For several years I hunted deer with the same group of men. Each Fall we gathered in the North Warner Mountains, or at Willow Creek Cabin, or near Bear Mountain. Supper over, we sat around the fire, passed a bottle of French whiskey around, caught up on personal news, and finally started in on the old tales of past hunts. My friends told the same stories every year. I didn’t mind. Each was a richly embellished, finely polished tale worthy of the oral tradition. Over time, the stories improved, or maybe our story telling improved. I didn’t mind that either. But when I started hearing tales I once told as my own, I began to see the danger of French Whiskey. Apparently, If you drink enough, it will change the history of your life.