I remarked to some friends at dinner a few weeks ago how my recent proclivity for beer in the house most days of the week, combined with a growing addiction to Peter Pan Crunchy on a knife after Charlie Rose is beginning to add to that Firestone I appear to wear under my belt around my mezzo thorax. Call it a beer belly if you like. The host commented that at least peanut butter is decent nutrition, and a beer or two a night (three on Sundays) wouldn’t kill my liver. True words. Even so, I THINK the extra poundage contributed to a significant lower back strain three weeks ago. Just because I didn’t whine ant Hon’ & “Nine doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and I mention it here only to make a point. For almost two weeks I felt like I had slipped a disk or severly pinched a nerve; could barely sleep on my side, never on my back, and walking, I had to maintain posture just so to avoid stabbing pains, like spasms down there. During all the walking for the neighborhood pickup, I felt like I was 99 years old and a heartbeat away from a hospice. But I took a breather from lifting pianos, stayed off my feet when I could after that, and resolved to back away from beer and peanut butter. The approach paid off, the pain has gone almost completely away, I can lie on my back, and I’m sleeping straight through the night. I intend to begin walking for my health, too. On foot I can be at Washington Park in eight minutes, and after that, it’s all gravy, so to speak.
That epiphany and new resolution resulted in my coming home from the grocer yesterday with no Peter Pan for the first time since last fall, and no beer since March. Making good my commitment was easier because of a happy surprise in the wine aisle.
What had driven me to beer was the high cost of wine. We all have our standards when it comes to value for the refreshment dollar and my line in the sand read, “I will not pay more than $10 for a gallon of wine.”
My connection with Carlo Rossi wine goes back to the 70s. I was living in an apartment here in town, but Mom had not yet retired to Florida to be closer to her sisters and their families. Every Sunday like clockwork, I would be invited over for fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans, and I’d arrive about 4, just to be sociable and chat. Soon after arriving, Mom would say, “If you’ll go over to Thrifty for a gallon of my Chablis, I’ll also buy your beer,” And that was that. Her wine: Carlo Rossi Chablis by the gallon. I believe it lasted her a week. And I’d always take the last three beers of the six pack of Olympia or Pabst home with me.
Years later I went to Hardee’s on South Grand on Wednesdays for their four piece fried chicken special (The BEST fried chicken was at the Red Barn at 2nd at South Grand; later became a video store and is now a Spaghetti Shoppe) for $5.99 and since Midway Liquor was just down the street, I’d pick up a gallon of Carlo Rossi Burgundy. The price, tax included for each thrilling taste sensation, was $6.50.
Back at Shop ‘N’ Save, I had resolved that with no beer, if Rossi was less than $9.99 it’s been since FEBRUARY, I’d buy Burgundy. It was — $8.19 — HALLELUJIAH!, HUZZAH HUZZAH! — and I did. If I had a real job, I’d have bought a case or two or three. (Poverty has its positive side, I reckon.) Also bought a baked chicken, two packs of PRINGLES, and feasted Tuesday night. Merry ripping CHRISTMAS! In my joy, over the remembrance of Christ’s birth, I consumed half the chicken, half the Pringles and half the wine. This was a one-time indulgence with the Burgundy.
I am resolved to start walking today. Once around the park, between All Things Considered and Front Line.
My fallback position in case the wine doesn’t work out is ice cream. I can endure anything during the day if there’s ice cream, or wine, or beer waiting at home for me. And as I have come to know, if none of those are waiting at home for me . . . . I will prevail just the same.
Live long . . . . . and proper.
