Handy Man Vacation Part 1

Handy Man is off with me this week.  We are sort of in a middle of a mess at Mom's.  "Sort of" being an understatement.  We aren't really sure how this gig will go.  It is most challenging to find someone to help out 24/7.  So, we are considering all of our options.  One might be Assisted Living.  If we must go that route, that means some serious work needs doing at her place.
 First, it is finding all important papers for her.  This has meant Aunt Tish and I have gone through box, after box, after file, after bag.
You know Murphy's Law?  Well, poor Aunt SuZQ, had barely pulled out of Frankfort, when I finally unearthed the marriage certificate and birth records from a most unexpected place.
Then discerning which things were Auntie G-lou's and which were Jimi's , Jake's or Jameson's and lastly, what to do with things that Mom will no longer be using.
My Mom loved nothing more than cooking for the whole country. This is evidenced by every conceivable pot, bowl and appliance.  She could curl your potato, extract your juice, blend, grind, or chop in ever way known to mankind.  Need to know how best to fillet your octopus?  She's got a  recipe book, or two, or ten,  and  a knife for that, and the spices to boot.
So these last weeks, she and I have developed a rhythm.  She sits on the porch and I bring a box.  She goes through and decides what she can part with and what she can't.
Sometimes we end up in another place, like her bedroom yesterday, where she shares with me the many memories that come floating to the surface when she opens a little wooden jewelry box I gave her long ago.

This is not an undertaking for the faint of heart.

Add to mix the fact that  she is grieving her girl, I'm grieving a sister.  It is strange.

I don't seem to manage a whole lot more than teaching when school is in session, so I know I have to use this time to try and get as much done as I possibly can. I'm already down to three weeks till registration and feeling in a bit of a panic.
Aunt Tish is working feverishly to manage the business end, so a housecleaning and a sorting we will go.
You want to pray for us? For wisdom, help, peace? A million dollars?  Anything?  Please, please do. I would so appreciate it!  Wait, let's nix prayers for patience, shall we?
I knew Handy Man would be available to help with the heavy lifting this week, but I hoped we might sneak off for a minute of recreation.
Yesterday morning early, we headed to Bardstown.  I was so very excited to find the Farmer's Market open for business.


Homegrown beans,  heirloom tomatoes, cucumbers, squash and early apples found their way home with us.


A spacious, clean restroom at an outdoor market?  Be still my heart. Perhaps I'll come to this market from now on!

 We strolled around town.  I loved this little outdoor space.

And a knitting shop, selling my most favorite socks- love it.

 Sweet little town.

Ahhh, but here is the real reason for the trip- bourbon.  That Handy Man of mine loves bourbon.  How I wish I could bottle his self-control and create a spray, that could contribute mightily to creating a better world for us all to live in.  He loves bourbon and beer and smokes.  How does this fall out in our lives? He smokes half a cigarillo (only outside) and drinks a beer with supper some evenings.  In the winter, it might be a shot of his favorite brew, Woodford.  That's it. All there's ever been.  Amazing really.
I wish it for everybody because I know the damage this amber liquid can cause.   It is interesting to see how they take these grains, corn(all produced nearby), barley and rye and

 down the pike a bit,  after much fermenting, mashing and distilling, out comes moonshine.

 They give you a taste.  This pictures makes me laugh out loud every time I look at it.  I wasn't brave enough to do any more than smell, which was quite enough for me.   Reminds me of the song, "White Lightning."  At Barton's, they call it "White Dog."

Next it goes into a new, charred oak barrel. If anything else happens, it isn't bourbon.

Someone in the group asked if the black paint was about temperatures, etc. "No, " replied our guide, "We got tired of keeping it clean."  Apparently, brewing hooch in large volumes causes a black fungus to breed prolifically. 

Everything turns black, including all the trees (the bark part).  Hmmm, I'm going to have to look that up.

Then it has to hang out, for oh, years, and evaporate some water and turn amber from the oak and charring. 

 You wrap up your tour with a sample and a happy Handy Man.
But we weren't done, next up was a place about as opposite as could be from the distillery. Well, maybe not.
To be continued...........