Driving Under The Influence

Let me first state that I do not drink alcohol, I have never been charged with DUI (Driving Under The Influence) or DWI (Driving While Intoxicated), and I probably don't even qualify as an alcoholic by AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) standards. That said, why do I think for one second that I can write with authority about the dangers of alcohol abuse?

Because 1961 presented a much different picture. I was 17 years old that summer, and I considered alcohol to be one of my very best friends. The local Deputy Sheriff, Stonwall "Stoney" McGuire, was out to get me. The resident Montana Highway Patrolman, Marvin "Barney Fife" Dagel, was a road hazard like a bad pothole or an elk looming up in the headlights at night.

I was never more wrong in my entire life, but it would take me until late December of that year to realize the depth of my misjudgment. Then another 46 years had to pass (until now) before it hit me: This website, and this Hub, provided a way to acknowledge the debt I owed these two members of Law Enforcement:

Stoney, I thank you, and I salute you.

Marvin, I thank you, and I salute you.

There is another man who should be recognized as well--perhaps one of my readers will one day add a Comment to this Hub that will allow his inclusion--but for now, explanation is in order.

That year, I was drinking heavily. Not during the week so much, but the weekends were happy time. Yeah, we all knew that brain cells go bye-bye with every binge, but so what. A kid like me--who never really wanted to be a kid in the first place--already knew everything. What could a few billion cranial synapses matter in the overall scheme of things?

The previous New Year's Eve, Dad and I both went out with full intentions of getting drunk. No, not together. He had his red 1955 Ford pickup, and I had my tan 1952 Chevy sedan. We never saw each other, no doubt at least in part because he could legally drink in the bars while my drinking was done illegally in the cars. We both succeeded admirably in driving home thoroughly blitzed.

I remember mostly because of my proud accomplishment. Making it home to the ranch and into bed mere minutes before the old man's arrival, I listened in glee: He had been home only a short time when he got sick, emptying much of what he'd ingested into the toilet. Or as one comic puts it, praying to the porcelain god.

I win.

If you're a lifetime nondrinker, that may make no sense to you at all. If you've been there, done that, you understand completely.

Late that summer, I was really looking forward to one particular Saturday night. There was to be a dance at Gold Creek, and the double barreled opportunity to get a bit bombed plus maybe even catch one of those pretty girls I was always chasing...too good to be true. Haying season was pretty much over. A few more weeks would see me living at Havre, a mighty college Freshman on the prowl some 300 miles from the ranch.

Oh yeah.

There would be no competition with Dad this time. A spinal disk had ruptured in early July, leaving him in a full body cast and plenty of pain. It also left me in charge of getting the hay in for the year, but with that now finished, it was...celebration time.

Naturally, I had a carload of guys with me at the dance. Friends without cars. Drinking buddies. Good men one and all, but none of them with wheels of their own. Around midnight, a couple of them needed to get back to their parents' homes in Drummond. Okay. I didn't really want to, but if I hurried, I could drop them off and get back to Gold Creek in time for the last few dances.

The dropoff went fine. Being stopped for driving funny right in the middle of town did not. Was I drunk? Oh, I'd say so, and I'd say it was obvious. The officers knew me, of course. When they let me go without even a ticket, I won. Drinkin' thinkin'. They had logically concluded I was headed home (west of town) from the dance (east of town). I seemed capable of making it home alive, so they took it as easy on me as they could.

Which gift I immediately abused, like any good boozer. As a matter of fact, the subject of "going home" hadn't come up in the conversation. I was free to get back to Gold Creek, and eastbound I went. Hi ho! Hi ho! It's off to girls we go!

I never got there. Oh, I did make it to the Gold Creek exit...but passed out while wheeling down the off ramp, ran the stop sign, and--still unconscious--came back up onto the freeway on the other side. Okay. No big. I'm good. Made it to the end of the freeway, which at that time was only a couple of miles farther east, turned around, and headed back to Gold Creek again.

Made it off just fine on the westbound exit ramp. Passed out rolling down that one, ran that stop sign, but this time, instead of wheeling back up onto the freeway, I somehow ended up on the frontage road. It was the sound of gravel crunching under the tires that jerked me back awake. My eyes popped open, and I realized my vehicle was drifting off to the left--TOWARD THE FENCE.

