Hattie Russell was a proud member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. The family story is that even though their name was Russell and they lived in Fort Benton, Montana, and the mule skinner in one of Charles Russell’s paintings looks an awful lot like Hattie’s brother-in-law, Hattie steadfastly maintained that there was no family relationship between her family and that of the “whiskey-drinking” artist who rose to world prominence and whose paintings now sell for millions of dollars. Another family story is that when the family first arrived in Montana Territory, Hattie was allowed to practice the piano in one of the town’s saloons, but that later her husband had to arrange for a piano to be shipped by steamboat up the Missouri to Fort Benton because Hattie was banned from the saloon because of her outspoken WCTU ways.

Hattie banned all alcohol from her home and raised her children to share her attitude. Her daughter married an attorney who served as a legislator and a sponsor of the move to ratify prohibition in Montana. He wrote impassioned speeches about the detrimental effects of alcohol and envisioned that a total prohibition of alcohol would result in dramatic improvements in society.

It turned out that he was wrong in his expectations that prohibiting alcohol would result in decreased crime, violence, unemployment and illness. But that didn’t prevent him from raising his daughters to eschew alcohol. Each of them made a solemn pledge in the midst of an emotional Christian Endeavor meeting that alcohol would never touch their lips. They kept their pledges.

That’s my mother’s side of the family.

My father was engaged in a profession that is particularly unforgiving of decreases in human performance. The law at the time was eight hours from bottle to throttle for pilots, but he figured if a little bit of abstinence was good, total abstinence would make him a better pilot. His safety record over a lifetime of flying small aircraft in the mountains of the west seems to bear that out. Besides, he fell in love with one of Vernon Lewis’ daughters - a granddaughter of Hattie Russell and it is likely that she would have never agreed to marry him had he been a drinker.

I grew up thinking that I would never drink alcohol. There was none in our family home and there were frequent occasions where it was pointed out how alcohol had damaged the lives of others. I didn’t go into a bar for any reason until as an eighteen-year-old I had urgent need of a restroom and made a quick pit stop. As a high school student I used to pick up gas money from the parents of my classmates by agreeing to go to high school parties and drive home their inebriated children.

My first brush with alcohol was during theological seminary, where beer was a common lubricant for late night theological discussions and a glass of wine was occasionally used for a bit more than communion.

I think that I was a bit surprised that I didn’t immediately turn into a drunk.

In my first parish, the only vendor of alcohol in our town was the State-owned liquor store which was prominently located across the street from the radio station and everyone who went in or out was duly noted. Ministers didn’t do business in that establishment. (“And don’t you ever forget it.”) I think that all of the ministers in our town drank, but we knew how to go to the wine cellar of Assumption Abbey in Richardton, located 80 miles from town. Father Robert, who presided over the cellar, offered his vintages to area clergy without the addition of several taxes on the assumption that “it is all sacramental.” I’m sure that the state never thought to intervene or prosecute the former abbot for his oversight.

As an adult I have been a social drinker. I’ve even had a glass of wine in front of my mother on occasion. And the experience hasn’t ruined my life. I have not become addicted, my family’s finances have not been devastated, and I have enjoyed the good company of friends with an occasional drink.

Still, I have no particular plans for attending the annual Oktoberfest this weekend in Deadwood. And I’m not going to be one of the folks who participates in the rather strange beer market of Main Street Square’s Bierborse, either. I’m sure that the folks who participate in those events will be having a lot of fun, but I don’t feel called to be one of them and there are a lot of other things going on in my life as we begin this new month. I won’t lack for entertainment or things to occupy my time.

So, I’m thinking that I’m probably not a candidate to become a customer of the Santee Sioux tribe’s latest destination venture. No, I’ve never smoked and I’ve not inhaled, either. The Flandreau, South Dakota-based tribe’s announcement of its intention to open the nation’s first marijuana resort is big news. It isn’t often that a South Dakota story is picked up by the BBC and makes the list of breaking stories on its web page. The world did, however, seem to notice the announcement of the latest venture of the tribe that already has a casino, a hotel and a buffalo ranch.

Don’t bet me wrong. I’m all in favor of economic development by and for the tribes of South Dakota. I’m often impressed by the creativity and resourcefulness of our indigenous neighbors. A venture that is projected to produce $2 million per month is nothing to ignore. It is just that I personally have no interest in paying $12 to $15 for a one-gram package of the mind and mood altering drug and sitting around in a lounge of games, food, alcohol and slot machines to smoke it in a state where consumption of the drug is illegal.

I guess I’m just narrow minded that way. Perhaps there is a bit of great-grandma Hattie in me still.

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