“You must gather the strength,” the voice said from the shadows with a deep, yet ethereal, sternness. “You must find what is required.”
“I… I can’t,” I said clasping my chest and pulling at my garb.
“You must. We can wait no longer.”
“There is still time,” I pleaded.
“No,” the voice said to pierce my petition. “There is no time. If we do not act now, it will be beyond the borders of our muscle.”
“What about the boy?” I pleaded. “His youth is to his benefit. He’s strong. His frame is more capable.”
“Indeed, he is capable,” the voice said. “But he is of no use to us now. His wits and will do not match the task. The proof is before us even as we debate.”
“What do you mean?”
“Behold, the challenge, and yet he has passed by day after day without offer or care. See for yourself that it still looms.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Now is to be the mowing of the yard,” the voice growled. “And you must be the one to mow it.”
“It must be you.”
“Aye. It must be me.” And so I engaged the machine, pushed it to edge of the grassy plain, and reached for the pull-start.
“It must be me,” I whispered with a sigh and then pulled the cord.
I approach certain whiskies with the same foreboding, especially editions that tout having been aged for only six months. Truth be told, I’d rather go to war against a yard that’s been left unmowed for six months than drink such a concoction. Still, as I’ve offered before, I do this so you don’t have to. It must be me.
And yet, just as one can never be sure of what may be lurking in those towering weeds, sometimes there is a gem to be discovered which makes the effort well worth the sweat. The Wheat Whisky from Long Road Distillers is such an example.
The nose of this infant dram formulated from Michigan wheat and aged in new American oak barrels has a bit of a briny trail at first, but it only takes a moment for a fuller, more floral scent to begin resonating. There is the smell of distant lilacs and freshly brewed coffee.
The palate offers lightly buttered toast with a sprinkling of salt. A strange transition, but not bad.
The medium finish is a dry crest of butterscotch and wood spice. Again, a strange changeover, but not bad.
It is such compensation in the face of a tired and lacking will that makes the effort worthwhile. Interestingly enough, my decision to go forth into war with the yard realized the long-absent gas cap gasket laying near the base of our patio. In other words, the last few times I’ve mowed, gas has been sputtering up and out of the tank and onto the mower frame.
No longer. The war is won.