Tom Bulleit - Bulleit Proof

* * *

In 1961, I graduate from Trinity High School, enter the University of Kentucky, and major in partying. Thinking back, I don’t recall a single moment in which I cracked a book or studied for an exam. My grades confirm this. Somehow—I have no idea how—I eke through freshman year and stumble into sophomore year, my dedication to partying escalating, which I never would have thought possible. I excel at Phi Delta Theta, my fraternity, which makes Animal House seem like a monastery. Concerned, my parents arrange for what today would be called an intervention. They first bring in Sister Aunt Jean Clare, one of my father’s sisters, whom I refer to as “Top Nun,” a college professor whose attempts to convince me of the value of education, fails. They then call on tough-as-nails Aunt Pearl, my father’s other sister, who sits me down for a constructive conversation about my future.

“You will never amount to shit,” she tells me.

I concede that she may have a point, but I do, in fact, have a plan.

* * *

Kentucky. Land of rolling hills, thoroughbreds, and bourbon. Kentucky is to bourbon what the Napa Valley is to wine. Actually, more so—95 percent of the world’s bourbon is made in Kentucky. Later in life, I will discover that bourbon, while always in my consciousness, is also in my blood. But I know that bourbon has always been in my family.

In the mid-1800s, my great-great-grandfather, Augustus Bulleit, emigrated from Europe, landed in New Orleans, and moved north to the Louisville area. He married, sired five children, opened a tavern, and began distilling bourbon using a recipe of two-thirds corn and one-third rye. Augustus, salesman, entrepreneur, and man of mystery, would load barrels of bourbon onto his wagon and his raft, haul them to New Orleans to sell, helping to create the legend of Bourbon Street. On one of his trips from Louisville to New Orleans, Augustus and his wagon and raft full of bourbon disappeared, vanishing from the face of the earth. We’ve considered all the obvious explanations: Augustus was slaughtered by Indians; Augustus was robbed by bandits who murdered him, stole his money, and absconded with his bourbon: or, the most intriguing, Augustus disappeared on purpose, perhaps into the arms of another woman, a second wife he had stowed away in New Orleans. As a teenager, the legend of Augustus Bulleit, my great-great-grandfather, bourbon distiller, possible bigamist, and creator of our family bourbon recipe remains romantically etched in my mind.

* * *

I work summers at a distillery. The sounds, the smells, the action, the camaraderie, the world of making bourbon affects me in ways profound and small. I can’t articulate this feeling to anyone yet, because I can’t put my finger on it. But it feels like a cross between catching the bourbon distilling bug and falling in love. Most of all, the world of bourbon feels like my world. I see this world—bourbon distilling—as my future, my calling. In my gut, I know that I want to become not just a distiller, I want to revive Augustus’s recipe. One afternoon, coming home from my job at the distillery, I find my dad at his customary position on our front porch, enjoying a bourbon and a cigarette. I decide this is the perfect opportunity to inform him of my grand plan.

I nod as I climb the stairs to the porch. I take a seat next to him. I hold for a count of three.

“I’ve been thinking about my future,” I say.

Dad raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I have a plan.”

“Well, that’s a relief, Tom,” he says, “because your grades are, frankly, abysmal.”

I smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

It takes him a moment to realize I have no idea what abysmal means.

“What’s your plan?” he says.

“I want to go into distilling and bring back Augustus’s original recipe.”

My father shakes his head slowly.

The head shake.

One simple movement that signifies exasperation, frustration, and disappointment without saying a single word.

“No,” he says, as punctuation.

“No?” I squeak.

He takes a long sip of his drink.

“No. You will complete your undergraduate education, you will enlist in the military, and then you will go to law school and become a lawyer.”

I think of our family’s educational lineage, daunting to me. My grandfather attended the University of Chicago, my father, Notre Dame.

“Law school?” I say. He might as well have instructed me to land a spacecraft on Mars. “But my grades are … abysmal.”

“Then you’d better get to work.”

College. The military. Law school. No mention of Augustus’s bourbon recipe or becoming a distiller.

But my father has spoken.

And as all fathers I know of his generation and mine, his word is law.

I don’t dare face another head shake—or worse.

Without speaking, I revise my plan.

Beginning now, I’ll do what my father says.

My dad and me 1943 before he shipped out to join General Patton's Third Army in France during the 2nd World War.

I CARRY WITH ME the naïve and romantic notion from books I’ve read and movies I’ve seen that I will join the military and become an officer and a gentleman. My college transcript quickly torpedoes the officer idea. A private I will be. Life, I’m learning, seems to consist of starts, stops, and, mostly, beginnings. Starting from scratch.

I’m not sure which branch of the military I should join, but the Navy seems promising, or at least the safest and least stressful. One day, in 1966, as senior year at the University of Kentucky comes to an end, I sit across from a stone-faced Navy recruiter who pores over pages of forms that he’s told me I will momentarily sign. He’s wearing a uniform and appears to be an officer, but based on his gruff demeanor, I don’t figure him for a gentleman. He grunts, does his own head shake—never a good sign—and then laughs, hard, jarring me. I realize then that he’s looking at my transcript. He shakes his head again and sifts through a few other forms.

“Looking to fit you into the right slot,” he says, after yet another head shake. “Your grades are—”

“Abysmal,” I say, helpfully.

It’s only a matter of time before I will learn the meaning of that word.

“Correct,” he says, scowling at the form. “You want to be an electrician?”

“I’m not good with wiring or that sort of thing. I majored in English.”

“We speak English. What about a boatswain’s mate? You want to be a boatswain’s mate?”

“Uh, okay, maybe, I’m not quite sure what that—”

“You do basically everything. Rigging, deck maintenance, really anything that’s required to run a ship.”

“I’ve never been on a ship,” I admit. “I’ve been on a boat. A small boat. Done some fishing. We have this little river—”

“How about a medic?”

“A medic—”

“Yeah. A corpsman. You work in the hospital.”

I perk up. “With nurses?”

“Yes. Nurses.”

I picture our frat parties on campus. Nurses, coeds, partying, the Navy. I’ve clearly chosen the right branch of the military.

“I’ll do that,” I say. “I’ll be a medic. That’s great.”

He pushes the forms over to me and I sign them with a flourish. Only after I attach my signature do I see at the top of one of the forms that I will be heading to basic training—in the Marines.