Part 1 - Innocence and Secrets – Alcohol in My Childhood

My first sip of alcohol was likely from a stubby brown bottle of beer—either handed to me by my father to curb my curiosity, or taken in secret when no one was watching. In those early years, alcohol wasn’t exactly a fixture in our home, but it wasn’t entirely absent either. 

A keg of beer would appear when the branding crew wrapped up their weekend work on the cattle. My mother kept a bottle of Mogan David wine tucked away—deep purple and sweet—but I only recall it making an appearance once or twice. There was homemade chokecherry wine brewed in the basement at one point, though I don’t think anyone actually drank it. By the time it was ready, it had basically turned to vinegar. It wasn’t part of daily life—more like a forgotten experiment that quietly fizzled out. 

But there was something else—a silence that held more weight than the few drinks we ever saw. Years later, when we were moving from the homestead, my two older brothers found something tucked away in a storage loft only reachable by a ladder. Dozens of empty vodka bottles. An army of them. All hidden. All drained. All his. 

I only learned about that discovery after my father’s suicide—an event I am 100% certain was influenced, if not hastened, by alcohol. 

I also remember my father always carrying a little box of Sen-Sen—those weird little black licorice breath mints which later came in a red and gold foil pouch.  As a kid, I loved them just as much as he did. Now I realize it was probably his way of masking the faint but unmistakable vodka smell. Vodka doesn’t have a strong scent like some liquors; it’s more like rubbing alcohol with a twist. Those mints must have been a small comfort to him—a little sweet relief in the middle of something much harder. I loved those Sen-Sen myself, probably because they were tied up in that complicated mix of love, pain, and quiet desperation. 

Looking back, alcohol wasn’t a celebration for me; it was wrapped in curiosity, secrecy, and a big dollop of quiet grief. It was less about drinking and more about the invisible family stories we never talked about. And for my dad, it was a coping mechanism that eventually became too heavy to carry. 

Author’s Note:

This is where it began—not just my curiosity with alcohol, but my journey of uncovering family secrets and silent grief. If this part of my story speaks to something in you, I invite you to read more in my memoir, Reason to Sing – An Inspiring Journey Overcoming Trauma, Abuse, and Betrayal. It’s not about blame. It’s about breaking the silence. 👉 Available on Amazon and Audible –
Click here

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