A Night of Infamy

Certain events are destined to leave indelible impressions. At the age of fourteen, I experienced my first brush with sobriety. My dear Uncle Ed, one of the two esteemed Jesuit priests in our family, arrived for his Christmas visit. My father and I hopped into our yellow and white Studebaker and headed south to Pittsburgh International Airport. We spotted him right away as he graced the entrance of a waiting area. He had a gorgeous stewardess draped over one arm and a moderately priced domestic cigar in his hand. Father Ed was in top form. I carried his battered black bag (everything he owned was black) across the parking lot as he broke into a rousing chorus of "There's no place like home for the holidays." I knew something was up.