I never was much of a drinker.
Aside from a bad semester or two early in my college years, I never allowed drinking to become a habit. Even at my college worst, I only drank once per week.
I never drank a drop in high school, though my parents would have allowed me a bit of wine or beer under their supervision, had I chosen to imbibe. With an alcoholic cousin on one side of the family and an alcoholic uncle on the other, I was certain to have the gene.
I figured that if I never drank on a regular basis, I could avoid the curse. Plus, I never learned to like the taste.
Once I moved to New Orleans, of course, I was swimming in a sea – or some would say a sewer – of alcohol. Alcohol is served with breakfast down there. Most folks keep a full bar stocked at home. Drive-thru daiquiri barns are legal. When it comes to alcohol, New Orleans is the polar opposite of Graham County.
Yet my drinking habits in New Orleans were even more conservative than in my youth. I would hold on to the same drink for the duration of a party, just to keep the hosts from offering me more. Sometimes I would up-end my glass into the bathroom sink before going home. Alcohol was everywhere, but I hardly ever drank. A mimosa with brunch was a fine thing and when friends visited from out of town, a Pimm’s Cup at the Napoleon House was a treat.
Still, I would estimate my yearly alcohol consumption in New Orleans at around six drinks per year. By New Orleans standards, I was a teetotaler.
Then I moved to Graham County.
The idea that alcohol was forbidden triggered a rebellion in me. Every time I crossed the county line, I would order a cider with my sandwich or a margarita with my burrito. I bucked against the idea of prohibition. Though I chided myself for being too reactive, my response was a normal feature of human psychology.
As Mark Twain said, “It is the prohibition that makes anything precious.”
So for the six months I called Graham County home, I drank every chance I got. It was not often.
Once I moved to Cherokee County, the urge faded. I had a glass of wine on Christmas Eve, a spiked eggnog on Christmas Day and one boozy hot chocolate for New Year’s, but I drank out of politeness rather than desire. Without the mystique of the forbidden, alcohol had lost its appeal.
Not only do I now live outside of Graham County, but by the time this goes to print, I will also work elsewhere. I no longer have a dog in the alcohol fight, but I know this: Graham County did what New Orleans could not.
Graham County drove me to drink.
Robbi Pounds’ farewell column will appear in next week’s edition of The Graham Star.