Jerk-the-wheel time. Which of course whipped the rear toward that fence. And then came the over correction, slamming my Chevy into the fence line at about 35 miles per hour. Me and Old Brown took out four rods worth of fencing, ripping through woven wire and barbed wire like it was cheesecloth. The final fence post snapped in half, the top half spearing the windshield. When the car finally came to rest, my eyes were crossed from staring at that post, just six inches in front of my face.

Within the next few days, all sorts of Hell had come home to roost in my karmic backpack. I think it was Stoney who eventually gave me a ride out to the ranch, but remember, I was still mighty drunk. Law Enforcement then went through my wreck and found some remaining whiskey a drinking friend had stashed in the dash without telling me. That same friend helped me go get the car started the next day--Sunday.

After which I promptly ruined the engine by running it all the way into Drummond, some 15 miles away, at 80 miles an hour with no coolant. The fence had totalled the radiator, and I had a deadline to meet: Some of Dad's cows had to be trucked into town for a Kiwanis-sponsored Cow Riding, and that was more important than anything else.

NOW a ticket had to be issued. Thankfully, it was "only" a Careless Driving citation, mentioning nothing about alcohol. I did think about being grateful even then, but I wasn't. After I paid the obligatory visit to the Juvenile Officer in Philipsburg and had my pure platinum, diamond studded, gem encrusted Driver's License physically taken from me...there just wasn't any room for gratitude.

Oh, sure. Even at that age, I was aware that things could have been worse from a legal standpoint. But not much worse. With my car busted and no license, I'd be taking a bus to Havre instead of driving up behind the wheel of my own personal rolling kingdom. The very idea of chasing college girls without my own set of wheels was beyond ridculous. My world had been destroyed.

Self destroyed, of course, but as an egotistical seventeen year old high school Valedictorian with three months acting as head of the ranch household, I was more than selfish and resentful enough to make myself at least intermittently miserable. And stupid. My first night in Havre was spent stone drunk in jail, and I managed to accomplish that on foot.

Still, classes didn't go badly at college. Dorm life was not my cup of tea, but it was doable. I found ways to chase girls and came close to catching one or two. Once a friend even loaned me his Chevy to take a girl on a date, which was a great thing...no, I did not mention to him that I didn't have a driver's license, and although slick roads came close to helping me have an accident that evening, it all worked out.

Christmas vacation. Having not gone home for Thanksgiving, I did need to see my family for the December holiday. Not that I wanted to, not really; I was almighty ferocious about being away from home and on my own. But I needed to, so there I was, being chauffered into town by my younger sister, Donna, who did have her license.

When Highway Patrolman Marvin Dagel stopped us on the street in Drummond, we had no idea what he might want.

"Thought you might like this back for Christmas," he said with a smile, handing me my original Driver's License. "Merry Christmas!"

Yes. I was stunned. Clearly, Law Enforcement and the Juvenile Court in Granite County had chosen to take a chance on young Fred Baker (yes, that's me; never mind my "Ghost32" user name here on Hubpages.com). They had never OFFICIALLY suspended my license at all. As far as the State of Montana knew, I had one Careless Driving ticket against me and nothing else.

Even then, I understood very well that these men had taken a great gamble. Had I failed by getting caught driving without a license, or by continuing my drinking until true disaster finally caught up with me, they could have had a bit of explaining to do.

Their gamble did pay off. Two weeks after getting my license back (and after a hangover plus stomach flu that wiped me out for days on end), I went on the wagon for the first time at the age of eighteen. Eight years after that, at the age of 26, I quit for once and all. I've always trained myself to believe that if I know I must do something--anything--then I can do it. That day came regarding alcohol, and I've never looked back.

Many people, over the years, have asked me why I don't drink. I used to tell them, "I figure I have enough left in my reserve tanks to last until age 72 at least." True, that age isn't that far away now. (I was born in 1943; you do the math.) But you get the idea.

Stoney and Marvin (and the Juvenile Officer whose name I can't remember) blessed me greatly. Hopefully, I've been able to pass that blessing on to a few other young men over the years...and will pass it on even more in the years to come.

Thanks for reading,

Ghost32