One summer when I was junior high-age, part of that season's entertainment involved hearing my friend Dave Taylor recount the running battle of wits between his year-older brother, Steve, and their father.

It all started when Steve began accessing his parents' well-stocked liquor cabinet. (This is not unheard of in the annals of misguided teen antics.)

Mr. Taylor eventually noticed. So he started drawing lines on bottles with a magic marker or something.

Undaunted, Steve simply added water to each bottle after pouring off a little of the hard stuff.

But apparently Mr.Taylor knew how Canadian Club was supposed to taste. So he grounded Steve and meted out some vigorous corporal punishment, as I recall.

Steve responded by using some strong cleanser to wipe away the lines marked on the bottles. Then, after yet another unauthorized appropriation of spirits, he would redraw the lines. A little lower.

(I seem to recall that this was similar to what Mr. Taylor himself did. Though I think the father might have tweaked his technique by drawing the lines partly on the label. Or dating them. Or something. It was a long time ago, and the Taylors'  was not the only household that generated stories of this nature.)

In any event, as Dave told it, Mr. Taylor once again caught on. There ensued another grounding and additional hands-on suggestions about how Steve might improve himself.

Mr. Taylor eventually got a locking liquor cabinet. But of course, Steve found the key.

Sometimes, when I hear certain adults sigh and issue "Kids today" laments, I wonder if they had particularly sheltered childhoods.

I have no idea what became of my friend's brother. But I sure hope he became a parent.

I love the idea of one of his kids trying to put one over on him.

"Nice try, Sparky," I can imagine him saying. "But I invented that one."  

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