The Great Coors Adventure

Before I begin I need you to know that for the most part I do not drink. Ohbeer yes, water and the occasional soda and fruit juices. But I really don’t drink.

When I see the question, “Do you drink?” on doctor’s admit forms, I have a hard time with just “Yes” and “No”. Last Christmas I had about an inch of a glass of white wine (let’s be specific) which I nursed all evening. And I am willing to admit that an occasional wine cooler with a good steak is nice. But these occasions are so infrequent I actually remember them. So “Yes” is the wrong answer because I think they want to know if you do it daily. And “No” isn’t quite right either. I know I’ve had two small drinks in the last six months.

That being said, I wanted to tell you what is referd to in this household as “The Coors Story.”

While in Seminary in the late ’70’s a friend needed to drive to Colorado for a summer internship. I volunteered to help her drive out and then fly home. My boyfriend at the time (a dairy farmer) asked me if I would bring him home some Coors. (For the younger crowd, Coors was not available east of the Mississippi until 1981.)

Just before going to the airport in Denver, I picked up a six-pack of canned Coors. I put two in my carry-on bag and folded the other four into my sleeping bag. Somewhere between Colorado and Chicago the pressure took out one of the cans in my carry-on. Not to worry five left for Rich. My sister and her husband picked me up in Chicago. I would be a day there and then we would all drive to Toledo, my h0me town. While checking the Coors in my sleeping bag, Sylvia and Gary asked if those were for them. “No, they’re for Rich.”

“So you went all the way to Colorado and expect us to haul you to Toledo and you didn’t buy us any Coors?” So now we were down to three Coors for Rich.

The next day in Toledo I put the three Coors on the kitchen counter. Rich was going to come by soon for an evening together. I took the sleeping bag to the basement. When I came back up two of the Coors were in the refridgerator and one was open in my father’s hand.

“What are you doing with my Coors?”

“I thought these were mine.”

“They’re for Rich.”

When Rich got there that evening he got one can of Coors. He wanted to know why I only brought him one can.

And I never even got one. Not that I drink, really.


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