Tonight I drank the last of my father’s St. Remy brandy. He won’t care one way or the other as he died from mesothelioma, cancer of the pleura, almost 13 years ago. As I sipped the last two ounces, all that was left, I thought about some of my memories of my father.
I don’t remember him drinking much. And I never saw him drunk, not even once. When I was a teenager, I would tend bar at my parent’s parties. They had a few parties a year and the same people came every time. It was an eye-opening experience for a young man that hadn’t really experienced the outside world of parties, drinking, and other various ways of getting intoxicated my generation experimented with.
Anyway, back to the brandy. I never drank brandy or cognac with my father. I regret that now. It’s a pleasure that I enjoy a great deal these days. It’s not something I really spent much time thinking about when my father was alive.
I acquired his brandy last weekend. My sister, her husband, and I spent Saturday and Sunday going through some of the cupboards and closets at my mother’s house in an attempt to clean it up. Unfortunately, we had to put my mother, with her consent of course, in an assisted living facility a few months ago. She could no longer live by herself and 24-hour onsite care would deplete her funds in short order.
My sister and her husband didn’t want any of the liquor. I gladly took it, if for no other reason than to think of my father while I drink it or share it with others.
So now I have a full cabinet of liquor left over from the days when my parents had parties. Some bottles almost empty, like the St. Remy. Some completely full, like the Courvoisier still in the box. My father’s friends knew he like brandy and cognac so when his birthday or Christmas came around several more bottles showed up. I doubt he had to ever buy it actually.
My mom didn’t drink much after my father died. Except for the margaritas she had with my oldest niece once in a great while. She would tell my niece “Don’t tell your Mom”, meaning my sister. She would of course tell her mom afterwards. She was old enough to drink anyway, and it was no big deal. We’re just glad they could spend some time together and enjoy each other’s company.
So tonight, I decided to start working my way through the leftover liquor. After all, it’s Friday night, I worked all week, my wife was still at work, and it was a nice warm evening on the back patio.
So I sipped the last of the St. Remy Napoleon brandy (Napoleon means it was aged at least 4 years in oak casks) and thought about my father. I realized a few things that I hadn’t been conscious of.
First, I still miss him. I don’t cry anymore, although I did get a few tears in my eyes, a year ago when I talked with my mom about him on his birthday. I miss him the most when I am feeling the need of some advice. He always gave such good advice, no matter the subject. He helped me raise my own kids, although he may not have realized it.
He helped guide my conservative political leanings without calling them that. He never really approved of my gun purchases, nor my hunting, when I was younger. At the same time he allowed me the freedom to find my own way without judging me. I thank him for that. I’ve tried very hard to do that with my own kids, both in their 20s now.
To make a long story short, I found the St. Remy Napoleon Brandy to be very good. It was incredibly smooth and I enjoyed every sip.
Thanks Dad.