When my son was about five years old, his dad and I thought it might be good to visit southern California and take our son to Disneyland. Of course, a visit to the boy’s grandma was on the list.
Grandma Mary had long ago ditched Uncle/Stepdad Kenny and was now married to husband number three, Tom. For some inexplicable reason, I left my child with her for several hours, and she decided the two of them would attend a small neighborhood carnival.
While they were partaking of the joys and wonders the carnies provided, my son wanted a caramel apple. My mother told him they would get one on the way out. Instead, they rode on rides and bought other types of sugary snacks. When they walked by the apple stand and my son started asking for the promised treat, my mother told him honestly that they had spent every cent she had.
He was puzzled since he had never been with anyone who spent all of her money.
In order to divert him, my mother took my son to the little dive bar frequented by herself and her husband. When they decided to leave, Tom (who had imbibed quite a bit of alcohol) insisted on driving. Very quickly, my son snatched the keys from the ignition and said:
Here you go Grandma. He’s too drunk to drive.
My mother was very proud of him and insisted my son must have observed other drunks in order to react so fast. We honestly had no other drunks around. Tom was our only one and we forgave and understood his tendency toward heavy drinking. So many people agreed they would have to drink like fishes in order to live with my mother.