My approach to alcohol
has never been about prohibition—
it’s been about perspective.
I’ve seen what drinking
can do
when it’s unchecked.

My father,
though admirable
in many ways,
struggled with alcoholism.

Watching him
come home drunk
left an indelible mark on me.
He had been in recovery
for several years
when he passed.

It wasn’t just the behavior—
it was the erosion of dignity,
the loss of control.
I learned early
that getting drunk
was not something
I wanted to emulate.

As a teenager,
I faced the usual peer pressure.
Friends handed me a beer
and expected me
to drink it all.

I would sip,
feel full
after half a twelve ounce can,
and quietly pour the rest
out the window.
I did not enjoy the taste,
and I did not
want the consequences.

I’d seen my brother
come home drunk,
heaving in the yard.

That image
stuck with me.
I did not need to ask
whether he’d had fun—
I already knew.

Raised in a fundamental Baptist church,
I was taught
that Christians
should abstain completely.

For many years,
I did.
But adulthood
brought nuance.

I learned that faith
isn’t always about rigid rules—
it is also about
thoughtful choices.

I began to explore
alcohol with caution
and curiosity.

I never drank
to get drunk.
I drank to understand,
to taste,
to reflect.

During my Navy years,
I had a few nights
I regret—
moments when I drank
more than I should have.

But even then,
I was never
chasing oblivion.
I was chasing experience.

Over time,
I developed a taste
for certain drinks:
a gin martini,
oddly satisfying
despite its harshness,

a good Merlot,
a smooth sangria.
I favored red wines,
not for the buzz,
but for the flavor.

Cristina,
my wife,
drinks very little.
She often reminds me
that wine is a luxury,
not a necessity.
I respect her stance.
It keeps me grounded.

Beer never appealed to me—
until I discovered
Stella Artois
through EVE Online.

It was smoother
than the domestic beers
I had always disliked.
Now,
when I indulge,
it’s one nine-ounce bottle.
No more. No less.

At sixty-six,
I drink rarely.
I drink with intention.
I drink like a man—
not to escape,
not to impress,
but to enjoy.
I am sober in spirit,
even when I raise a glass.

The Ordinary Path
is lit
for those who seek mercy,
memory,
and meaning.

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a flicker of light—
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No need for eloquence.
No need for certainty.
Just a lantern,
gently placed.