Uncorked

I have a drinking problem, or so I am told. It’s not that I drink too early in the day or get stroppy or do things I regret the morning after. My problem, apparently, is that I don’t drink enough. You could say that alcohol and I got off to a bad start. I’ll spare you the details, other than to say I was fifteen and it involved five rye and Cokes in quick succession at a cousin’s engagement party. The hangover lasted about three years. What was a golden age of experimental drinking for my underage pals was a time of cowering abstinence for me. The sight, the smell, even the suggestion of alcohol could trigger the dry heaves.

This was awkward because I lived in a part of rural Ontario where drinking was almost a patriotic duty. There were high-minded exceptions, but for the most part, wherever you went, alcohol was never far behind. Fastball tournaments, community picnics, auction sales, and fall fairs were often cover for the real event taking place on the...