The Night I Figured Out My Grandfather Was An Alcoholic

Photography: Alcoholic? Vision and scenes of Hell! by antwerpenR

I come from a long line of alcoholics. Both sides of my family, for as many generations back as we can remember. Sometimes it was called Alzheimer’s, or senility, or dementia, but more likely it was simple alcoholism.

When I was maybe 10, my Boy Scout troop decided to camp for the weekend at a local state park. This was supposed to be a dads-and-sons kinda thing. My stepfather was mean and decrepit, so my mother decided very early that he wasn’t going to do it. My grandfather was much more outdoorsy, so mom asked him to go with me.

We packed everything up, and loaded into the Scoutmaster’s van. My friend David came along, as he was enjoying his passing fancy with Boy Scouts (I was much more hard-core for a lot longer period).

We arrived at the park, and packed our gear in to our camping spot. Not being very experienced, it looked like a long hike to me. Later, I discovered it was just a camping spot with mowed grass, like every other state park in the country.

We set up our tent, and my grandfather went inside and laid down his sleeping bag and gear. Then he went off to the campfire, as some of the other dads were gathering there while the boys goofed around.

David and I unpacked our gear, and set up our sleeping spots in the tent. We were horsing around like young boys do, and David pushed me, and I fell onto my grandfather’s sleeping bag. I felt a hard lump under my back, and rolled over. Hidden under the sleeping bag was an unopened bottle of gin.

The tent was dark, so I had to hold it up to see what it was. Of course, that meant David saw what it was also. I remember feeling shame and embarrassment, like our secret was out. David didn’t know quite what to say, so I put it back where I found it, and we quietly finished setting up our beds. We returned to the campfire, and nothing was said about it again.

There was always doubt about the drinking problems of my relatives. If you asked too many questions, you were making a big deal out of nothing, or you misunderstood something, or took a conversation out of context. The answer was never “Your grandfather is an alcoholic,” it was always something else. There was always an explanation.

Taking a bottle of gin to a Boy Scout campout didn’t make my grandfather an alcoholic. But it did confirm the pattern that was weaving it’s way just under the surface of my childhood. My grandfather was a large influence on my life, and I loved him dearly. In some ways he was like the father I never had. But he also smelled of old-man and gin. And that’s a smell that still makes me gag, 30 years later.