A Visit from Basil Hayden on Groundhog's Day

My friend Basil Hayden unexpectedly showed up at my door on Groundhog’s Day.  He’s looking good.  Prosperous.  I haven’t seen him since college.  He comes from Kentucky, was in Chicago on business, and stopped by to pay me a visit on his way home. 

Basil has quite a history.  In college we knew him as Evan Williams.  He’s all different from those days.  Dropped out for years, emerged with a new name, and still won’t tell us where he was or what he was doing during his disappearance.  The new Evan changed his look, the way he dresses, everything about himself.  He’s changed completely.  Well, at least in appearance.  I like to think he’s the same guy I’ve always known.

Evan was full of stories, and used to tell them to us late at night in those cheap apartments in Normal back in the early seventies.  To hear Evan tell it, he was hillbilly through and through.  How he got to ISU was something of a mystery because his family, spread out all over the country now, was a tight down home clan from humble roots in the hills of Kentucky.  Outlaw roots even.  We had turned the stereo off and were having whiskey in the downstairs apartment on Glenn Avenue when Basil, Evan then, told this tale:

My old grand dad, Pappy Van Winkle was hunting wild turkey in the woods where Knob Creek and Rowan’s Creek meet before flowing through Noah’s Mill and on down to the Ohio River.  He was slipping through the woods on a slender path that legend had it was a buffalo trace, an old path the Indians used to follow in the early times.  He had an old rifle that held but a single bulleit (sic), which meant Pappy had to make a sure hit good and solid with his first shot.  You couldn’t just go gallivantin’ around shooting any old crow when you please.  Turkey hunting was serious business. 

Past the mill was an old cabin still up on heaven hill where the Blantons used to live.  Two families by the name of Booker and Baker still lived on places down below in the hollow.  They’d watch for out for each other, all those families, and if someone strange wandered through the woods they’d let out a rebel yell, grab their guns, and head out to their stills hidden deep in the woods to scare off the revenuers, the federal agents determined to break up their way of life.  Selling moonshine was pert near the only way to make a living in those hills but it was prohibition and making whiskey was against the law.  When Basil’s old grand dad got to that abandoned Blanton cabin he stopped for a moment and looked around.  Four roses bloomed near the doorway, and in the woodshed chunks of firewood were stacked ten high.  Seemed odd, fresh firewood stacked by an old cabin, but he didn’t pay it no mind.  He sat on a stump and was having a chew of tobacco when damned if someone didn’t come around the corner of the barn.  Pappy grabbed his gun and the old man threw his hands in the air.

“Don’t shoot Pappy it’s me, Ezra Brooks, your damned cousin!”

Seemed like everyone claimed to be Pappy’s cousin but upon closer inspection it was Ezra Brooks all right.  Pappy hadn’t seen Ezra since he’d presided over a wedding between his 15 year daughter and I.W. Harper.  I.W. wasn’t at all convinced he wanted to marry the semi beautiful and pregnant Miss Brooks but Ezra persuaded him it was the right course of action with a loaded ten gauge double barrel shotgun.  The reception went quite well. Ezra broke out his secret stash of fruit jars filled with moonshine and in the end a good time was had by all.  Ezra was a cooper, a barrel maker by trade, but he made whiskey on the side, like most of those hillbillies.

“What the hell you doin’ down here Ezra?”

 Ezra looked over his right shoulder, then his left before answering. 

“You promise you won’t tell nobody?”

“Who ma gonna tell that don’t have their own secrets down here Ezra?  You know me.  We’re kin.  You can trust me.”

“I’m working on a project for Jim Beam.”

“Jim Beam?  I thought the guvmint threw his ass in jail for running whiskey to Chicago.”

“They did but his lawyers got him out.  See Jim did so good running shine that he got money ahead and now he’s laying low with a plan.  He’s got it in his head they’re gonna repeal prohibition and when they do us Kentucky folks that know how to make whiskey are going to make a shitload of money.  And it’s gonna be LEGAL!”  Legal money for whiskey.  Government approved.  Sold in stores.  Can you imagine?”

Pappy Van Winkle thought he had landed in heaven.  Suddenly the future looked bright.

“So what’s this project Jim’s got you workin’ on?”

“Jim’s got me and some other folk making white dog and instead of sellin it we’re puttin’ it in oak barrels for the future.”

“The future?”

That went against all common sense.  The men that made moonshine in the woods put it straight into mason jars and sold it on the sly on Friday nights at the barn dances. With the money they made they bought another big bag of sugar, gave the rest of the money to their family, and went back in the woods to make another batch.  They couldn’t go putting money away for the future.

“Yeah the future, where whiskey is legal.  If people start payin good money for whiskey they’re gonna want better stuff.  The plan is to go back to keepin’ it in oak barrels for four years before selling it.  Or more”

“Four years or more?  That’s crazy talk.”

“Yeah, four years.  And get this. They got this idea that in some of those barrels, they’re gonna not blend all the whiskeys together but keep the batches separate and sell them as something different under different names.  Say you can charge more that way.  They call that the small batch business.  And what do you think of this?  Some guy been talking to Jim bout how to make the taste sweeter, and now they’re fooling around with burning the inside of the barrel afore they put the whiskey in.  Even switching it to a new barrel halfway through, burning it, and doing it all again.”

 “Burning the barrel?  What the hell?  Did Jim go crazy in prison?”

