Every time I pass by my dad I sniff him. The smell of the moonshine is something I will never forget, so I know I'll recognize it if I happen upon it again. I think I'm being pretty cool about it, but I guess not, because he yells at me.

"Rory, what in the hell are you sniffing around me for?"

"I- I wasn't. My nose is stopped up, that's all."

He laughs at me as I stand there red faced and stammering for words.
"You are a piss poor liar, Rory."

I look down, shoving my hands in my pockets.

"You were smelling for 'shine. Like I told you before, I'm not like I used to be."

"Grandma Carolyn says, once an alcoholic, always-," I say, but he cuts me off.

"Damn it, Rory. You didn't tell her, did you?" he says, slumping back in his chair like a kid who just found out there was no Santa Claus.

"No...but Albie knows." I say the last part quietly.

He looks even more stricken. "This is nobody's business, son. If I have a sip or two, it is my business - not anyone else's." He pauses then settles a leveling look at me. "Not even yours."

I can't deny his last remark hurt my feelings.

"I'm a grown man. I can handle my demons now. When I was younger I couldn't." He looks at me, his dark eyes full of surprising intensity. "Don't start stirring things up, Rory. You do not want to cross me." Though he says it softly, I feel a chill go down my spine.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, tell me exactly what you said to Albie. I want the truth. Tell me everything."

I settle into the chair facing him and start to tell him everything. When I finish, he nods.

"What did Albie say?"

I look down at my hands. My palms are sweaty and fingertips tingle. I feel like I did when I saw that picture of Kathleen on the computer the other night.

I feel guilty.

"He said, 'Damn you, Dean'."

"That's it?"

I nod.

My dad stands up and walks to the phone. "Go on and do your homework. I gotta try to fix what you messed up."

I skulk off to the safety of my room and turn on my stereo to drown out the sounds of his cursing. He always cusses when he feels trapped. And my dad feeling trapped is about as good as playing fetch with a rabid dog.

Grandma Carolyn comes over later, bringing leftovers for our dinner. She pulls out two plates from the cabinet and wipes them off over the sink like they have something on them. Dad says she does it because she doesn't think two guys can possibly know how to wash a dish.

My grandma is nice, a little peculiar, but then so is my dad. I've grown up with a weird family. Some people would say it's dysfunctional, but it isn't. It's just good old fashioned redneck weird.

Yep, I said it. I'm redneck born and raised. I'm the undisputed heir to the throne.

Dad says he's been called redneck for as long as he can remember. He used to hate it, until he realized there are a lot worse things to be called.

He doesn't hunt, fishes only once in a blue moon, doesn't have a jacked up truck. Doesn't even know what the Confederate flag looks like, I'm guessing. But he's a hard worker and loves the outdoors.

My grandma is the type to say "bless your heart", which could mean exactly that or 'fuck you'. It's a Southern catch all phrase. And she loves to treat my dad like he's helpless.

Now my Granddad is different. He doesn't say much at all. Sometimes when no one else is around, he'll talk to me. But mostly he just watches and smirks.

All of my life I've heard how mean he was, but I just can't picture it. Grandma blames the alcohol, and Dad doesn't like to talk about it at all. There are times when we are all together and it's like being too close to an electric grid. No matter which way I turn, I'm prepared for a shock.

I see something in each one of them that I can identify with, but there isn't one trait that runs deep through my veins.

My dad's tough, my grandma is a busybody, and granddad is a closed book.

If this is all I know, how come I'm so different?