Drinking 1 My first drinking memory

Me: OK, I'm here.
She: Great. What's your first drinking memory?
Me: Sipping the foam off the top of dad's beer.
She: OK, Go!

It's at home. I'm sitting on dad's knee. Julie is probably sitting on his other knee. We're taking turns. Only the foam. We don't sip the beer. We get foam moustaches and laugh. It's a nice time. Sitting on dad, happy. Dad's laughing and happy. We are happy.

At 5 o'clock the focus of the household turns to dad coming home from work. He comes in the bus that Mr O'Lusky drives. Dad and the other office dads who work in town get dropped off at the corner of Patterson St and Hardy Street. We run to the corner to meet him, compete to hold his hand. When we get home, one takes his coat. One gets his slippers. One brings him a beer. I know getting the beer is a real memory. It would have been my job because I was the oldest, and I had the steadiest hands and feet. Did he have a beer every night? Did we race to the corner every night to to meet the bus? I don't know. 

I do know though, without a doubt, that dad has to go to work to pay for everything for us girls. Our clothes, the house, food, toys, school fees, music lessons, holidays. That's why we have to make such a fuss of him when he gets home, because he makes this huge sacrifice for us. I feel uneasy about this because I don't really think it's the truth. But I heard it enough times I've never forgotten it. Is it really true? Nobody ever says he goes to work to pay for mum's clothes, or his beer, or the sacks of oysters for the garage party on Friday night, where men in singlets shuck oysters into slimy jars, drinking beer poured from flagon, laughing loud. They take the jars to the pub and sell them, or raffle them, to make money. Dad liked to do that -- make money and have fun at the same time.

But he has to go to work to pay for us girls who are expensive. Like we have any say in the matter. I have a deep sense of justice and injustice. This is the first time I was aware of it. We didn't ask to be born. We didn't ask to go to Catholic school. We didn't want music lessons...

She: are you OK?
Me: Yes. I'm just remembering so many things. It's starting to feel sad.
She: that's good. It's why you're writing.
Me: OK. Maybe I'll stop now.
She: How about one more drinking memory?
Me: OK. How to pour a beer.
_____
I learned how to pour beer properly when I was really young... it was well before I was ten.  Dad taught me to do ith properly, slowly, with the glass on a tilt to start, gently pouring the beer down the inside of the glass, bringing the glass upright, gradually, so when it was filled you had a glass full of clear amber liquid with the perfect amount of foam on top. This might have been my first lesson in home economics. Dad had a way of teaching us things so we never forgot. He made sure we knew what we were doing, and why. He was logical, and constant in his pursuit of more efficient and clever ways to do things. Nothing escaped his scrutiny -- how to squeeze the toothpaste tube, light a fire, grill a steak, grate apples, warm the tea cups, dig toeroas, hammer a nail, balance the cheque book, refold a map, knot a tie properly, shuffle cards, play scrabble...  lessons delivered with such attention and detail, and indisputable sense. These are the things I never forget. I have always poured a perfect beer!

Me: Is this OK?
She: Yes. How are you feeling?
Me: OK. A bit sad, but not overwhelmed.
She: See you tomorrow?
Me: Yes.

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