“No.  But he’s talking to people from outside the hills. They got him convinced this is all gonna work.  They’re telling him instead of selling just one kind of whiskey he should make up all kinda fancy names and sell it all kind of ways.  Says the right name gives what you’re sellin’ character.  And if people are convinced it’s got character, they pay more.”

“Different names?  What kind of names?”

“To hear Jim tell it any old names.  Names of your relatives, names of places around the stills, anything that sounds like Kentucky.”

“They really think people are going to pay more for Kentucky whiskey?  Hell it all comes from the same damn place. Same water run through the same limestone, same barley, same corn.  What kind of fool would pay more for whiskey on account of a name?”

“I don’t know but Jim Beam, he’s all set.  And I’m making barrels for him hand over fist.  We’re stashin’ them in the old limestone barns up by Versailles on the western reserve.  The stone buildings Elijah Pepper built.  He was bought out by those businessmen men, Labrot and Graham.  Been closed down since forever.  You should smell the inside of those barns.  It’s whiskey heaven in there.  I tell you the angels may get their share as that whiskey evaporates but when they taste this whiskey, hoo boy, will the angels envy THAT stuff.”

Pappy Van Winkle could hardly take it all in, according to Basil.  Well, back then he was Evan.  There on Glenn Avenue in Normal, Evan poured us another glass of fairly cheap brown alcohol. 

“And that’s the story of the Kentucky whiskey business.”

We weren’t sure it was all true.  But we were fascinated anyway.

Some forty five years later I took Basil back to show him the shack.  He was carrying a smart leather satchel.  I don’t think Evan, or Basil, even graduated from ISU.  He took some chemistry and ag classes and left.  And like I said, where he went no one knew.  A girl he used to date claimed she got a letter from him that came from an island off Scotland, but that was never confirmed.  She may well have high at the time.  That wouldn’t have been unusual, for her or for us.

“I see you got a bottle of Knob Creek there.  You like it?”

“I do.  But actually Evan, I mean Basil, I like them all.”

“Yeah but when’s the last time you bought a bottle of Evan Williams?”

“Uh….”  I hesitated. 

“I thought so.  Why aren’t you buying the cheap stuff like we used to?”

“I don’t really know.  The taste I guess.  But then, maybe it’s the marketing.”

“Here, try this.”

From that fine leather bag he pulled a tall round bottle of clear brown whiskey.

I held it up to the light and read the label:

Artfully aged

Basil Hayden’s Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey

When Basil Hayden Sr. began distilling his smooth Bourbon here in 1796, Kentucky was but four years old and George Washington was President.  Today we make Basil Hayden’s Whiskey using the same skill and care that made it a favorite among America’s frontier settlers.

(And on the back)

Artfully aged in Kentucky hillside rackhouses then bottled at a smooth 80 proof, Basil Hayden’s sophisticated taste remains true to the old FAMILY RECIPE.  With more rye than a traditional bourbon and its trademark spicy finish, it’s easy to enjoy Basil Hayden’s any way you like.

I put the bottle back on my desk. 

“Evan.  I hate to say it, but that story on the label is bullshit.”

“Oh yeah?  Taste it.  And by the way, the name is Basil.”

I poured a glass for both me and my guest.  It had a nice nose.  I took a sip.  Smooth.

“How much does this stuff go for Basil?”

“$40 and some change at most liquor stores.”

“Damn.  That’s a lot.”  I took another sip.  It was better than the last.

“You like it don’t you?  You’ll probably like it better than your Knob Creek, which goes for $30 something.  Am I right?”

“I’m not ready to say.”

“In fact I count on guys like you liking it.  You’re our market.”

“Basil this stuff wasn’t made when George Washington was President, there wasn’t any damned rye in it back then, and if anything made in Kentucky 200 years ago was as low as 80 proof I’ll kiss your sour mash.”

“Pretty hard to prove our story isn't true.  People have tried without success.  The lawyers tell us we’re in the clear.   Besides, that story works well for us.  Our people spent a lot of time writing it.  Surveys tell us it’s a brand asset.”

I took another sip.  So did Evan.  Basil.

“So how does the future look for you and your “product” Evan.”

“It’s Basil.  As we see it, the future couldn’t be brighter.  Kentucky whiskey has come a long way from President Washington to President Trump.  You know why guys like you drink whiskey McClure?  They drink it to relax, forget their worries, and loosen up.  All of which is needed now more than ever.  I’d say the next four years are going to be fantastic.  We may go from being a luxury to being thought of as damn near a necessity.”

Evan reached for his bag and began buttoning his coat.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Yes, I was in the neighborhood and mostly stopped in to acquaint you with the product.  Heard you were a bourbon drinker.  It was a business call actually.  I’m a pretty busy guy.”

“You heard I was a bourbon drinker?  How’d you find that out?”

“Data mining.”

He turned towards the door, then paused.

“You were an English major weren’t you?  Always wanted to write?  That appears to be what you’re up to out here.  How’s it going for you?  Sold anything?”

“Not yet.” 

Basil smiled.  “Well don’t work too hard.”

“Walk you back to your car?”

‘’Not necessary.  Take care.”

Evan, Basil, whoever he was, was halfway out the door when he turned and said

“Cute place you have here McClure.  Cozy.”

And with that my old friend was gone.  Or was he?  He left his bottle behind.  Which is good.  After all, the groundhog told us this morning we’re in for six more weeks of winter, and unless we get terribly lucky, we have to prepare for four more years of Trump.  I may need to resupply.