ScottL-07.18.2026

Drinking with mommy.*

I was listening to my wife and daughter talking one afternoon last week when my daughter brought over her almost one-month-old son for us to visit with. For some reason the subject of wine came up. Out of the blue, an image flashed in my head of a bottle of wine with a wicker basket woven onto the bottom. I at first thought it was called Mogan David. I outlined my experience with the wine as a rough draft. Later, when I asked my mother (Seren) about it she informed me it was called Chianti, and that she knew about the whole thing and that Lin would drink MD 20/20. The following are my recollections of “Drinking With Mommie”.

For the time that I lived alone with my mother Lin, from the time my father left in early 1973 until my leaving on Thanksgiving weekend of 1974, things were pretty screwed up and out of control. Between the drug fueled parties complete with garage bands in the living room, to the naked swim parties with a couple dozen or so teenagers in the pool. Most of those teenagers in the pool and around the pool were having pretty open sex. When there weren’t teenagers around, she had her “gentleman” “friends” over.  When they were over, I was confined to my bedroom, and she gave me a bucket to use as toilet until I could come out. I had no choice as it was, as the door was locked from the outside, I couldn’t get out if I wanted to.

On the rare night that it was just she and I, we would sit at the dining room table and drink together. She typically had a bottle of MD 20/20 and I was given a bottle of Chianti, a cheap, sweet, port like wine that came in a wicker basket to drink. All the hippies would use the empties for candle holders, and we had a few.

I had to drink until either my bottle was empty or she passed out, whichever came first. Only then I could escape and go to bed. I would try to get about half the bottle down and then excuse myself. Then I’d go to the bathroom, turn the faucets on high**, and throw up into the toilet. On more than one occasion I remember having a difficult time getting up from the table to make it to the bathroom, the room would be spinning on me. Then I’d clean up and go back out to the dining room. I’d try to work on the second half of the bottle. Often, she wasn’t upright at that point so I’d go back in the bathroom and throw up whatever else I’d drunk and then go to bed.

When she’d pass out at the table, I always left her where she was, slumped over in her chair.  I wouldn’t clean up the mess from her knocking over the bottle when she passed out. Nor would I clean her up when she was lying in a puddle of her own vomit. Looking back, I so wish I’d had a camera…

Never since then have I touched a bottle of Chianti. The concept of red wine isn’t even very appealing to me. I have been able to enjoy some red wine, but nothing like the Chianti.

I think about the new generation. I think about how I know that my grandson will never be exposed to such conditions. I think about how he most likely never get near a bottle of Chianti.

• Note: This is not fiction.
• The first time that I went into the bathroom to puke, she heard me. When I came back out, she ranted at me that “Throwing up was cheating.” And that I wasn’t supposed to. After that I used the faucets for noise and tried to make as little noise as possible.