on vacation. However, he had a way of teaching … it was as if he wanted to unload his knowledge onto me. Of course, I was interested. Coming from a family with a business who chars barrels for the purpose of storing bourbon, it was nice to see the other side of the process. I had been to The Barrel House hundreds of times before, but I kept my hands to myself and admired the machinery, wondering why there were so many machines to prepare a barrel full of liquid.
I let Harold’s words soak in and I saw the passion through his eyes, finding my sparked interest. I must have asked him a million questions over the course of just a couple days, but he happily answered each one with detail. I understood the reason for taking pleasure in watching even the most minute part of the process because each phase has an equally important role in the final taste of bourbon, a taste no one will get to enjoy for at least two years after it stills in a charred barrel. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by the process of distilling bourbon, but there is so much science involved. With only a few simple ingredients of grains mixed with water, yeast, and sugar, a fermented product develops. I thought the importance of the distilling process ended there, but it doesn’t. It’s where it all begins. Every single environmental factor has an effect on the final taste; how the barrel was charred, the temperature of storage, the airflow, and duration of time—it’s all so easy to alter, even just slightly. It’s hard to understand how any barrel of bourbon can taste exactly like another, but Harold mastered this process.
After Harold returned from his first weeklong trip, he winked at me and pointed his finger. “You caught the bug, didn’t you?” I don’t know what made him think anything different of me after just a week of helping in the shop, but maybe he recognized the exhaustion in my eyes. I hadn’t slept much. I wanted to watch the machines and make sure every single part of the first steps were running precisely the way he wanted. Otherwise, whatever I did during that one week could potentially change the taste of a slew of bottles filled with bourbon that no one would taste for at least a few years. I didn’t want a mistake to follow me around like that. More importantly, I felt enamored watching the production of a mash that would turn into alcohol. It was distracting and allowed me time to forget about my ongoing nightmares from the war. The patterns working through the mash hypnotized me. I could only think about the motion of the machines mixing paddles. There were no triggers in the basement of The Barrel House. It was a safe place to be alone.
Did I catch whatever bug he was talking about? I told Harold I enjoyed every minute of the time I spent watching the machines work their magic. Maybe it wasn’t a common statement to make.
“No one knows it’s a fairly relaxing job, so we have to keep that between us, okay?” he said with a sly smile.
“It’ll be our secret,” I told him.
There were many nights after that week when I wished to be alone in that basement, watching the machines function on a repetitive cycle, never missing a beat as it created a void for me to stare into, forgetting everything else around me. I haven’t found something to offer that sense of comfort since then, really. It sounds odd, and it’s nothing I would share with anyone because I doubt they would understand, but I’m thankful for the time Harold spent teaching me how to make bourbon. I’ve spent the last year reading books on different practices and recipes to achieve particular tastes, for no reason other than intrigue. Now, I’m here, working in this brilliant man’s shop as he dies in a hospital bed. Did he always know I would end up here?
Working here feels more natural than working with Pops at the warehouse.
As I’m sweeping up the floor in the main room that holds the larger machines, I hear a landline ringing from the far corner. It’s Harold’s office, which I tend to stay out of even though he leaves the door open. I know the bills are stacking up, but I don’t want to touch anything without some kind of word from him or