Back in the day, our basement wasn’t just a hangout—it was a teenage Shangri-La with vinyl grooves, checkerboard tiles, and just enough parental distance to feel like we were living on the edge. My brother and I would head down there with our friends to spin records, swap stories, and—unbeknownst to each other—conduct covert operations involving Dad’s liquor cabinet.
We weren’t throwing wild parties or reenacting scenes from Animal House. No, our rebellion was more… artisanal. A sip here, a splash there. Just enough to feel like we were pulling off a heist worthy of a Saturday matinee. And we had a system: mark the bottle with a crayon, take your sample, top it off with water, and erase the evidence like a magician with a disappearing act. Genius, right?
Except we were both doing it. Independently and repeatedly. By the time Dad poured himself a highball, it had the alcohol level of a snowball. His bourbon gradually became as colorless as gin with less kick than a Shirley Temple.
Our parents were highball aficionados—elegant glassware, fizzy mixers, and drinks so gentle they could’ve been served at a toddler’s tea party. The real excitement came during neighborhood card nights. At our house, the games were quiet, strategic, and sober—unless someone brought beer, which we hadn’t yet figured out how to misappropriate. But when the party moved down the block to a neighbor’s house — That’s when the cards flew, the rules bent, and the laughter spilled into the street like a runaway keg. We could hear them singing from a block away, and we knew: those folks weren’t sipping watered-down whiskey.
It wasn’t until last month, during a visit with my brother, that we finally compared notes about our teenage years. We were mildly surprised that we’d been running parallel bootlegging operations like two competing moonshiners. We laughed until our ribs hurt—not just at the memory, but at the sheer absurdity of thinking we’d fooled anyone. Dad probably knew. Maybe he even preferred his bourbon with a splash of sibling sabotage and a twist of teenage ingenuity. Maybe he was glad nobody got rip-roaring drunk in our house.
🧪 Teenage Highball Recipe
- 1 part Dad’s bourbon
- 3 parts tap water
- 1 crayon (for marking the bottle)
- 2 stealthy siblings
- Stir with guilt. Serve with laughter.
Bottoms up!
Peace & Love, and all of the above,
Earl
earlthepearl137 
Funny I hung out
Love the Raiders! Especially after all those years! Love it!
Donald and his girlfriend Kathleen will be here on Saturday to give me a pre-birthday party. Who knows what stories I’ll learn after some full-strength Bourbon has loosened our lips.
So. My dad was a hippie and did not keep booze around. However, he sold pot by the ounce, and had a dozen prepacked baggies sitting open in his dresser drawer at all times.
And ya girl here would sneak in his room when he wasn’t home and nip a bud from each bag, and walk out of the house with a complete ounce.
Nobody ever twigged to it. 😀
I’m surprised that his customers didn’t complain about light ounces, but then again, his customers probably didn’t have gram scales, and who would miss a pinch.
He actually sold heavy ounces, so nobody really noticed, and I took just a wee bud from each bag. Not even a joint’s worth per baggie. 🙂
Back then gram scales were expensive. Most people used those weird keychain scales, like this one at Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Postal-portable-analog-weight-detection/dp/B000HKPN7I/ref=sr_1_3
Yeah, I had one of those.
I love this story! It made me smile soooo much. My parents (and both sets of grandparents) always had impressive drinks cabinets/bars. My Dad, especially, loved to play mine host and mix up drinks for his guests. Your story reminded me so much of aspects of my childhood, so thank you 🙂
I’m glad we both got to relive fond memories.
I unsubscribed to you so bye.
Well written and what parents knew and didn’t know will remain a mystery that keeps the laughter coming.
My folks did a great job of masking what they obviously knew. LOL.
Where is Jennifer Thomas at? Where is Ms Anthrope? Where is the cyberbullies at? Where is the cyber stalkers at? Where is the cyber harassers at? What do you do on the weekdays? What do you do on the weekends? Do you know if you post about people then there is always consequences? What are you doing?
This is hilarious! For some reason it reminded me of drinking sundowners (certainly not watered down!) with my hubbie’s grandparents in Arizona (happy days.)
Cheers to those happy days.