Bulleit Proof

11 Bourbon in My Blood

March 14, 1953

I AM 10 YEARS OLD TODAY.

I feel the same today as I did yesterday, still Little Tommy, running harder and biking faster, sometimes, than the other kids my age, and taking the lead when we play “Army.” But in some ways, I feel—different, older, more serious, more adult. Maybe it’s because I’ve made it into double figures. I’m ready to say goodbye to parts of childhood. I won’t miss being a kid. In fact, some older folks call me an old soul. I’m not sure what that means, but I would like to stay up later, read books, cross the main street at the bottom of our hill on my own, carry a jackknife.

That afternoon, Mother calls me into the kitchen. When I come in, she sits at the table, her hands folded in front of her. I pause in the doorway. She nods at the chair across from her.

“Sit down with me,” she says. She smiles, but I see through it. She never invites me to sit with her at the kitchen table, just the two of us. This is our regular gathering place, where our family eats breakfast, the four of us, Mother, Dad, Mary Jo, and me. We use the dining room, a few feet away, for dinner only.

“Sit down, Tommy,” Mother says.

This can’t be good, I think. I rack my brain trying to picture my latest transgression or misdemeanor, possibly something she knows but I don’t, and I draw a blank. I can’t come up with anything that would warrant a private kitchen sit-down. If I’ve really messed up, committed a felony, I’d find my father sitting here, or he’d ...