Home Is Where The Beer Is.

Even though historians found evidence to suggest that the first Thanksgiving wasn’t the scene we all learned in grade school depicting a freshly, unprocessed or frozen roasted turkey plopped on a table beside the cornucopia centerpiece, the Stouffer’s stuffing, the dish of cylindrical ribbed cranberry sauce and the Native Americans clinking glasses in joyous thanks with the strange white men carrying loud banging sticks that could kill them wearing funny hats who happened to pull into their ocean parking lot fresh off an F-U to England looking for new land and luckily had this beneficent and skilled civilization to exploit and pillage, I think that America has now morphed this tryptophan-infused holiday into a tradition that stems around the genuine thanks for the things you have and the people you’re with.


Or at least that’s the way I see it.



For the past three year now I’ve been spending Thanksgiving at my second home—Claremont, New Hampshire. My best friend Nate and his parents and little sister have been my other family going on six years now. We had met in high school at a summer program in N.H. and ever since then his house and his family have been a gracious and caring addendum to my life.

The house became the hub around which my time in Claremont was primarily spent; the Mecca of Relaxation, the Church of a Good Time. Since it is already so cozy and inviting, plus the fact that there isn't much else to do, we don't really leave.
Beer, food, movies, and the occasional trip to the town's bustling hot spot, Super Walmart, the house becomes our form of entertainment. Picking Nate up at Logan Airport, I made the trek for turkey up 89 for the liver-devastatingly third year running.

This is our tradition.

Relishing that I was temporarily freed from my teacherly fetters of a responsible adult and role model, I knew the inevitable--large amounts of alcohol would be consumed for the next four days. Beer, wine, the staple cocktail of Maker's Mark and ginger ale and the most vile liquor ever created: Wisniowka (pronounced vish-noof-kah). From the moment it touched my palette, I realized that this is what a mixture of Satan's piss, Rush Limbaugh's saliva and Moxie must taste like. This was far and above the most disgusting beverage I had ever willingly consumed. This is the kind of stuff that makes warm breast milk (really any breast milk for that matter) and antifreeze look appetizing. Honestly, it's that bad.



So why drink it? Well, mainly peer pressure but it also makes for some interesting stories. Take my first experience for example as a shining paradigm of sobriety and reason why I and others should never drink blackberry brandy again. Two years ago at the inaugural Claremont Thanksgiving, there was a barrage of Wisniowka shots being put back. I abstained because at that point in my college career, I didn't get along with liquor all too well. I was fine to stick with my Busch Light and continued to do so for several cans worth. Feeling the tremendous weight of peer pressure, I aligned my inner chi and walked up the basement stairs from the party with an I'll-show-them face to pour myself a shot of the $8 a-bottle brandy. I returned, glass brimming and walked down a few steps with shot in one hand, Busch Light in the other and proudly proclaimed to the party "You happy?!" Literally moments after I took it, I sprinted up two flights of stairs (for some reason unbeknownst to me foregoing the first floor bathroom) to projectile vomit everything I ate that night directly into the toilet. Originally brought to an extended family party way back when by one of the uncles, Wisniowka started to appear at holiday after holiday that it became a requisite item at any gathering of more than three family members.

The debauchery kicked off with a bang on Wednesday, both Nate's birthday and the ceremonious night before Thanksgiving. We were determined to make it a bang-up night, so the pre-dinner drinks were had and then the during-dinner drinks were had to prepare us for the after-dinner drinks. Three Guinnesses later at the restaurant, the parents had left and the group of four guys were jonesin' for a good time in wild, just-like-Vegas Claremont. Decisions were made and we stepped into the chilly New Hampshire night and moseyed up to Hullabaloo, the local popular drinking establishment. Though I was new to the night before Thanksgiving drinkfest, I knew what to generally expect: lots of beers and lots of awkward run-ins with people you went to high school with. Luckily for me, I didn't know anybody! So I paid the staggering cover charge ($3), walked in and drank as Nate went through the weird half-hugs and the always one-sided What Are You Doing Now? conversations. He was successful, they were still in town. The downfall of the night came when the hearing deficient or just plain forgetful bartender came to serve me. Nate was going to hit the bathroom (the dumpster out back) and wanted a long island iced tea on his tab. Like any good friend would, I went ahead and ordered a drink for myself as well. I tipped my 'I need a drink' finger, she came over and recited my order back to me: "Okay, one long island iced tea [puts up her pointer finger] and two bud lights [puts up the peace sign]." Minutes later she came back with, yes, two long island ice teas and a bud light. Closing my eyes for the two seconds of designated disappointment, I reminded her what I actually ordered. She apologized profusely and rushed to get the other beer, vowing that the second iced tea would be off the tab. So what person who has been drinking for the last two hours wouldn't turn down a free concoction that typically features five different types of liquor?

Not this guy.

I realize now that any beverage given to me with a straw will be consumed rapidly, so looking back on it I blame the bartender for all that happens next.

We had our fill of Hullabaloo as we could and moved along to the other bar in town, a Chinese food restaurant/lounge. Despite the fact that we were intoxicated, the stumbley group decided to abstain from dancing with the horde of drunken hillbillies and take a shot from the Asian bartender. A couple of us moved into the next room where several pool tables were and gathered around a few chairs. Nate motioned to the two guys playing a game next to us, mentioning he went to high school with the younger (surprise, surprise) and that he was a real asshole. So Drunk Alex thought it would be a good idea to incite an altercation, regardless of the fact that he was a few inches taller and several pounds heavier. Now I've only heckled at a few sporting events, namely baseball, soccer, club rugby (once) and women's softball (a particularly fond memory of college), but the relatively quiet, concentrated focus of pool was something I had never ventured towards. So I had to ad lib, throwing whatever came to mind. It was a bit J.V., but more or less I was just trying to be an asshole.

