Please don’t misunderstand, this column does not advocate alcohol abuse.
I believe it is up to the individual to come to their own terms with mind-altering substances, and to determine for themselves what “abuse” means.
These are merely my own experiences.
The first time whiskey passed my lips, I was in seventh grade and had the house to myself all night for some reason.
My amigo, Mike “Fifty-Four” Jones and I raided the liquor cabinet. I drank half a bottle of Cutty Sark scotch, and Fifty-Four polished off some sloe gin.
Let me take a moment, and say that I am a card-carrying, dyed-in-the-tartan, highland Pict from Clan McKay on my mom’s side.
But, to this day, I nearly retch at the aroma of scotch whiskey, thanks to that night. Scotch makes me think of horse piss drained through old charcoal ashes. The only reason to drink it is to make haggis taste better by comparison.
Next, I learned that a certain hotel bar in Saratoga was a tad lax in carding customers during the Fourth of July Rodeo and Street Bacchanal.
But, puberty had been kind to me and arrived early, and I could grow a full, bushy red beard in junior high. So, the barkeep didn’t think twice about serving me shots of Old Overholt Rye. And more shots.
Rye is a particularly smooth and approachable hooch. It flirts with you like a U.W. cheerleader, then sneaks up behind you and steals your wallet.
Before you know it, you are standing outside on the hot, wooden sidewalk, watching the bands parade past in the street, and your friend and fellow Rawlins Outlaw, Dogbone, is running up the sidewalk, waving some poor girls undies like a battle flag, and hollering, “Hey, there’s these guys who want to fight us. C’mon!”
I still have warm and fuzzy memories when I throw my lip over a glass of rye.
It is axiomatic that only Kentucky can distill real bourbon.
A college chum, Rhodes Kelly – himself fourth or fifth generation Kentucky Colonel – drove this point home to me.
Rhodes brought to Greeley a case of Rebel Yell, a nectar that, at the time, couldn’t be procured north of the Mason/Dixon Line.
The case containing the bottles was a work of the cabinet-maker’s art. Charred oak, dowelled and with brass fittings. Four rows of three bottles of Rebel Yell.
Drinking a bottle of that stuff was like attending a snake-handlin’, Pentecostal church somewhere back up in a dark Kentucky holler. Lots of singiin’, lots of stompin’, lots of prayin’, and lots of snakes.
Bourbon, since then, has been my go-to. I consider Jim Beam to be distant kinfolk.
That brings us to Wild Turkey 101.
Darrel Winfield, an original Marlboro Man, introduced me to that particular bust-head at the poker table at the ID. I remember him saying, “If a man’s gonna drink, he should drink this stuff. An’ he should drink it while he’s winnin’ some poor dumb kid’s money.”
Nowadays, a bottle of Wyoming Whiskey Outrider perpetually occupies a place of honor in the Jim Angell Shrine of the Temple of the First Amendment at Cowboy State Daily headquarters.
For the uninformed, that place was once Charley Irwin’s barn, and home to both Steamboat and Sea Biscuit.
Years ago, when Wyoming Whiskey trotted out the first batch, I was at the bar in Front Street Tavern in Laramie. The door opened, and a film crew invaded the place, with a gal waving a bottle of whiskey in the lead. It was from barrel #4 of Wyoming Whiskey, and she wanted me to try it on camera.
I’ve always been a sucker for a woman offering me whiskey, so I took a slash. While the camera rolled, I told the gal that it tasted like jailbait whiskey, out on the town way too soon.
The intervening years in charred oak barrels have made this stuff my favorite. It’s smooth, tasty, and an honesr 100 proof. Great for mowing the lawn.
But I don’t think anyone else on the paper drinks it. The bottle is always as full or empty as I left it. Maybe I work with tee-totallers.
But friends and neighbors, whiskey is made from vegetables, and when you drink it, you can know that you’re doing something good for your body.
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
