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Granny was a tee-totaler and vocal about it! She'd expound at length on her father's alcoholism during her early childhood. The fact that he eventually sobered up and became one of the most famous Baptist preachers in the State of Texas didn't enter into her dissertations on demon rum.

Widowed at an early age she had raised four children alone and never remarried. Her entire life had been spent, for the most part, in a very small, rural Texas town, alone. She established her core opinions early on in life, never relinquished them and was the epitome of that strong, Texas woman that lived through the Great Depression and came out on the other side tough as nails.

Her four children had left home and Granny had been alone a long time when mother brought me, a six-month-old infant, to her to raise. Family members have since said that raising me gave Granny a new lease on life. Be that as it may, I had every opportunity to study a true tee-totaler in action.

Somewhere in the raising process Granny had failed to keep her four, adult children from enjoying a drink now and then and when anyone of them, or all of them, came for a visit there was always a bottle(s) sitting on the kitchen counter from which to mix drinks. I remember all those visits fondly as there was lots of laughter and great, good times. Each person had different tastes and the bottle might be bourbon, scotch, rum, vodka, etc.

I innocently watched with interest, as without fail, Granny poured a bit, out of every bottle that briefly resided on the kitchen counter, into an old, grass-covered Chianti wine bottle that sat on the spice shelf above her kitchen stove. It takes great imagination to conjure up the wicked taste evolving from mixing so many different liquors. She'd do this furtively and quickly and never mentioned it to anyone. Once in the old wine bottle the mixture of spirits became whatever Granny chose it to be, which was anything but something one would want to imbibe.

At Christmas time Granny always made egg nog. My cup was taken out before Granny laced it liberally with contents from the Chianti bottle. I've seen grown men gasp for breath and pound their chests after one taste of that indescribable concoction. My most vivid memories, however, were when the dowager of the family, Great Aunt Nanny, would come for her annual Christmas Eve visit.

Aunt Nanny was over 90-years-old, infirm, nearly blind and walked with a cane. The rest of the year she was quiet, busied herself with crocheting,

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