"Ooooh! Close shottt bro!!"
"NICE! ... THAT was nice man, good stuff."
(Talking about the older, much better pool player) "It's okay man! He's got nothing on you!"

Like I said, it was weak at best. Seemingly unphased by my juvenile taunting, he continued playing and my attention went elsewhere.

Right now, I have to throw up a disclaimer to say that I've never been one to steal; even at opportunities of daring teenage/young adult rebellion either by myself or with my peers, I was always the one with the overbearing conscience thinking we would be caught and somehow sent to a prison camp.

This trembling fear of harsh consequences emanated from an incident back in my high school days; the first time I was pulled over. It was friday night in my junior year, quite some time before alcohol became the essential ingredient of my extracurricular activities. My buddy and I were searching for something to do. I did have a girlfriend at the time, but she was a freshman thus embarrassing and the plans that night didn't include her. So we drove around for a bit, like all high schoolers do, and went back to his house deciding it would be a great idea to incorporate his long board into the evening's festivities. We got his long board, fired up his Ford Explorer, borrowed his dog's extra long leash and proceeded to tow each other up and down the adjoining street for quite some time. I remember I wore jeans, a t-shirt and Reef sandals; not the appropriate apparel or footwear when traveling on a thin wooden board at upwards of 20 miles an hour. Yes, it was stupid, but we were bored.

After a few times of switching off, it was my turn and as he hauled me up the hill---urban wakeboarding---I noticed white lights in back of me and signaled for him to pull over to let the car go by. I looked again and it was the bright spotlight on a police car and it pulled over with us.
Uh oh.
My buddy and I got reemed out by a T.O. (training officer) with his trainee. He all but physically threw the book at us. I felt like I had just committed murder. He gave us our tickets and at 11:30 on a friday night, I had to wake my mom up to tell her why I was now the proud owner of a court summons. I remember court being relatively nervewracking, especially because the two attractive girls ahead of me bawled their eyes out after being banned from Walmart for shoplifting. What's going to happen to me? I wondered. A night in jail? Did my "Clinging to Vehicles Prohibited" charge carry an automatic 4-6 month sentence? Will I be able to get into college?

I'm not a bad kid, I screamed in my head, I'm in honors classes!

The judge gave the proverbial slap on the wrist and assigned 20 hours of community service. But ever since then, I have been overly leery of the judicial gavel, even if it was only for taking clothing from Walmart or having your friend tow you on a skateboard.

Let us fast forward to Wednesday night; the scene is a Chinese restaurant. I am intoxicated. The heckling was going nowhere fast. So I gave it up and for some reason decided that stealing a pool stick would be a more entertaining alternative.

So I did.

Now those of you familiar with the game of pool and its equipment might be scratching yourself thinking how I would be able to walk out of a crowded, raucous bar with almost five feet of wood in my pants.

[I'll give you all a moment to stop snickering. But seriously though, grow up.]

But those of you very familiar with pool realize that there are some models that unscrew at the midway point to fit safely in the leather carrying case. Without resignation, I dismantled the stick before we left and shoved it into the confines of my jeans. I wonder if anyone was sober enough to realize I was walking oddly and that you could see the outline of the thin rod through my jeans. But no one mentioned anything, especially the bouncer at the door who I cordially bid adieu to on my way out.
After our departure, we made a late-night stop at Wendy's and went to someone's house where they were eating pizza and drinking a 30-pack of Genesee Cream. On our way out of their I might have borrowed two beers and a yellow Coleman flashlight.

Basically the next morning went as such:
*Enter Nate's parents at 9:30 (we got in around 3ish).
"Morning boys! It smells like beer in here. How was the night?"
Me- "Well it was pretty good, we went to th--OH MY GOD I STOLE A POOL STICK!!"

I'm sure my mother wasn't very pleased when she heard that later in the day.

Thanksgiving came and went. Good food was as much a-plenty as the company of good friends. We ate and drank and relaxed. Nate and I played some guitar. The company of my mother into my new family was comforting, and she was warmly welcomed into the tradition.

The next day was more of the same, but with a different crowd. Extended family poured in from Connecticut and the party started all over again. The Wisniowka flowed like water, prompting the onslaught of dirty jokes, some ferocious guitar playing by me and Nate, the most unorganized game of Catchphrase in the history of Catchphrase and the discovery of my latent ability to fake sign language, thus offending deaf people everywhere. (Regardless, it was a hit.)

* * *

So thinking back on the first Thanksgiving, yes, there is a sense of disappointment that the Europeans couldn't respect the differences in culture and not begin the hundreds of years of systematic prejudice and sometimes extermination of the Native Americans, many of those repercussions still prevalent to this day.

But when I think of what it means to me, I think of Claremont. I pine for the agonizing drive through Newbury and Bradford, by Lake Sunapee through the shortcuts in Newport leading me to city of a little over 13,000 inhabitants, a city where the skeletons of former mills still red with brick give it the uniquely New England feel. The houses are middle class and sometimes drab, the people you see on the street are the same ones you saw yesterday and the day before. But the house minutes down the street is a place full of wonderment, memories and love. This is the microcosm of the sublime and the mundane. A place where I got drunk for the first time, where I saw old friends and met new ones, where I laugh heartily and wear sweatpants regularly; a place where for a short time adults can be kids again, where smooth jazz station plays on the TV and rented movies are watched downstairs. A place where you won't be judged for stealing pool sticks or flashlights, but will if you don't drink Wisniowka. A place where music is played and politics are discussed and funny movies quoted to the point of absurdity. A place where stories are re-told and hugs are re-gifted; where good food is always on the stove and beer is always cooling in the garage.


Home.