"Senator, we're all a part of the same hypocrisy."
Al Pacino, as Michael Corleone, in "Godfather, Part II"

When I was a lad dawdling among the pews at various Baptist churches around Louisiana either where my father preached, or where the family was otherwise enrolled while I grew up, often while waiting for the Doxology signaling the start of ceremonies I thumbed through the Broadman Hymnal on the pew rack, which in most cases had a pasted-in copy of a fly-leaf document titled "The Church Covenant." The general tone of the Covenant was that by accepting membership in the congregation, one automatically agreed to its terms, including admonitions to Christian brotherhood, regular Bible study, family prayer, financial stewardship, and prompt affiliation with a similar congregation if one moved from the current community. Not too difficult to give at least a positive nod to these requirements . . . well, maybe a small mental caution about the money, but still . . . one would not balk at taking the "pledge."

The killer, though, was always the very straightforward doctrine which required agreement to abstain absolutely from all alcoholic beverages, both as a consumer, and especially to promise never, ever, to engage in or be involved with the sale of beverage alcohol. Well, now . . . not even, you might wonder, as a prevention for snakebite? Not even.

I made it completely through high school without ever tasting an alcoholic beverage. Well, except that once right after World War II when dad, who had served as a chaplain in the Army, came home, discharged with his uniforms and paraphernalia including a suitcase-sized "communion kit" consisting of a small set of all-purpose prayer/hymn/special services books, a portable set of candle holders, altar crucifix, a container of what the Catholics call "host," (the unleavened bread wafers), serving plates, and a plain glass bottle of communion wine--which is to say, wine, deep red, probably port or sherry. Pretty much ecumenical, usable for any Christian group, and under field conditions I'm sure no one asked about denomination or one's expectation of the Rapture. It happened that it was about Thanksgiving time, and as a special celebration upon his return from the shooting in Europe, dad decanted a small dram of the official U.S. Government-issue wine for each of us at home, which we supped with appropriate reverence. At age 14 or so, it was my first taste of an alcoholic beverage, and my first time to take communion (or Lord's Supper, as Baptists call it) with anything other than pure, unfermented Welch's grape juice--at which Jesus would have rolled his eyes, I'm sure.

My viewpoints broadened somewhat upon entering LSU as a crass freshman in the fall of 1947, and was introduced for the first time to Beer, that elixir of American youth bent on learning how to be Grown Up, and which I found upon first meeting to be quite a bit less than absolutely delicious. I never came to understand college algebra nor much of the Greek philosophers, but I did eventually learn to appreciate the civilizing effects of a small lemondade in disguise called the Tom Collins, and some years later, of the dry martini. And I learned to choke back the small guilt induced occasionally while sitting quietly in a Baptist Sunday School when the mortal sin of alcohol came up for discussion. I was after all under the "covenant," whether voluntary or not.

Through the years of my young adulthood and beyond, I have been both amused and amazed to see the creative ways in which otherwise rigidly inerrant citizens manage to satisfy and conceal their taste for an occasional snort.

Years ago I used to note with interest the older men-about-the-legally-dry-town who on Sunday mornings pre-church could be seen in their dress-up suits, dropping by the side door of the local pharmacy, from whence they soon exited with a spring in their step as they headed off for the Sunday School class down the street.

Later in a different town I was bemused to learn that the eatery favored as a meeting place by some of the local civic clubs also served as the unofficial watering hole and package store for a tight-knit clientele which passed security muster with the owner, and which included a number of good Baptist deacons, a deputy sheriff or two, and quite a number of otherwise law abiding citizens.

While traveling the South during the 1980s on behalf of a group of community newspapers, I discovered a variety of legal two-step tap-dances utilized by some states to accomodate the "wets." Oklahoma licensed a favored few package stores, which were allowed to display one very discreet 6-inch wide by six-foot long lighted yellow sign across their front door; restaurants could not sell by the drink, but were authorized to serve your drink to you from your own bottle, which could often be purchased in a jointly-owned package store which operated in another part of the same building, and was accessible through a door conveniently connecting to the dining area.

Quite recently while traveling on business in East Texas, I discovered that in order to purchase spirits with a restaurant meal, one was invited to first join the "club." This involves surrendering your drivers' license, and being issued a membership card, --no fee. Otherwise, you may drink tea --sweet or unsweet.

I don't remember when I first noticed it , but some years ago, I checked a Church Covenant to discover that the business about alcohol had disappeared altogether. And still more recently, I have discovered that the Covenant itself no longer appears in hymnals on pew racks where I have sat. Reality, finally.

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