Pappyland: A Story of Family, Fine Bourbon, and the Things That Last

by Wright Thompson

John and I shared a mutual love of literature and a hope that the better angels of the South might one day prevail. That night as we sat in the old plantation home that was now the university president’s house, and as we felt the immense weight of that change, not only in the faces and stories of my fellow diners but also in the air, I felt a profound and new sense of rebirth and of hope as I tried to wish the world I wanted for my child into existence. The positive news sank in slowly. I cried tears of hope and fear, then told the news to my mother, my brother, and my uncle Will—who since the death of my father has become the most important male role model in my life, a real surrogate for me. Will has never had a taste of Pappy Van Winkle, so I made a mental note to get a bottle from Julian to give to him. His smile when I hand it over will remind me of that night in New Orleans outside the Superdome, and of my father, who was present that evening and whenever Uncle Will and I are together.