I grew up in a home that was about learning nursery rhymes and being a young gentleman, going to church to Sunday-School, hunting and fishing with my dad, and most of all …tolerance. Carthage, Tennessee in the middle of the 20th century was a place that valued these attributes, in the Butler house especially. My mother, Anna Dalton and my dad, Huber Butler handled the curricula.
My older brother, Buddy was the model child evidently! He brushed twice every day and excelled in football, baseball and basketball. He was always the president of his class and was revered by all who knew him. He was always good to me.
I did not follow in his footprints! Evidently my lot in life was to test the waters, so to speak: all waters. But this anecdote is about a boy’s first taste of beer, so let’s get down to it.
Enameled metal signs were all over the place extolling the brews available and all were evidently delicious. There were Falstaff, Schlitz, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Country Club Malt Liquor, Budweiser (The King of Beers) and the local favorites, Champagne Velvet and Sterling.
I was about twelve years old and endeavoring to become a model Boy Scout of America. Part of our duty involved the pursuit of various merit badges by performing activities that added something valuable to our knowledge base. We did some knot tying and some first aid, but mostly we preparations for an ‘Indian dance’ to be performed at the statewide Boy Scout Expo at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds. All the scouts from Middle Tennessee were engaged in making rattles and various Indian costumes for the program. There must have been 400 of us who learned our routine and performed for about two minutes on the dirt floor of the Women’s Building at the fairgrounds. We all received merit badges in Indian Lore for our efforts.
Scouts were all about camping. Camping involved setting up our camp by erecting our army surplus pup-tents and digging a trench so that rain water would flow around the tent and not through it. We had to dig a latrine that I don't remember anyone ever using more than once, and we learned about Team Sports such as 'Capture the Flag.'
We were encamped across the Cumberland River in the woods near Piper’s Ford on the Caney Fork River. It was early summer and we were enjoying our adventure by playing capture the flag, learning knot-tying and attempting to cook our meals. On the second night we learned that one scout had purloined a can of Country Club Malt Liquor from his dad’s stash. We were instructed to silently gather after dark to sample the mysterious, forbidden elixir.
The days were pleasant and the nights rang with the mating calls of tree frogs. It was on such a night when we sneaked out of camp to taste our first beer.
We navigated the lower terrain around our camp without lights, but when we arrived in the Hackberry brambles and other assorted vines and briars we were forced to use our flashlights. We finally reached a clearing where we were to have our taste.
The single eight ounce can of Country Club had been smuggled into camp in a backpack and had been well agitated on the trek up the hill. We all trained our lights on the mysterious can and someone asked, ”Who has an opener?” Well, none of us did but everyone had a scout knife with a hole-punch: no sweat!
In those days beer cans were steel plated with tin. A guy who could crush a can with his hands was someone to avoid messing with! There were no pull tabs and the cans were very sturdy. There were several attempts to puncture the can but it just danced around at each attempt. Finally one mighty blow punctured the exact center of the can, and finally, we got our taste of beer.
The little can erupted in a fountain that showered all us stalwart scouts. The only taste I got was the droplet that ran off the end of my nose. We reeked of Country Club as we returned to camp, but our scout masters didn’t notice since they had been off somewhere sampling similar beverages.
We were breaking camp the following day, loading onto a big truck to go back four miles to Carthage. I missed the truck! I don’t know why, I just didn’t get on it. There was nothing left to do but to walk home. I walked across a hill going due north out of camp rather than backtracking to stay on the gravel road. Then I found the railroad tracks through South Carthage. They led to the highway that led to the Carthage Bridge. No one offered me a ride, probably because I wore a scout uniform.
It was a trek of about three and a half miles, and around noon on that Sunday I was mighty glad to get home. Anna and Huber were somewhat amazed at my stupidity and at my hard headed determination to take such a hike. As it turned out this adventure was just the first in a long line of doing things the hard way: .........such is life – mine anyway.
