Here's a story for you. The year was 1981. Anon was 10 years old.
Anon's family was convocated for a barbeque in rural South Carolina. Near Florence, in a tiny town called Quinby. Look it up, it might still be there.
Maternal grandma was married to a step-grandfather because her original husband, a specialist in bovine encephalopathy, had been murdered by the DS for blowing the whistle on the work he had done on anthrax. 1972.
Back to 1981. We had a family get-together, a barbecue in a back yard along a rural road that in the summer stank of wet oak and sumac. Behind the house was a creek with a small pier from which one could launch a canoe to go fishing. Most of the fishing we did in those days however was in the swamps.
My step-grandfather was adamant about drinking Evan Williams or Jim Beam. He would not tolerate a mere whiskey. Demanded only sour mash bourbon.
He ran out of his juice and insisted that he would run to the package store to replenish. But on top of that (and this was 4th of July weekend), he demanded that we have fireworks.
The rest of the family were too drunk to argue effectively. So he put my ten-year-old ass in the driver's seat of the van and commanded me to drive. I had never driven a vehicle before. It was a stick shift. I learned awful quick how to drive that thing. He raved in the passenger's seat. He was stone skunk drunk. I took the van to the package store, and he came out with two fifths of whiskey. Then we drove to the northern border (SC/NC) and bought fireworks from a place on that border called "South of the Border". Then I drove that shit back home.
There were no repercussions. Go figure.