Here we are. New Year’s revelry has passed and now for those who imbibed too much the “price” must be paid.
The “price” might include a pounding headache that gives the impression that it will never go away regardless of what one will take.
There are those who claim that a little bit from the hair-of-the-dog-that bit you will put you back into the land of the functioning. This might be true but you must always ask yourself: 1. How big was the dog? 2. How sharp are the teeth?
It is inevitable that they always come back to bite you in the backside.
My father, Fred, was born in Germany and we all know that German and beer are almost synonymous. When Pop was finished with closing the meat market he would take his shoes off and sit down for supper and his quart of “Utica Club.”
He could hold his quart quite well but as soon as you added a pint more he would become maudlin and start “nesting.” This means he would settle in for the night wherever he was, standing up, sitting or lying down.
On auction days my dad would leave with the cattle truck to buy beef. After buying a number of steers he would head home in the truck. The cattle truck had an odd quirk — it could never pass a bar, or saloon, so Pop would lock the truck up (lest the cattle escape) and have a “few with the boys.”
About two in the morning our home phone would ring and some kindly barkeep would inform us that Fred had reached a point of petrification where he was either afraid to move or realized he couldn’t move in his current state.
My brother Fred (Jr.) and I would drive to the saloon in question and pour Pop into the car, and I would drive the cattle truck home.