox to thank him for the kindness he and Mrs. Fox had shown us, and how we appreciated the evening. I asked him to relay to his Aide-de-Camp how much I enjoyed "sharing a beer" with her.

I think that Aunt Gay had better keep a close watch on Uncle Cran. This sort of thing starts with 'wine', then leads on to women and song!

The beer incident didn't seem to hurt James' reputation, because three weeks later, with the sponsorship of General Fox, Lt. Colonel James was promoted to command the Civil Engineer squadron at Elmendorf Air Force Base, one of the largest bases in the Air Force, at Anchorage, Alaska, where he served with distinction for two years, before his present assignment at Nato headquarters in Germany. Plus he was recently notified of his selection to full Colonel, and will be one of the youngest with this grade in the Air Force.

Now that I've got a first cousin in high places, I'm expecting a job promotion myself, i.e., a tenured position at Harvard University, at least, or possibly a post as liaison between President Obama and Colonel James Hodges, who seems now to be in charge of Nato since he's on assignment at Nato headquarters in Germany. Moreover, given my six years in that country, I can liaise between Nato's English-speaking and German-speaking staff. I surely deserve such a high grade and a corresponding salary. Back to James and his genuinely illustrious career (and I am not being ironic):

Being one of the youngest, he received an "under the wire" promotion. He has accomplished this for Major, Lt. Colonel, and full Colonel, putting him 3 years ahead of some of his classmates. He was listed in the USAF Academy magazine as one of 33 from his Class of 1991 to make Lt. Colonel early, from a graduating class of 969. The list is likely smaller for full Colonel.

Uncle Cran, all irony aside, you've certainly earned bragging rights for the things that James has achieved. For those not in the know, a US Air Force Colonel is only one rank below Brigadier General.

But let's finally return to Uncle Cran's gripping story of alcoholic decline, which ends in a borrowed moral . . . or what passes for a 'moral' in Uncle Cran's lengthy tome of longsuffering and lamentation:

Thus finished my confession, and as another fellow sufferer at the hands of his friends once said:

But Job answered and said,
"Hear diligently my speech, and let this be your consolations,
Suffer me that I may speak and after that I have spoken, mock on" (Job 21:1-3).

Or as David Essex sang, "Mock on, oh my soul . . ."

The best food metaphor for America...

Feuerzangenbowle

Punch Bowl from Hell

(Image from Wikipedia)

... isn't, strictly speaking, food. Nevertheless:

[I]n 1787, two days before their work was done, the 55 delegates to the Constitutional Convention "adjourned to a tavern for some rest, and according to the bill they drank 54 bottles of Madeira, 60 bottles of claret, 8 of whiskey, 22 of port, 8 of hard cider and 7 bowls of punch so large that, it was said, ducks could swim around in them. Then they went back to work and finished founding the new Republic."

So says Barbara Holland in The Joy of Drinking, as related by Robert R. Harris in a recent New York Times book review (May 6, 2007). No accident, therefore, is W.J. Rorabaugh's choice of title for his book on Americans at drink: The Alcoholic Republic: An American Tradition

Also no accident -- given my theological interests -- is my choice for 'choice' quote from Holland's book. According to her, the Puritan minister Increase Mather held that:

"Drink is in itself a good Creature of God, and to be received with thankfulness, but the abuse of drink is from Satan, the wine is from God, but the Drunkard is from the Devil."

Holland maintains that Mather's words are "an early version of our incessant 'moderation' sermons, with only a pint or two dividing heaven from hell," but I insist that Mather's words demonstrate the broadmindedness of Puritans, who knew that Jesus provided abundant wine at a wedding in Cana as his first public miracle (John 2:1-11) and took an occasional drink himself -- occasionally even enough to get himself called a "winebibber":

The Son of man is come eating and drinking; and ye say, Behold a gluttonous man, and a winebibber, a friend of publicans and sinners! (Luke 7:34)

So if you're wondering whether to enter that bar, or not, just ask yourself, "What would Jesus do?" Well obviously, as the friend of publicans, he must frequently have frequented more than one pub, so go on in!

Though I don't think that the old British expression "drunk as the lord" refers to the Lord Jesus, for that condition would have put him several pints over the line dividing heaven from hell, implying infernal rather than celestial origins, and we know as a point of dogma and modal logic that such is metaphysically impossible.

Those 55 delegates to America's Constitutional Convention, however, did cross that territorial line, and forged so far within the infernal regions that I can only infer from their reported actions that the best 'food' metaphor for America is...

... "the punchbowl from hell."

You drink what you are.

