THE WHISKEY HOUSE RULES
THE WHISKEY HOUSE RULES
By John Thomas Tuft
“Preacher Boy, pull up a chair.” The invitation came from my inveterate whiskey philosopher, Zeke of the Mountain, indicating the old rocker beside his on the cabin porch. “’Bout time you climbed up here to take in the view. You still writin’ them stories and books?” I assured him that I am still trying, “But sometimes there’s too much going on in my head to put down on paper.” He went inside briefly and returned with a bottle of Glenfiddich 12. We sat and sipped, watching hawks gliding on the updrafts as warm air rose from the valley below. “Remember when we used to have real winters?” he scoffs. “Jonquils in February just don’t do it for me.” I sigh and raise my glass to the too warm breeze and the too early buds on the trees. “I’ve been scrolling social media again, Preacher Boy.” Uh-oh, I think. “Who’d you rather spend the day with, Brene Brown or Cindy X? I know that you’re not easily impressed, so I was wonderin’.” I hesitate, “Can’t we make it Brienne Tarth?” He spits out his sip, “C’mon, whisky house rules, Preacher. But I take your point!”
“You’re just trying to get me in trouble, Zeke. But here goes: Far as I can tell, Brene Brown distilled her research about shame, vulnerability, and leadership as a college professor into a TED Talk in 2010. A lot of people sat up and took notice. Fourteen years later she is a brand for white knighting people’s insecurities. Six books that restate it all in six different ways, the inevitable podcasts, and makes a six-figure fee now for appearances. I have white female human beans around that I can ask about shame, vulnerability, etc., so no, I don’t particularly want to spend a day with a brand. Now Brienne of Tarth, yes. But like you said, whiskey house rules. Who’s Cindy X?” Zeke shook his head as he looked at me sideways. “You never was much of one for sugarcoating. Remember, this is all in your imagination.”
I return his look. “Everything about spirituality takes place in our imaginations. All of the endless pattering about Myers-Briggs, enneagrams, Richard Rohr, spiritual directors, Jungian dream interpretations, mind of Jesus, and on and on. It’s all about how we structure our imaginations. But I know, I know. Whiskey house rules.”
“Preacher, preacher…here, eat a cookie.” Of course, I never need to be asked twice. Zeke continues, “Cindy X was a teacher in these parts. A special ed teacher. Kinda on the small side, but a real spitfire. You know how those kids, the intellectually challenged with built-in limits and always seeing what they are not, as they grow older want to explore and do things they see others doing. Well, Cindy X had the gift needed to be with those kids. She’d take them to that old country roadhouse with its all you can eat buffet. Now, who does that?” He looks out at the fading light across the valley. “She was somethin’ else, Preacher. That little bus would pull up and 8 or 10 would unload. Cindy somehow got them in and settled and fed. Lots of hootin’ and hollerin’ and confusion. With her right in the middle of it.” He chuckled. “Whiskey house rules. Them boys liked to go into the bathroom there and yell cuss words as loud as they could cause it echoed real good! And they knew it would bring Cindy X running….” He sighed. “Miss her something fierce.” I wait a moment. “Yeah, I’d spend a day with Cindy X, Zeke. In a heartbeat. And I think Brienne of Tarth would, too.”
I got up from the rocker and lifted the old piece of wood from its nail beside the front door. Whiskey House Rules was burned across the top. I started to read it aloud: “Rule One. We are all making it up as we go.” Zeke nodded as he wiped at his eyes. “Yep, we are. Constitutions and golden rules, kings and armies, missionaries for my way is the best way, tribes and tribunes — we are all making it up as we go. If that don’t mean humility, I don’t know what does.”
I sat down beside him again. “Rule Two. We don’t know what we don’t know.” Zeke puffed out his cheeks and blew his breath out into the breeze to be carried to the four corners. “For some reason, and somehow we don’t understand, there is the human mind. Some say it is a gift, some say it is part of quantum mechanics, some say it is magic. All I know is that the human mind comes up with both messiahs and monsters. It produces songwriters and satans. It imagines the wonders of the interstellar and it convinces us that inhaling tobacco smoke is helpful. The human mind dreams fantastical dreams of endless possibilities and also conceives of the evils of pedophilia and possession of others. Whiskey house rules ain’t for fools.”
“No, they’re not.” I hesitate. He waves me on. “Rule Three. We don’t own time.” I say it softly, seeing the moon rising out of the corner of my eye. Zeke raises his glass to me. “Three rules. The Whiskey House Rules, with apologies to John Irving.” He chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We don’t own time. All we can do is decide how to spend it. Grace and humility, Preacher. What do you say?” I raise my glass, as well, to the Whiskey House Rules. “Grace and humility, my friend.” Then, “and cookies. Cookies with Brienne Tarth.” His laughter sends me on my way, as laughter is intended to do…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
