My maternal grandfather was an alcoholic.
Anyone interested in reading the sad history of the life he wasted inside a bottle can read all about it in the archives of this newspaper, as well as newspapers in Franklin and Shelbyville.
From Feb. 14, 1924, when he gave my grandmother the “Valentine’s Day present” of being arrested for public intoxication, until the day he died of a stroke in 1949 at the age of 69, Grandpa never allowed himself to be farther than arm’s length from a bottle of booze.
The article on the front page of The Evening Republican, the day after his first in a 25-year series of arrests, was headlined: “Two men and a girl of 20 landed in jail as drunks.”
The article, written in the no-holds-barred style of the time, told of my grandfather and another man picking up a prostitute, sharing a bottle of “white mule whiskey” with her and wrecking a car on Hartsville Pike east of Hope. After the arrest, the reporter said my grandfather cried and begged not to be kept in jail, saying he had never been in trouble before and that he had a wife and three small children at home.
My mother was one of the children. She was 9 years old at the time.
After two days in jail, Grandpa went home to the small family farm along Mauxferry Road in far northern Bartholomew County. He had been fined $15 plus court costs on the public intoxication charge. A larger fine and a jail sentence was levied on his male companion who had been driving the car. Although the intoxication charge was dropped against the woman, she was fined $15 after pleading guilty to prostitution.
Grandpa was repentant. He cried and swore to my grandmother and the children that he would quit drinking and never again bring shame on his family. Yet the newspaper archives in three counties were to chronicle a different story.
I don’t have space to list all the times he was arrested or even begin to tell the stories passed down through our family about the times when he sidestepped the law but committed drunken acts as bad as or worse than the ones in the newspapers.
Newspaper stories from the 1920s into the 1940s tell of arrests for assault and battery, drunk driving, public intoxication and disorderly conduct — usually connected with a brawl in some tavern. One conviction for assault and battery came after a time when he beat up my grandmother. Although my grandmother never reported any other instances of physical abuse to police, she often had bruises and black eyes. And no one even considered verbal and mental abuse to be worth discussing in those days.
Grandma was what was called a “God-fearing woman” back then. She went to church, tried to keep the family secure and fed, and never drank alcohol. She married Grandpa in 1906 and promised to “love, honor and obey” him in good times and bad. She kept her vows, even when the times were very bad indeed.
This is not to say there were no “good times.” Grandpa inherited the 80-acre farm on Mauxferry Road and, during his sober days and times of repentance, he made a good living. He was even a champion corn grower, winning local and state awards for his efforts. He was elected a road supervisor.
When sober — and even more so with just a couple of shots of whiskey — he was a masterful story-teller and the life of the party, whether in some sleazy tavern or out on the family’s porch. Beyond two shots, he was a 210-pound bully with a mean temper and quick fists.
He attended a Christian church with his family. He had what was described as “a beautiful tenor voice” in the church choir and more than once went to the altar and was “saved and sanctified” for his sins.
Yet, amid all the afterthought regrets, sobbing apologies, forever promises and heavenly-granted second chances, he never found a way to end his addiction — never found a way to shed the demon that ruined him and scarred his family.
Miraculously, my mother emerged from the family in the image of her mother — a loving, family-centered woman who never drank. Other siblings did not fare as well. Alcoholism continued as a chronic disease in my family into my generation and beyond.
While alcohol is a choice made by someone at some point, for many it quickly quits being a choice and starts truly being a disease. Fortunately in 2018, all but those who would rather condemn than cure know that.
Had George Hamner, my grandfather, been born in 1979 rather than 1879, he might have had a chance — with the loving support of our family — to become the good person he could have been. He could have taken part in Alcoholics Anonymous or gone into a treatment facility and found a new life.
I like to fantasize, on behalf of everyone he hurt and all of the life he wasted, that he would have chosen to fight his disease.
Yet, who knows. Alcoholics and other drug addicts have a very hard time admitting their illnesses in order to seriously seek help. In the end, each sufferer must figure out a way to take the first step.
I like to believe George Hamner would have been strong enough to do that.
Bud Herron is a retired editor and newspaper publisher who lives in Columbus. He served as publisher of The Republic from 1998 to 2007. His weekly column appears on the Opinion page each Sunday. Contact him at [email protected]
