12 August 2024 – Temptation

Rusted brandy in a diamond glass

Everything is made from dreams

Time is made from honey slow and sweet

Only the fools know what it means – Diana Krall

Indianapolis, Indiana – 1976

Snow is waist-deep on this Kentucky boy. That’s at least 40 inches. It is white-out driving conditions. No traffic can move. None has for two days. It hasn’t stopped.

Employees at the Marriott are dead tired. They haven’t been home since this started. The travel show is on hold for a few days.

The “Dulcimer Man,” Russell Fluharty, dressed in his everyday bibbs, sits across from Bill and Sue, Don and Weldon, and Bert.

They are enjoying their bourbons here at Noon.

Fluharty is 76 years old with the heart of a kid, the musical skills of a self-taught mountain man musician, and an engaging laugh. He strings a dulcimer like Chet Atkins makes love to his guitar.

He is holding court.

And that is when I met temptation.

Nancy accompanied Mr. Fluharty, much like a personal assistant.

She had long dark hair pulled back in a tail. The dark complexion of her Native American Heritage, the Shawnee, contrasted with her bluest eyes.

Nancy stood to my shoulders and tipped the scales at 200 pounds. Her hands were rough from years of farm labor, her nails bitten off, and she wore neatly pressed jeans and a work shirt.

She might have been in her mid-to-late thirties, more likely older. She adored Mr. Fluharty.

And here we were once again. In the bar. Trying to entertain ourselves.

We had kept the bar in business steadily from opening at Noon until they ran us out at 02:00 hours for two straight days. Liquor, wine, and even beer were nearing depletion.

Nancy sashayed over to my table. I sat alone. I was working off a hangover.

Astutely, she observed that I had gone from drinking my usual Kentucky Bourbon to scotch. Mainly because the waitress said, here’s another scotch. Please, not so loud, I asked.

I always tried to be discrete. No self-respecting Kentuckian or West Virginian would do such blasphemy and drink scotch, certainly not in public.

This led to a discussion between us about our preferred bourbons and scotches. She is a Maker’s Mark Bourbon and a Highland Single Malt woman.

I drank any bourbon or scotch except Kentucky Gentleman and King George in those days. My palette is not so refined at the time.

In hushed, almost religious tones, Nancy reminds me, as if my senses would be appalled, that every scotch has a bit of bourbon.

The distillers in my Father’s homeland age their products in old bourbon barrels brought from the colonies. We saw it for ourselves when visiting a few years ago. Jack Daniel’s and Maker’s barrels are stacked ten high at one of the nine distilleries we visited.

Her whiskey knowledge impressed me; she was primarily a light social drinker.

She reeled off the benefits of single malts for the purest. Oban, Highland Park, MacCallen, and Dalmore. Scotches I had never heard of in those days. To me, J&B Rare was top shelf.

She noted that many master distillers in Scotland, however, preferred blends such as Pinch and Chivas. She says it takes a particular skill to blend year after year and be consistent.

And that was when she tempted me.

She leaned in, oh so close; I could smell the Patchouli-based perfume she used.

I tell you what, Kentucky boy, I’ve got something special for you. Oh, no, I thought, what have I gotten myself into now?

She smiled. Stood and looked at me in that way women can look. No quite come hither, too close, though for my comfort.

Then she walks to the bar, leans in, and says something to the bartender.

She returns to our table with two diamond-shaped glasses filled with rusty-looking liquor.

Being the Southern gentleman I am, I stood and accepted the glass she offered.

We seat ourselves. And then, with a smile almost wicked in nature, definitely encouraging of mischievousness, she whispers, sip this.

And that long night so many decades ago, I was tempted.

Fifty-three years ago. And every time I engage now, it is like that very first time.

I fell to the temptation that afternoon.

And I forever remember Nancy and her introducing me to the Rusty Nail.