My grandfather used to lay down a pony keg of apple cider every fall. It wasn't very big, probably five or six gallons at most. But he'd tend it carefully, and when it was ready, he'd occasionally get himself a mug full of it, to ease the pains of the day. My grandmother, on the other hand, was a devout Baptist, and did not hold with anything resembling demon rum. (Half her Anglo ancestors were ministers, the other half moonshiners. Guess which side she took after.)
Grandpa would get himself a wee tipple, and she'd start in: "You're gonna wind up just like my Uncle Elton, drank himself to death, he did!" Grandpa would try to ignore it, heaving heartfelt sighs the while.
One day, he'd been having trouble with a set of cabinets he was building, and nothing was going according to plan or design. He decided to quit before he really screwed something up, and toodled off to the cellar for a bit of nerve medicine. Back up in the kitchen, drink in hand, he sat down at the table, and Grandma started in: "Just like my Uncle Elton, drank himself to death!"
At that point, for the only time in my life, I heard my grandpa raise his voice to his bride of 50+ years.
He slammed the glass down on the table, and said, "Dammit, Chelsea, the man was 93 when he died!"
(After she stormed out of the kitchen, he looked at me, shook his head and said, "Of course, if he'd been sober, he wouldn't have tried to ride that horse in the first place.")
So, yeah, if I can check out like Uncle Elton, I figure I'm doing pretty doggone good!