10 years old, 45%, @angels_portion, ac/dc, angelsportion, canoe, chainsaw, eagle rare, fishing, isolation, kentucky straight bourbon, loneliness, lutheran, mower, review, scotch, solitude, thoma, trail blazing, trimmer, Whiskey, whisky
Jen took the children and went to Iowa to visit friends. So, what does a husband and father of four do while all are away?
He dons the chainsaw, preps the 2-cycle bladed trimmer, and fuels the lawn mower. He then proceeds to start chopping things up and running things over until he has a clear trail to the river.
And why such savage manliness? So he can drag his canoe to the water and set sail for a few hours, taking along a fishing pole and some bait, leaving behind the lonesome solitude of a huge house fallen dreadfully silent.
Can you tell I miss them? And yet, I didn’t necessarily let anyone know I’d be alone for the four days of Memorial Day weekend. Not because I was avoiding pity driven invitations, but because for the first time in about 12 weeks, I actually didn’t have anything consuming the weekend, and if I couldn’t be alone with my family, I was going to be alone with myself – thinking, writing, blazing trails – doing whatever I felt like doing and nothing more. The demands are far too great for one man in the everyday churn of pastoral life. As far as this weekend goes, I exist to and for no one. Theologically speaking, I’ve gone up on the mountain to pray, which means I intend to rest.
Don’t forget I’m surrounded by a few hundred bottles of whisky. In that sense, I have plenty of friends, some of whom I’ve yet to actually meet, but to whom I fully intend to introduce myself.
Last night I ran into the Eagle Rare Kentucky Straight Bourbon and managed a rather pleasant conversation. We spoke of time well spent in the woods – moving timber, dragging mangled branches, cutting back a marshland floor of cat tails, sedge, and milkweed – until a thoroughfare for a dutiful reverend and the deer that live behind his home was clean and qualified. We sang of those we love, loneliness, and the sounds of a great domain creaking in the darkness. We sat together as I typed away, AC/DC blaring in the stereo speakers until 2 a.m., taking the chance that the neighbors might hear the disquietude.
It was a calming surrender, one that smelled of cocoa butter, sanding sugar, and freshly cut oak. It sipped with an anointment of oily sweat, cinnamon-spiced maple syrup, and berry relish.
Of course, as the evening came to a close, it was necessary to part ways. The finish was a medium handshake of wood char and distant sun-ripened wild cherries.
The Eagle Rare is a kindly gent with whom I am quite pleased to share my seclusion. I recommend his comity and I look forward to future symposia.