October 15, 2019 – Title of Essay: Pappy Van Winkle

This is a writing exercise: Think of a memory about a precious item. [This precious item is not my item, it is a dear friend's item.]

        Parking in the drive, the house is exactly as I remember it.   It has nice street appeal, good location, ample parking, and quality landscaping. Having never seen inside, I can easily wait another half hour for my private tour.

        An executive’s home, now empty, and devised to the favored son.   Over the years when I was rarely on this end of the county, I’d drop my speed and give the house a long, critical glance as I took the wide curve.  It hasn’t changed much; it always looked splendid.

        Soon, I’d get to see the inside.  Over time, I’d mentally guessed of its interior.  Probably upscale traditional.  But, then the widow moved out last week taking all the furniture and probably the elegant drapes with her as well.  Would I be left viewing an empty shell?  No, even empty I’d still get a sense of the richness from possible crown ceiling moldings, elegant fireplace mantel, built in bookcases, hardwood floors, or maybe rich wood paneling in a study.  Or, it might be a plain shell of standard walls due to restrained building costs early in the executive’s career yet over the years had been filled with ultra-fine furnishings which are now elsewhere. Well, I will find out.

        On second thought, I can’t imagine it not having walk in closets, double vanities, rich tiled baths.  The kitchen has to have the top of the line appliances, rich custom made cherry cabinets, with granite counter-tops or I will be disappointed.

        What was that phrase from a movie that made me smile the other day?

        “What do you want?” One actress asked another in a scene from an old black and white movie.

        “I want fresh flowers daily on the foyer table, matching vases on the mantel piece, and bookends,” the spoiled socialite answered.

        I had mentally smiled at “bookends”.  Bookends, a possession that you usually don’t acquire until you have quality books to display or you have a quality room to decorate.  I remember my first set of bookends. They sure have braced lots of books and are now chipped and worn, but I still cherish them.

        Bookends – yes, sometimes people allude to two sons as “bookends” holding up the father.  In this instance, from what I have ascertained over the years – not two holding up father, but a father stepping aside and sending them out into the world to do for themselves is more like it.  But, then again, later in life was this one of those instances, two sons, standing close to his side or was it only one? Often it is stylish using only one bookend supporting a row of books on a shelf and leaving space for a decorative vase or objet d’art. Was that this son’s relationship?  I am overthinking the bookend allegory in this situation.

        I tell myself to empty my mind of random thoughts. This is not the time to question what is in the past – not too distant past.  I imagine there is still angst about his Dad’s passing and other family issues he’d rather not discuss or remember.  Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, seeing it empty – it might be the first time he has seen it empty – the widow only moved days ago.  I might not have the words he needs to hear, if he needs my words at all.

        I see the flash of the white BMW in my rearview mirror.  He parks, I get out to greet him.

        Just a simple hug by a tall man, but I’ve always admired the height and stature of this man.  He is subdued.

        “So this is it,”  he softly smiles with satisfaction at his sweeping glance, taking in the house and landscape.

        We walk silently to the back door. The key works smoothly in the quality lock and the door swings open.

        No need for lights – the mid-morning autumn sun is streaming in casting beautiful shadows of the long casement windows on the hardwood floor.

        Our footsteps echo in the silent house.

        Wandering room to room to room, he occasionally opens a cabinet or closet door and silently closes same.

        Near the fireplace next to the hearth stands a broken open wooden packing crate, with excelsior spilling out onto the floor.  On top of the crate are two elegant crystal whiskey glasses.  Nestled in the crate is an elegant bottle.

        He laughs that half-caught laugh in his throat.  Not everyone recognizes that laugh – it is a laugh of self-satisfaction of “I knew it” or “got-cha” when executing a verbal touché

        There is a card slipped into the case. I reach down and pull it from the excelsior. His name scrawled on it in manly penmanship.  I try to hand it to him.

        “No, I am sure it is from Dad, I was adamant that he had a bottle of this in the house and, she said it wasn’t here.”

        I again hold it out to him while he is reaching down to pick up the bottle.

        “Pappy Van Winkle - 12 years old,” he announces as he inspects the bottle adding, “already opened, a drink or two gone,” he says as he holds it up to the light. "Want some – I doubt there is any ice – straight up okay with you?” 

He is not waiting for an answer.  He pours two-finger level in each glass and hands one to me.

        We silently salute each other – or are we saluting his Dad - or are we saluting the house?