G. K. Chesterton reminisced, “Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about the things in my pocket. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past.”

Indeed, the pocket things, little things – events, memories, challenges, nostalgia’s trinkets, and most especially those fleeting moments of flesh and blood.

I was laying across our bed, somewhat sideways, with my head on Jen’s tummy. She was scrolling through Christmas music on her iPad – a most serene moment. Not long after landing on a particular collection of classics, our daughter Madeline twirled her way into the room in a waltz and plopped onto the bed.

“Whatcha listening to?” she asked.

“Bing Crosby,” Jen answered.

There was a pause.

“Wait,” Maddy continued. “Isn’t that the Scotch daddy thinks is gross?”

Have you ever had your head on someone’s belly when they started to laugh? It’s an earthquake of sorts that I heartily recommend. Although I must warn you — a headache is a distinct possibility.

“No, honey,” Jen smiled. “That’s Scoresby.”

“Oh, yeah,” the little girl avowed with a wide smile daubed with a partial blush.

Slightly shaken, but still clear enough to encourage, “You were close, sweetie. Add two more letters to the mix and you have Scoresby,” I said.

“Well,” she concluded, “I should’ve figured you wouldn’t be listening to this if it had something to do with Scoresby, unless of course Momma was trying to torture you.”

I smiled, but even more so on the inside. Yes, the little things. She’s our little thing. I love this little girl.

Now, this is only a snippet of the joy she gives us, but still, as Chesterton insinuated, these individual oddments, these moments, are each important in their own way, and as each is added to the other, they form an ever-increasing roster of proof that Maddy, though she herself may be a “little thing,” the incalculably entrancing depository of her thoughtful character is enormous. She is already one that the world around her should be careful not miss, because I dare say that once she gains a footing as an adult and is no longer counted as little, she is going to be great – she is going to beam brightly.

I am lifting a dram of The Macallan Edition No. 1 in honor of this factualness, and rightly so, as there will never be another release of the Edition No. 1 just as there will never be another Maddy.

Allow for me to detail this verity.

With the cork in hand, having heard the snapping rush of air from its release, there is an altogether spellbinding rule of spiced sherry.

Captivated, you find the elixir reaches your mouth before you know you’ve poured the dram. No matter. It begins without you, but sweeps you along to share the éclair cake that has somehow taken into itself a morsel of the American Oak’s candor.

In medium stride, The Macallan Edition No. 1 twirls through and away, singing only of the little things in its pocket – the éclair was warm and mousse-filled, and the sherry, no matter what they tell you, was a creamy Dulce.

But wait, surely such extravagance is unreachable. Surely such finery is attainable only to those who must for endless ages collect the little things to create a sizeable sum.

Nay. It’s $99. In a short while, it can be yours…if you can find it.