Hair of the Dog

Dear Boo and Bubble,

In the South of long ago, there was a custom for young women that had a true purpose – the debut.  Those of privilege, especially plantation owners, afforded a proper education for their daughters, with an emphasis on the social graces and fitting etiquette.  Once she reached the age of maturity, she was introduced to society at a formal debut presentation.  She became a debutante (French for "female beginner") and now was suitable to marry.  The debut gave her family the opportunity to display her to eligible bachelors within a select circle.  The cloistered life up until that time kept to a minimum the risk that these dainty ladies might fall in love with some rapscallion and disgrace the family name.

As with many things, this custom has now lost its point, but still continues in tradition.  Parents spend thousands of dollars each year on gowns, tuxedos, orchestras and balls “presenting” daughters to groups of people they already know.  The only thing that can top the expense is the wedding of that daughter to some man who, more than likely, wasn’t at her debut and might not have been included on the guest list even if he’d been known.

The modern debutante era also had one other outcome.  Before all of the laws restricting the age for alcohol consumption found their way to the books, the festivities surrounding a debut gave young people their first opportunity for unfettered drinking.  Parents knew this and, as a practical matter, handled the fact in various ways.  Some encouraged abstinence – wishful thinking.  Some invoked their own experiences of horror with the “hair of the dog,” hoping to instill fear – again, wishful thinking.  In our family, the approaches ran the gamut as well, but they all had one theme in common – your parents will always be onto you, so just don’t even try to outsmart them 

Your great, great, great Uncle Dick Skinner told his son, Bryant, that it didn’t matter how much Bryant drank at the ball or what time he came home – as long as he was in a deer stand by sunrise with his gun to help the hunting party bag some venison.  Many a time, Bryant found himself in the stand in tuxedo or tails, not necessarily in the best condition for shooting a gun.  I can just imagine the conversation going on between the deer.

“Hey, Martha, get over here.”

“What is it, Fred?”

“That guy with the fancy clothes is back up in the stand.”

“Oh, good.  I’ll go get the children.  Guess we live to graze another day, don’t we!”

Your great, great Aunt Sarah Bryant probably had the most practical way of dealing with drinking too much at a debutante ball.  When your cousin Jamie Bryant came home in the wee hours of the morning, head throbbing and stomach churning, he tried to be as quiet as possible making his way up the stairs to his bedroom.  About half way up the staircase, on one of the steps, he found a silver tray.  Resting on it, in neat display, were a glass of water, two Alka-Seltzers and two aspirin.   No judgment, just a solution to what she knew was his circumstance.

However, for me the winner of the funniest “too much to drink” story in our family goes to someone who will remain anonymous for these purposes because I don’t have his permission to tell it and he may not have ever confessed to his own children.  Suffice it to say you have a cousin who came home inebriated for the first time and he desperately wanted to get into his bed without his parents suspecting.

The routine in the household was that his parents would stay awake, but be in their bed until all of the children made it safely home.  When you came home, you were to report to them and wish them a goodnight before turning in yourself.  Your cousin knew this routine inside out and decided that, with focused concentration, he could make it through the motions and his parents would never suspect his condition.

He came up the stairs to their bedroom and walked inside.  They both were still awake, reading.

“I’m home,” he said with conviction and hoping there wouldn’t be any questions.

“Good.  Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, but I’m kind of tired.  Gonna hit the hay.”

“Sleep tight then.  Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He backed up to exit the room, grabbed the door handle and shut the door behind him. 

“Ahhhh…I made it!” he thought to himself with intense relief.

At which point he turned and walked into what seemed to be some sort of wall that gave way when he moved, but wouldn’t let him through.  He thrashed around hitting at it like punching pillows.  The lubricated synapses of his brain finally connected and he realized he was in his mother’s closet.  To his body’s great relief, he slowly sagged down on his haunches, atop the shoes tidily lining the floor, awaiting his fate.

The closet door opened and there stood his father, a suppressed grin about to explode on his face.

“Need some help?” 

“Yeah…that would be great.”