My family’s history with alcohol is complicated. Actually, it’s my history with alcohol that is complicated. It is pretty straightforward with my family. Alcoholism bores deep into the old family tree and runs its veins through all the branches with the same frequency as men with big noses. And there’s a lot of dudes with big noses in my family, self included.

Do you drink? If you do, do you recall the first time you tried alcohol? I do. I was probably four years old. My dad’s parents were visiting, and I adored my Grandpa Lickman. His hands were these powerful, gnarled cudgels that held my attention because he’d lost one of his fingers to a table saw. When he laughed it filled the halls of our home with joy. And he always seemed to have a beer in his hand. One evening during this visit I was looking up at grandpa as he cracked open another can. My curiosity got the best of me.

“Grandpa, can I try your beer?”

Goddamn, how he laughed at that. “You want to try my beer?” (I can still hear the charming, Yooper tilt of his accent. ) “Sure!” And he pressed the cold can into my hands.