A Pleasing Pun

(Image from ADHS)

I've previously mentioned my hometown friend Bruce Cochran, who hasn't moved as far from the Ozarks as I but who has grown into a connoisseur of taste whose expertise in food, drink, and conviviality has taken him all over the world. From a recent email that he sent me, I gather that he's currently leading a wine tour through Italy and Spain. He also noted a few other points in response to a resource that I found online and sent to him, namely, a book review pertaining to social status and consumption of alcohol in 17th-century England:

What an amazing resource you've sent me! I am impressed with the number of people who give this their attention. It's a pretty big field (please excuse the small unintentional pun). I heard someone recently talk about World War II, "when the men went off to war and the women went off to church" -- and were encouraged to vote their areas dry. I believe that Salem was wet until about that time. I'm sure the returning soldiers weren't excited about that. At least they had the VFW's [lodges for the Veterans of Foreign Wars]. Glad all is well on your side of the world, all is fine here. I'm leaving next Friday for Europe (Italy and Spain).

Bruce's point about alcohol in our Ozark hometown of Salem, Arkansas was made in response to a remark that I made about folks in our county voting dry but drinking wet, but I suppose that I ought to just post my original email:

Bruce, you might find this [book review] interesting, given your knowledge of drinking and culture. The review is also perhaps personally interesting for tipplers such as the two of us who have grown up in counties that voted dry but drank wet and who are thus attuned to the political and social significance of alcohol.

The website that posted this, by the way, is the Alcohol and Drugs History Society, which publishes a journal, The Social History of Alcohol and Drugs. Here's the website address:

Alcohol and Drugs History Society

I realize that you're a very busy man -- as am I -- but this might prove to be a useful resource.

This history society on alcohol and drugs might sound as though it would be narrow and possibly technical in tone, but the review to which I alerted Bruce suggests otherwise. This online review comes from the pen -- or typing fingers -- of University of Alberta historian David Clemis, who looks at A Pleasing Sinne: Drink and Conviviality in Seventeenth-Century England (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2004), a volume edited by Adam Smyth. Clemis titles his review "Drink, Identity, and Ambivalence," and from what he writes, this book of essays by various scholars sounds like a work pleasing to my tastes:

This engaging collection of essays represents an important new strand in the study of early modern English drug and alcohol history. The largely literary studies gathered together in A Pleasing Sinne focus neither upon state regulation nor the evidence of the social or public order effects of the production and distribution of alcohol. Instead, they take a more cultural turn in their efforts to elucidate key values, attitudes, and beliefs that are apparent in various seventeenth-century English texts concerned, in one way or another, with alcohol consumption.

Clemis then adds:

As Adam Smyth observes in his introduction to this collection, "the great wealth of texts that reflected and shaped seventeenth-century culture contested the moral, social and political significances of alcohol" (p. xiv). A key theme that runs through most of these essays is what Smyth calls "a larger cultural ambivalence about alcohol that is, to this day, unresolved" (p. xiv). For seventeenth-century writers, this ambivalence was fostered by broadly inconsistent conceptions of drinking. On one hand, drink promoted conviviality, bonds of friendship, loyalty, and artistic creativity (so it was said of wine), and it was strengthening and refreshing (especially English ale). But the evils of drink were also seen in its promotion of sin and arrogance, as well as the destruction of reason and dulling of the wits (so said royalists of ale-swilling commonwealthmen). Drinking was also thought to undermine the natural social order and, for some, the drinking of claret was simply unpatriotic. For the contributors to this volume, this ambivalence, or at least the strong contests between understandings of the nature and effects of alcohol (or different types of alcohol), often turns on the place of drinking in the assertion of one or more forms of identity. Thus, we find essays about drinking and political association, gender, national stereotyping, and social rank.

What Smyth identifies as the "larger cultural ambivalence about alcohol that is, to this day, unresolved" pervades not only British society but also American society and informs such political ambiguities as those expressed in the brilliant "If-By-Whiskey Speech" given in 1952 by the Mississippi legislator Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr. on whether Mississippi should outlaw or legalize alcohol:

If when you say whiskey you mean the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster, that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame and helplessness, and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it.

But;

If when you say whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman's step on a frosty, crispy morning; if you mean the drink which enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life's great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm; to build highways and hospitals and schools, then certainly I am for it.

My home county of Fulton in the Ozark Mountains of northern Arkansas opted to regard whiskey as the devil's brew -- or at least the women did so during World War II when so many men were gone to war that the women outvoted the remaining men and made the county dry.

If that's what happened, then it might explain something that my grandfather said, namely, that Fulton County was a lot less violent after World War II because all of the roughnecks had gone away during the war and had never come back.

I'm guessing that the roughnecks went someplace where they could more readily drink what they were.