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It’s a banner day in the Scheske household: My oldest son turns 21. I’ve long been a proponent of an age-18 drinking age, so it’s a bit frustrating that we had to wait three years for this day but it’s now here.

I can have a drink with my son at the bar.

For the last twenty years of my father’s life, it was my favorite thing to do with my dad . . . and not only because he purchased most of the rounds. I don’t golf, my kids don’t garden, and reading isn’t a group activity. So what does that leave us? Bird watching, I suppose, or maybe genital-kicking contests (two activities that I find equally distressing). Maybe some bocce ball and croquet (two games I immensely enjoy, even though I rarely play them). Perhaps billiards and ping pong.

But it definitely leaves drinking. Especially drinking at the bar. It’s a tradition that lands us squarely in a long line of tradition, from Chaucer through Chesterton, from the Tavern at the End of the World through the Prancing Pony. Relaxing with drink and conversation, perhaps a little music in the background or a game on the TV. Few things are better, at least for my money.

Welcome to emancipation, Alex.

(Now please don’t do something like stupid, like drink 21 shots. I don’t need my son to die on what should be one of the best days of his life.)