Otherwise known as the time I got Dad drunk.
This story makes me laugh, and I laugh even more imaging re-telling it with Dad around. He'd emphasize certain points and add the blustered flair of fake-denial to other parts of it. The true story goes like this:
Dad was single-parenting in the basement in Brentwood Bay with three of his four kids. I, the eldest, was overseas in Europe and came home to finish my final year of highschool. When I came back, some Germans smuggled wine and beer through customs for me, and I not-so-subtly smuggled the beer and wine into the basement apartment. I thought I'd test the boundaries at home by cracking open a tall can (called a "tallie" here but a normal beer in Europe), putting my feet up, leaning back and taking a bite out of a stale pretzel I'd taken out of my suitcase.
Let me step back for a minute and set the stage. Some of you knew Dad as the whiskey-drinking-poetic-kilt-guy. This was years before that. In fact, when I was raised by my parents, they were both teetotalers. They never drank alcohol (and yes, LOTS of tea), and I was told in no uncertain way that alcohol was evil and that if I drank all kinds of terrible things were bound to happen to me.
Living in Europe I was quickly cured of my Teetotal upbringing (and many other things thank god) and I came to appreciate and enjoy a great brew, excellent food, and tasty wines. Coming back home there were a number of uncertainties - one was: "how would Dad react to me drinking alcohol?"
According to Dad, watching me walk in the door and promptly crack a beer, relax, and eat a pretzel was a bit of a shock. He wasn't sure what to make of it in that moment, other than I'd changed. I remember him sitting at the other end of the table and smiling. Or was it half smiling and half grimacing?
A few evenings later, it was late and just Dad and I were awake sitting at the table. He asked me "Do you think you could teach me how to drink?" He was serious. He got up, turned around toward the fridge, opened a bottom left cupboard, reached in, and pulled out a dusty bottle of some no-name spanish red wine with a red bull on it. He said "I got a couple bottles of this stuff that a co-worker gave to me at a secret santa last year. I didn't know what to do with it." I grinned, slapped him on the back, pointed at the bottle and said "I can DEFINITELY teach you how to drink that!"
I got out a couple of tall water glasses, and we sat beside each other at the table pictured below. I cracked the bottle and showed him how to smell the wine, identify the "notes," (at this point Dad would interrupt and say something clever like 'I always wondered why people play mandolin better after drinking' or 'I never could hit those notes') swoosh the wine around in your mouth to aerate it, swallow and appreciate. It was a thick red spanish wine, not all that good but an easy drink. Dad did as instructed and declared that "it wasn't half bad" or something like that, and quickly downed his glass of wine, drinking it a bit like juice.
A while later, we'd nearly drank the bottle, and things got interesting. Dad started laughing extra loud, his face was flush red, and at one point he actually fell off the bench and onto the floor! The fun part though is that he sprang back up and said "I don't know why I did that!" I said "Dad, you are DRUNK!" and he replied "I am NOT DRUNK!" Smiled, sat down and drank some more. Offered for him to try some of my wine, and we did. He started giggling so much at one point he leaned forward onto the table, looked up at me, and said between breaths "I don't know why I can't stop laughing!" I said "Dad, you are drunk!" and he said "I am NOT drunk!" This went on for a while until I told him it was time for him to go to bed. We had a good time, the whole time Dad falling one way or the other, giggling and laughing, and denying that he was drunk.
At the end of the night I, at 17, guided my 41-year-old plastered Dad to bed. It was great fun, and a good memory. From then on I could usually convince him to join me for a glass of wine (and later, scotch), but that was the first and last time I got Dad right proper drunk.
PS: He also trusted me, and never expressed worry or concern about my drinking (I was, and never have been a big drinker). He was a good Dad, and I enjoyed my grade 12 year with him and my siblings and family in the basement in Brentwood Bay. After I graduated I got a job with the RCMP, and the first time I drank underage in a bar was with a bunch of cops!