scotch

The first sip of scotch hits the palate like Sherman’s March and finishes with shock and awe. I wouldn’t know about the second sip. I have no taste for total warfare. 

Scotch is the smirk of Ares surveying the charred, smoldering remnants of scorched earth. It is the bitter fire of Hephaestus –  fires hot enough to forge the thunderbolts of Zeus – molten fires that seethe to the surface, lava and snow each burning the other.

But the smell of scotch is the hearth of Hestia – a fire of protection, not destruction. It’s a wood burning stove in a home with no other heat. 

The smell of scotch is a barn on an autumn evening, a curry comb, a chestnut mare, and timothy hay. My father walks down the hill from the house to the barn with his evening scotch in hand. Two fingers. Rocks. Secret, the chestnut mare with a star on her forehead, fusses in her cross ties, ears pricked at the leaves crunching under my father’s footsteps. My father greets Secret, scratching her muzzle with his right hand. He takes an ice cube and offers it, hand flat, to her. We watch her lip the cube from his hand.

“How many bales of hay are in the loft?” he asks. “Do I need to pick up more from Mr. Willey this weekend?” 

I shake my head. “I had a test in Chem today.” I tell him, “Ionic and covalent bonds.”

He nods and takes another sip of his scotch before setting the glass on the shelf. He raps on the stall door and shakes it to test the hinges. Still good. Just like yesterday. Just like the day he built it.

“Mom said dinner’s almost ready” he announces, scratches Secret’s muzzle again, and returns up the hill. I see him disappear into the house. The porch light blinks on, momentarily disorienting me.

I finish up the mucking, feed Secret, and pick up his forgotten glass. I taste the remaining liquid, amber now diluted to light gold. I grimace and empty the single malt on the grass. I secure the barn door and breathe deeply. The air, vaguely brackish with the scent of the Patuxent, hints at the coming winter and shortened days. A chilly wind brushes my cheek as I march slowly toward the flickering light.