In fifth grade I had a still in the basement. I wanted to take some to school to share, but the teacher was kind of nosey, and she was bad enough sober. I don't know what proof I produced, but it caught fire easily, and the flame was nearly invisible. That was scary. I quit making it.
At Christmas break in 7th grade, a boy my age moved to town. His mother was very fussy about keeping him away from bad influences. My mother assured her that she felt the same, so I became his only approved playmate. In the autumn, my mother had bought a gallon of cider, with so much apple that it was opaque. She put it in the back entry to stay cool. In January, I discovered that she'd put it by the freezer's evaporator, which had kept it warm. It fizzed and burned my tummy. I would invite my new friend home after school. I'd pour him a glass, and we'd drink at the dining-room table, in front of my mother. He said he'd never drunk anything so delicious. After a couple of sips, he'd began laughing prodigiously at everything I said. I'm glad my mother never caught on. She would have been heartbroken to know she'd allowed perfectly good cider to spoil.
Later, aboard ship, I'd keep several flat pint bottles of Southern Comfort under my mattress. Once I drank a pint out of a coffee mug as I played chess with the officer of the deck. I was smoking my pipe, and he never realized I wasn't sipping Pepsi.
Or, clear vodka for that matter. Or, craft beer.
