By John B. Chisum
I live in rural Louisiana, which is somewhat akin to living in a third world country. I have visited and lived in major cities across the United States and abroad as a younger man. Cities do have the advantage of offering certain conveniences such as restaurants and entertainment. However, after living the past 20 years three miles outside of a 400-person village, I have no desire for urban living past a couple of days visit. If I cannot walk out my front door, buck naked, drinking Proper Twelve from the bottle and shoot a coon, opossum, or whatever other yard varmint might be on my property, I am in the wrong neighborhood.
My small community is not entirely uncivilized. We have a post office, gas station, medical clinic, and pharmacy. We also have Gwen’s Little Place. It offers pretty much anything you could ever need. From pig’s feet to .22 bullets to toilet paper to loose cigarettes, Gwen’s Little Place sells it. It is the only store that I have ever been in that allows you to buy three eggs at a time if that is what your recipe calls for. Thank the gods, she also sells liquor. This allows me to make a five-minute drive instead of 30 to acquire a decent bottle of Irish whiskey.
On Whiskey Safari
A wall behind the cash register displays all of the booze offered for sale. The top shelf is adorned with collectable whiskey bottles from primarily the 70’s and 80’s. There is Boss Hogg, Robert E. Lee, a soldier from the King’s African Rifles adorned with a fez along with a menagerie of others. One day while waiting to make a purchase, I noticed a box towards the back with the words Van Winkle on it. Now I may be an ignorant redneck, but I do know what Pappy Van Winkle is. When it was my turn in line, I asked to see the box. To my dismay, the box was marked Old Rip Van Winkle. Remember ignorance does not mean stupid but rather not knowing. Inside the box was an unopened bottle complete with the liquor tax stamp from 1967. Thinking Rip Van Winkle was some 1970’s-era fairy tale collectable, I returned it and was on my way.
The next week I had a group of buddies coming up from NOLA to the camp for a work weekend. I stopped by Gwen’s to get provisions. While I was going through the line I spotted the Rip Van Winkle staring at me. As an afterthought, I asked Gwen what she would take for it. I thought it might be cool to drink a 40-some-odd-year-old bottle of whiskey. She started at $50, but I got her down to $20, reasoning that as old as it was it might have gone bad.
Finding a Unicorn
That night around the fire I told my friends of my acquisition. I let them know that we were going to try a truly aged bottle of bourbon. Thankfully it was early, and one of my friends still had his wits about him. His father was a liquor rep for Glazer out of south Louisiana. Thinking that the bottle might have more value than my initial $20, he went and hid it from the rest of us knowing that as the night progressed the likelihood of our consuming it would increase.
The next day, a client of my buddies’ father made me a $2,000 offer. In the light of day, I looked at prices on internet auctions and declined. That was probably a mistake, but it won’t be my last. My son has killed free range axis deer in the Texas hill country, pronghorn antelope on the great plains, and everything that walks, crawls, or flies in Louisiana.
He has been saving money for a plains game safari in Southern Africa since he was 10. Maybe I can use the proceeds from selling Old Rip to fund a proper safari. That would be much more memorable that a turista trip to Mexico, unless we find ourselves on a Tequila Safari.
