It's the circular nature of the seasons that makes life so enjoyable. We go from summer to winter in just a few deep breaths through the fallen leaves of autumn. Then, we go blithely back into summer after a foray into the blooms of spring. Like life, warmth rejuvenates the soul after cold has hardened us. It's that back and forth that make us who we are. Experiences both bad and good season us.
Southern Tennessee. If ever there was a redundant name for a geographical region, that'd be it. Driving through the fields of Mississippi and North Alabama to get to the shadows of the Cumberland Plateau is breathtaking. I've written about that drive before with its white-washed churches and its sun-dried barns. Those temples of worship and agriculture still the mind as the drive meanders through fields of brown and green.
But this time I wasn't focused on Sewanee, the college campus two of my children call home. Instead, I was focused on another sacred space: The Jack Daniel's Distillery. Man, I was excited about visiting the birthplace and only home of my favorite adult drink. I know that line sounds wrong in its construction and contains a misplaced emphasis on alcohol. But, man, I was excited about visiting the birthplace and only home of my favorite adult drink. Blame it on the history major in me who loves the 150-year-old experience of it. Or maybe it's the patterned middle-aged man who likes to know what he's getting. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy spirits and imbibe regularly, but I can do without. Moderation is the essence of every good thing.
My son Jacob is about to graduate from Sewanee and I waited for this trip to Lynchburg, Tenn., for him to turn 21 and join me. Lynchburg is about an hour from Sewanee. We drove there in a car that had 135,000 miles on it and a pile of collegiate refuse on the floorboard. Notebooks, ink pens, and a variety of running and hiking shoes rolled around as we turned corners.
Lynchburg is the size of a thumbnail, but the place oozes with hints of history. Driving through the small town on county roads led us to a sudden opening of pastures and an array of warehouses. A fancy welcome center appeared on the left and we were directed to a massive parking lot on the right. Though it was fall, the bugs kept up their background music to make the nasty scratch of the parking lot seem more Southern-like.
That intrinsically Southern propensity for dual personalities is obvious in Lynchburg, as the Jack Daniel's Distillery is located in a dry county. God and government both have a sense of humor.
Our guide walked backwards in his blue jeans, work boots, and flannel shirt. His well-rehearsed lines flowed like honey as he took us through the grounds of the distillery. We stuck our hands in the limestone spring that provided iron-free water for the liquor. We sat in Jack's chair in his first office and saw the safe that ultimately killed him, according to the lore (he kicked it in frustration and caused a contusion that ended up as infection). We walked through the factory where the mash was made and lifted the lids of tin pots where the charcoal mellowing took place. The giant trees provided shade and the grounds were meticulous as we finally strolled into a giant barrel house.
The barrels are works of art. The white oak used to make them give off a deep musk smell and their bare wood simplicity adds a natural color to the easy design. The barrel house was warm. The tour guide explained that the flavor and color of Jack Daniel's comes from the wood itself and thus, the barrel houses are not heated or cooled. In the heat, the liquor is absorbed into the wood. In the cold, the oak hardens and the liquid is removed. Then it starts all over again with each changing season. That back and forth through the wood is how the famous Jack Daniel's is made. The warmth envelops the liquor and flavors it; the cold pushes it back out. The warmth draws it in once again.
Jacob and I settled in for a tasting of the various single-barrel whiskies. Frank Sinatra is among those famous folks who have enjoyed Jack Daniel's over the ages and he drank it with "four ice cubes, three fingers of Jack, and two fingers of water," our guide explained. So the distillery made a version for the legendary crooner called Sinatra Select. It was the best whiskey either of us had tasted but once we got to the gift shop, we found the distillery priced it so that only legendary crooners could afford it. We settled on a bottle of Single Barrel Select and headed back to Sewanee educated and impressed.
If you want to break up the journey on I-40 East, just drop south at Nashville for about 70 miles and venture into Lynchburg. There's an old-town feel in its simple square. There's a freshly cut pasture smell to the area. And there's a great tour to be had at the distillery. If you're not into whiskey, go for the history and the barrels. There's a certain elegance and art to the process.
When we returned to Sewanee, my son and I sipped on our new purchase and talked about life in terms that fathers and sons understand best: the warmth of the good times, the cold of the bad times, and the understanding that all are necessary in order to create our own unique lives, our own unique taste.
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Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org.
Editorial on 03/10/2018