The Damn Liquor Store [Reader Post]

“There are indeed certain Liquors, which being applied to our Passions, or to Fire, produce Effects the very Reverse of those produced by Water… Among these the generous Liquor called Punch is one.”
Henry Fielding: Tom Jones ¬~ 1749

My Friend Barb Wire Johnny kept a 1940 Chevrolet pickup at the home ranch. I don’t think he ever drove or had a license, but his mother drove before her dementia began to set-in. After that, Johnny couldn’t trust her to be alone while he trained horses or went out on the trap line: he was forced to have her committed to the old folks home in Dawson Creek.

I inherited the job of chauffeur; a fourteen year old, unpaid, and unlicensed (no driver’s license, it was a different era) chauffeur. Every three or four months, I would drive Johnny to mile One O One on the Alaska Highway, turn South towards Fort St John and continue South on the Alaska Highway to Mile Zero at Dawson Creek, so Johnny could visit his mother. It wasn’t really a chore, I enjoyed being with Johnny, he was a magician with a horse and he taught me many of the mystical and spiritual relationships that can exist between men and horses, things that I still use on a daily basis.

My dad, a taciturn man who seldom shows emotion, had a soft spot for Johnny and his mother. They were handsome people who had wandered off the Reservation years earlier. I have always suspected that my departed mother, a beautiful Indian Princess type, who made men literally stumble over each other and push each other out of the way to be the one to open a door for her, was related to Johnny and his mother. All the local natives called each other cousin and they probably were, for all I could make sense of their family relationships.

The soft black flowing hair, the eyes and complexion were all similar among Johnny, his mother and my mother; most of the natives in that area had coarse straight hair: that and the fact that my dad would have the battery charged, the tires pumped up with a couple of spares and rims in the back with a full tank of gas, made me think that we were really at least cousins. My dad didn’t do this for me nor anyone else, this was a special deal that was only for Johnny and his mother.

This was going to be Johnny’s Christmas visit, I made my specialty, Captain’s Punch, and had it stored behind the seat in three Mason jars. My dad gave me $50.00 and specific instructions: don’t drive over 40 mph, don’t let Johnny get too drunk, stop by the junk yard and see if they have any good tires for the truck and don’t pay over three dollars, to stay at the Mile Zero Hotel and make sure that none of the oil field roughnecks beat Johnny up. He knew I would only have a glass or two of the Captain’s Punch, Liquor has never been a part of my life: I like a glass or two of red wine with dinner, but only in a medicinal sense.

Soon Johnny and I were off like a herd of turtles. The old truck would pull some of the hills at 20 mph, going down I’d pump the brakes and keep us at under 40 mph. On the down hill grades, Johnny would pull his Western hat down with his right hand with a big grin like he was going for fast gallop on a colt. We were laughing and having a great time when Johnny saw an Indian woman walking along the road about a mile ahead. He pointed and said, “It’s Clarice my cousin, pull over and we’ll give her a ride.”

I never doubted Johnny’s instincts or tracking ability, but this woman was just a speck on the horizon, how could he know who it was?

We pulled up along side of her and Johnny jumps out and says, “Clarice, hop in, we’re going to town, where ya headed?”

In the thick native brogue, she replied, “Goin Likka Storr.”

She was glad to see Johnny, the native women all thought Johnny was pretty special, even the ones who were three times bigger than him. Let’s say Johnny never lacked for female companionship, especially when he needed attention or a new suit of clothes.

She climbed in between us and Johnny said, “Clarice this is Skookum, he’s Ida Faye’s boy.” She looked at me in disbelief with her head held back and said, “Heard Ida had boy.”

You see, her shocked expression was understandable, when they rolled the genetic dice; I came up with auburn hair, a white hide, and green eyes. Consequently, I have been able to witness bigotry and racism through a special prism; a prism that is viewed from both directions.

Johnny decided that he should break out the Captain’s Punch so that he and Clarice could have a drink for the old times. They rattled on in bits and pieces of three languages, English, French, and their Native tongue, while I concentrated on the gravel road.

After about three drinks from the Punch Jar, Johnny fell asleep, and it was just me and Clarice. Suddenly she reached down and grabbed the inside of my thigh, she turned and looked me right in the eye and said “You pashinate!” My right foot nearly pushed the throttle through the rusty floorboard. The engine was roaring, but thankfully, the truck wasn’t going any faster.

I stammered in desperation, “I don’t think I am, uh, interested, no I don’t want to.”

She grabbed my thigh harder and higher and again said, “You pashinate!”

This time I jumped off the seat and hit my head on the top of the cab. In a high pitched voice I lied and yelled out that I had a girl friend.

With a voice that betrayed a desperation she yelled back, “You pashin Damn Likka Storr.”

I made a ‘U’ turn on the Alaska Highway and felt an enormous sense of relief as I pulled up to the liquor store. It was still against the law to sell liquor to Indians, but at 14, I could walk in and buy a bottle of whiskey for Clarice. Johnny and Clarice had no more Native blood than me, but they looked the part.

Johnny asked Clarice if she wanted to go to Dawson Creek with us. She said, “Hell no, need no blanket in Hell, that damn Skookum boy, he damn bad driver.”

Now this story would be just another forgotten story if I had been listening and understood the Native patois a little better. After all, Clarice told me I was pashinate, it was my fault I didn’t understand that she meant I was passing it.

In 2008, Barack Obama told us his intentions: he used the same terms the Marxists, Socialists, Communists, Progressives, and Useful Idiots have been using for over a hundred years. Wealth Redistribution, Hope, and Change have been key words for Leftists since the French Revolution; Obama deserves credit, he was bold enough to use them in a national campaign. Most of us were too astounded to say, “He can’t really be a Communist, he must be naïve, he can’t be serious.” Oh! But he was very serious; he pulled the wool over our eyes and gained the most powerful position in the world; all because we were reluctant to call him a Communist.

With Clarice, I can use he excuse that I didn’t understand her that well: there was no confusion as to the precise words Obama used. It is up to us to be determined that we will never be infiltrated by Communists or Socialists again, especially those who tell us we are passing the damn liquor store.

The Captain’s Punch
Makes three quarts

Ingredients:
4 lemons
½ cup sugar
1 ½ cup sweet white wine
1 750 ml of cognac
6 cups chilled water

Peel lemons, removing little of the white pith, and put peels in a bowl, save the lemons. Add sugar and crush peeling and sugar with wooden spoon until the sugar turns yellow and slushy.

Juice the lemons and add the juice to the bowl. Stir until the sugar dissolves, use cheese cloth or a fine sieve to strain mixture into a punch bowl or Mason Jars. Pour in wine and cognac and chill. Serve with a large block of ice in center to slow dilution with melting ice. Will disappear fairly quickly at parties. Use good cognac for a better punch, Cheers!