My First Sip
2 boys, 1 can
I grew up in the Appalachian hills. The first thing that popped into your head about the people who live there is probably correct. I tend to take offense at claims that we’re all backward, dumb, toothless, poor, drug-dependent, and trashy, but I also can’t entirely dispute their accuracy—especially when each of those stereotypes is faithfully represented in my immediate family. My best line of defense is simply, “We’re not all that way!” And sure, we may not be, but statistically, we might as well be.
Throughout the late ’80s and early ’90s, my dad’s side of the family enjoyed a big, eventful throwdown for each summer’s family reunion. Pigs on spits, a live band full of various cousins from who-knows-where, kids running and screaming, adults drinking, bonfires getting out of control, engines revving for no reason, and barbecue. Lord, the barbecue. Thankfully, the North Carolina contingent of my family handled most of the cooking.
As a little mountain rascal, I loved these reunions. They were a chance to see kinfolk from all over and play with other kids who had something in common with me: family. Not to mention the doting old ladies who thought you were just the cutest thing—they knew your name, but you didn’t know theirs. It’s hard to feel bad about yourself as a kid at a family reunion. You’re kind of the point, if you think about it.
The cousin I was closest with, Charlie, was one I saw regularly because he lived in my hometown. He was a year older, and we spent a lot of summers together. Charlie was always the instigator—the rebel, the troublemaker. I was much more mild, obedient, and timid. This dynamic often led to me being coaxed into things I didn’t want to do, just because Charlie was good at applying pressure and convincing me everything would work out, no one would find out, and we’d never get in trouble. That was never true. We always got in trouble. But I followed along anyway.
In 1991, at the Terry Family Reunion, when I was six and Charlie was seven, we commenced a bit of hijinks. Our dads were avid light beer drinkers. For the occasion, both of their pickup trucks were backed into the lot, coolers brimming with ice and decked out with cans of early-’90s variety. Even at my young age, I knew—and had been told—that those were not kid beverages and I should stay away.
In fact, the title of this story is a lie. I had gotten something stuck in my throat once, and my dad offered me a sip of his beer. It was so gross that it probably saved my life—my entire body revolted as I spewed out the sip along with whatever had me clogged. But Charlie, always on a quest for mischief, thought we should sneak a beer from the cooler and run up to the woods to drink it.
I said no. It was gross, and we’d get in trouble. Why couldn’t we just keep playing tag like six- and seven-year-olds? But Charlie wasn’t having it. He wanted one of those beers, and I felt I had no choice but to go along with it. We waited until our dads were deep into a game of horseshoes a few dozen feet away, then silently tiptoed down from the woods to the tailgate of my uncle’s truck. I reached up and pushed the lid open while Charlie reached over the cooler’s top lip, felt around the ice, and latched onto a can. “Got it!” I let the lid go, and we scrammed up into the woods undetected.
After a few yards, we sat near a tree to survey the loot. A black-and-gold Miller Genuine Draft can glowed before us. Some ice still clung to the rim, beads of water dripping down the side. The freezing-cold aluminum burned into our uncalloused palms. Charlie dug in a fingernail and cracked it open, the sound echoing off nearby trees like a gunshot.
Charlie knocked back a hearty sip. He nodded as he swallowed, as if this was all worth it and he was savoring top-tier deliciousness. But his face—contorted into a Robert De Niro-like frown—told a different story. He handed me the can, and reluctantly, I brought it up to my mouth for a sip. As I did, Charlie tilted the back of the can, and more than I bargained for emptied into my maw. Glug, glug! Spit!
“Ugh! Man! Stop! Gross!” I had High Life dripping off my chin and collar. It smelled horrible and tasted worse. “I don’t want any more!”
“Shh! You’ll get us caught!” Charlie looked indignant now, even though he was the one who caused the ruckus. He grabbed the can and took another sip.
There we were, two young boys overlooking a gorgeous valley dotted with our family enjoying a beautiful summer’s day. Charlie sipped away like a sixty-year-old drifter opining over his lost community, while I sat beside him like his bitter, scolded wife, wishing he’d let this go and just enjoy his time with me—sober.
A few moments later, we heard footsteps. Charlie hid the half-drunk beer can near a tree and motioned for me to stand. “Pretend we’re just walkin’!” So that’s what we did. My uncle John came into view. I always called him Uncle John, but as I write this, I realize he wasn’t my uncle. He was someone’s uncle, and someone had called him Uncle John, so I assumed that’s what you call this guy. Anyway, he saw us and said, “Hey, what are you boys doin’?”
We lied. We said we were just exploring. Turns out, Uncle John needed to pee. “You boys gotta pee? I gotta pee.” I could go for a pee. We followed him over to a tree, and the three of us let it go. This part of the story is weird, I admit. But it’s tied so strongly to the memory of the beer that the two are hardcoded in my mind as one singular event.
Uncle John just needed to pee. Why he chose the woods, I don’t know. We’re mountain people. Maybe the bathroom was full, or maybe there wasn’t a bathroom at all—I don’t remember. But I do know he didn’t expect to run into two half-lit mountain rascals. So there we were, peeing on trees, when I curiously glanced at Uncle John and thought, One day, mine will be that big!?
After tinkling, shaking, zipping, and heading back down, we thought we’d gotten away with it. But as soon as we came into view of my and Charlie’s dads—“Boys! How was that beer?” Dangit.
Charlie tried to refute the accusation. He was never a good liar, though he should’ve been, given all the practice. “Huh!? What are you talking about?”
I could still taste it and smell it on my shirt. “Gross!” I blurted out. Charlie shot me an angry glare. “What? It was!”
Our dads laughed. They didn’t make a big deal out of it, but Charlie’s dad did remind us that he counted his beers and we shouldn’t be sneaking any more out. Fair enough.
Years later, I’m not sure my cousin ever stopped sneaking off to pound beers. I was a little more responsible, thankfully. Funny how you can look back and see the signs of a person from an early age. Also, I’m nowhere near packing an Uncle John. If it runs in the family, he was too distant for it to count for me.