Thrilled, Steve got the pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator, and watched in admiration as Bill carefully decanted just enough to raise the level of the bottle's contents until it was even with the little notch in the label. Back on the top shelf went the now-adulterated bourbon, and the boys went about the rest of their day, confident that the reason for their mildly altered state would remain a secret.

And it did. Gladys and Monroe stayed in Michigan, since no holidays loomed for months. The bottle didn't move. Indeed, it gathered a little dust.

Or so the boys discovered when they got it down again the next time both their parents had to work on a Saturday. Although the taste left a lot to be desired, the heady aftereffects of drinking it the first time, coupled with the glee of getting away with what they felt was a crime, gave them incentive to try it again.

The taste wasn't so bad on their second experiment. They didn't take any more than they had the first time, but they savored it a bit; mixed it with conversation. When they decided it was time to put the bottle back and get on with the day, again they added enough tea to make it look as if no one had been at the bottle at all.

They went on in this fashion for months, sneaking James' bourbon every few weeks when circumstances permitted, and replacing it with tea with meticulous care. Then came Thanksgiving.

Monroe and Gladys drove south, fleeing the already ice-clad woods and fields of Michigan for the sunshine, balmy temperatures, and scented tropical air of Florida. Reunited again, Marian and Gladys went to work on the turkey and its trimmings.

"Care for a drink, Monroe?" James asked his cousin affably, as he always did when the two of them felt ready to sit down and chew over the old days.

"Don't mind if I do, James," was Monroe's hearty, ritual reply.

The two men retired to the den, ice clinking in their glasses, and sat. James launched into a story about why Annalee, Johnny and the baby were running late by way of explaining their absence, when he noticed a look of distaste and puzzlement on Monroe's face.

"What's wrong, Monroe?"

"This whiskey . . . there's something wrong with it." Monroe was looking down into his glass with an expression close to horror. "Is this the same brand you always buy? It tastes as if it's gone bad."

"What do you mean? Whiskey can't 'go bad,'" James declared. Then he drank some.

"Blech!!! You're right, Monroe!" They got up out of their chairs and carried their glasses to the kitchen, where they insisted that their wives taste the whiskey gone bad, in an effort to figure out how such a thing could have happened. James got the bottle out and stood at the sink, holding the amber contents to the light to see if there were any foreign objects or dead creatures lying pickled at the bottom. Meanwhile, Gladys and Marian were frowning over the insult their palates had received when they tasted from their husbands' glasses.

"I can't be certain," Gladys ventured, "but I could swear this tastes like iced tea that's been kept too long." She looked at Marian, who nodded slowly in agreement.

"How could tea get into a bottle of bourbon?" James protested. "No one has drunk out of this bottle since you two last came to visit -- last Christmas!" Then he and Marian exchanged looks and realization dawned simultaneously.

The usual consequences of their crimes ensued for Bill and Steve: lectures, allowance-docking, grounding . . . . Suffice it to remark, however, that sneaking drinks from James' "company whiskey bottle" did not result in the boys growing up to abuse alcohol. Both are responsible men of moderate habits who try very hard to be good parents and citizens. Never again, after that one year, did the brothers sneak so much as a drop of James' bourbon.