spiritual deterrence. My loathing for alcohol was purely
physiological. I didn't like the damned stuff.



CHAPTER V


This physical loathing for alcohol I have never got over. But I
have conquered it. To this day I conquer it every time I take a
drink. The palate never ceases to rebel, and the palate can be
trusted to know what is good for the body. But men do not drink
for the effect alcohol produces on the body. What they drink for
is the brain-effect; and if it must come through the body, so much
the worse for the body.

And yet, despite my physical loathing for alcohol, the brightest
spots in my child life were the saloons. Sitting on the heavy
potato wagons, wrapped in fog, feet stinging from inactivity, the
horses plodding slowly along the deep road through the sandhills,
one bright vision made the way never too long. The bright vision
was the saloon at Colma, where my father, or whoever drove, always
got out to get a drink. And I got out to warm by the great stove
and get a soda cracker. Just one soda cracker, but a fabulous
luxury. Saloons were good for something. Back behind the
plodding horses, I would take an hour in consuming that one
cracker. I took the smallest nibbles, never losing a crumb, and
chewed the nibble till it became the thinnest and most delectable
of pastes. I never voluntarily swallowed this paste. I just
tasted it, and went on tasting it, turning it over with my tongue,