1975

There are those times when you do something that alters your perception or tolerance for the rest of your life, a life lesson of sorts.  I was in my eighth grade year and I was all too willing to test my physical and parental limits.

Long before any of us could drive our proclivity for throwing or participating in a good party was already well established.  Sure, kids of all ages are good at partying whether it is “bobbing for apples,” poking some poor donkey’s tail in the middle of its nose to teenage backyard pool parties.  By the time my generation was in seventh grade, our parties were taking on the look and feel of the parties our parents were throwing. 

Every town used to have that one adult who was all too willing to go to the local liquor store to buy alcohol for the underage kids in town.  His fee was a bottle of his favorite liquor.  Throughout the summer my friends and I had called upon his services on a number of occasions.  He lived above one of the local liquor stores and always had his head out the window of his second floor apartment.  He enjoyed the company of the kids but not in a bad way.  His judgment may have been a bit clouded when it came to buying liquor for minors but that was where it stopped.  He never attended any of our parties or attempted to date the teenage girls.  Besides, in the winter he was one of Aspen’s most highly respected ski instructors.

On this particular day, my friends and I were in need of some “booze.”  Ruthie Waddington was throwing a birthday party in the basement of their hotel over on the corner of Hyman Avenue and Garmisch.  The party was unlike most of our “soirees” as this one was approved by her parents, well not the drinking part.  The three of us each purchased, or had our “friend” purchase, a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps which went along nicely with all the beer and pizzas someone else provided.

As the night went on we each proceeded to drink most of the Schnapps ourselves, giving little to the rest of the party goers.  As for me, the Schnapps and pizza went down easily and came back up even easier.  At some point I was removed from the party by Lorna or Chuck, Ruthie’s parents, and laid down in one of the rooms to “sleep it off.” 

I woke up in my own bed sometime the next morning to my father calling me from downstairs.  Apparently, I had some chores to do.  Aside from the slamming cupboard doors, the electric mixer and police scanner, I would say that our house was as quiet a place anyone could find.  My hangover was colossal and my father made sure I felt it.  Immediately following breakfast I was assigned the duty of mowing the lawn.  Now anyone who has ever had a hangover knows that work in the hot sun with a very loud electric lawnmower is the last thing you would want to do.  My father took advantage of my condition to “teach me a lesson.”  That day was filled chores and outdoor activities, all of which were part of the “life lesson” that my parents were giving me. 

As for me, not only did I learn my lesson on drinking too much (I still have to take remedial courses every now and then), but I am no longer able to consume anything that even remotely tastes like Peppermint Schnapps, mint liquor or hard alcohol of the clear variety.