Straight Edge Bourbon

     It was Christmas of 2003. I was twenty five. That year I had received an old fashioned straight edge razor for a gift. It came as a set including a mug, soap bar and lathering brush. I was eager to try it out. The blade had been sold through an estate sale and was truly vintage. This was no problem in terms of sanitation, as I was working in a sterilization department at the time. So, I had it sterilized prior to use.  The blade, however, was dull. My grandfather Denver Campbell had worked his entire life as a butcher and was an expert at sharpening blades. He still kept his sharpening stones under his old meat block in his kitchen.

     The Campbell house at any holiday was a festive environment. Christmas was no exception. Denver was not only a good butcher but a wonderful cook. The family had dubbed his kitchen "Denver's Diner". It was his domain. He took great delight in preparing a holiday goose or duck. The table was filled with all the typical American dishes but also included some Southern Appalachian specialties as well. These typically included shucky beans, cushaw pie and corn bread.

     After the meal, my family would gather in the living room and lay around for hours. My father and uncles could be found strewn out on random couches and lounge-chairs taking naps. My grandmother, mother and aunts scurried about the kitchen scrubbing dishes and packing up the leftovers. Grandada was off to the side sizing up the sharpening blocks in preparation for my big shaving experience.

     Let me just say that he was in his element! He stood, stooped over his prehistoric meat block, slowly and methodically dragging the blade down the narrow stone. It made a dull hiss as it went. His hands, worn with age, shook a little as he worked. "Denver, you be careful!" My grandmother said verbally fulfilling her role as the family worry-wart.

     It was around this time that my family made a concerted effort to hide my grandfathers knives. He also lost his ability to drive an automobile. His hands had become unreliable, as had his eyesight. Perhaps I should have sought out a more efficient and safe means for getting my straight edge sharpened. I didn't care if it was not perfect, I'd rather have my grandfather sharpen it because I knew how much he would enjoy the experience. I also knew that the risk of him injuring himself was minimal. "Man alive.....Hits' sharp enough to cut through paper. Go snatch-um bald-headed!" He chuckled a little as he handed me the razor. I went down the hall to the back bathroom and started making the necessary arrangements.

     I wanted to go slow as it was my first experience with a straight edge. I ran hot water, mixed my soap into a lather, brushed a healthy amount of foam on my face and took a deep breath. From the first stroke of the blade against my bare cheek it became evident that the blade had not been properly sharpened. It felt as though the blade were pulling my hair rather than cutting it. It was dreadfully painful and took twice the amount of time of a modern conventional razor. I entertained the idea of taking it back to my grandfather to see if he could get it sharper, but I knew that the dullness was due to his age and not his skill. 

     Midway through my shave, I emerged from the bathroom my face bleeding in spots and chapped with a redness that you would normally associate with a bad sunburn. I had only shaved about fifty percent of my face and a brief intermission was needed. My mother looked upset she begged me to stop. "You'll regret it. I don't think what your doing is very smart," she said with a scornful look. I ignored her protests. I was fully into this thing, be it good or bad. I learned later from my wife that my mother implored my wife to step in and put a stop to it. My wife's response was "It's his face." My mother seemed shocked by this response, for it was always the role of women in her culture to step in and save there foolish husbands when such things occurred.

     Halfway into round two, the bathroom door slowly opened. It opened just large enough for a hand to slip through. A hand holding a glass of much needed Even and Williams black label bourbon. Not a word was exchanged as my grandfather placed the bourbon on the sink counter-top. The door closed. It was like the moment in Bloodsport when Frank Dux was loosing dramatically to opponent Chong Li. Then the whole fight turned around after he had his emotional flashback sequence. The bourbon on the sink was like the turning point for me.

     Ten minutes later I exited the bathroom with an empty glass and grinning like a opossum. My red swollen face showed the battle scars and I had emerged the victor.....or at least until the bourbon wore off. I never told my grandfather that the blade was dull. I didn't want to hurt his pride. He may have known and felt bad that I struggled through the ordeal. That would explain why he snuck me the bourbon without a word. Ether way, it's a great memory of mine.

   

      I never shaved with the straight edge razor after that. I thought about taking it to someone who could properly sharpen it, but it seemed like a lot of hassle to go through when you could just buy a package of disposable razors for five bucks at the grocery store. I recently learned that you can get a straight edge with disposable razor inserts. I am growing a beard now, but would be interested in this system for the future. I know that any time I pick up a straight edge razor I'm always reminded of my grandada's silent hand graciously bestowing Even and Williams upon me during my time of need. 

                

           

     

We Boys

     If you grew up in Italy, your first exposure to alcohol would have no doubt been wine. Likewise, Russia is to vodka as Germany is to beer. I grew up in East Kentucky. Both of my Grandfathers drank Kentucky Straight Bourbon. This is the story of my first experience with alcohol which came to me in the from of good ol' KY bourbon.

     It was the summer of 1990. I was twelve. My grandparents houseboat creaked back and forth atop the blackish green murky lake in East Kentucky. It was nightfall. The clinking of dishes could be heard from the boat kitchen. My grandmother, dressed to the nines, stood scrubbing the grease from the pots. My grandfather sat in a lounge chair sipping Makers Mark and conversing with other family members on the front deck. The giant avocado colored luna moths swooped in erratic circular motions around the outdoor lamps. They were the size of small bats, and we boys tried to kill or capture them with our flyswatters.

     The stereo was always tuned to 101.1. This was the radio station that my family owned in Hazard Kentucky. The signal would sometimes fade in a snow of static crackles.  On Sundays local church sermons would be broadcasted. As we ran round the boat the sound of Southern Appalachian Pentecostal preachers would ring out in the humid night air. The country preaching was more like singing; rising and falling in rhythmic waves. A thick cover of fog rolled over the lake. The boat still smelled of bacon grease from the evening meal.

     My mothers high voice was heard clear over the radio. "Boys its getting late. Grab your shoes!" At this moment, I found myself in the master bedroom. I was with a friend. "Want to see something cool!" I said rushing him, knowing that Mom would be asking for us. I took him over to a trunk that was normally locked. I opened it up and pulled out a leather decanter. It looked like it could have come off a 16th century pirate ship.

     "What's in it?" my friend said. "I think its liquor." I did not know what "liquor" was. Perhaps I lacked the bravery before to try it alone. Perhaps I was more prone to dive in because Mom could have walked in at any moment. Ether way, I took the plunge and swilled two big gulps. I recollect above all the burn. The feeling of kerosene trickling slowly down my throat and landing in my belly. At age twelve your not exactly doing a lot of bourbon flavor profile analysis. Its just fire in you mouth. I kind of liked it in a strange way. Similarly to when you eat extremely spicy food and it makes you fill alive. I then passed the decanter to my friend. He took a sip and said nothing. I thought that maybe if I took another sip I will get to feeling funny on the walk to the car. I wanted to feel funny, so I took another fast gulp then  quickly threw the decanter back in the trunk and announced "Coming Mom!"

     We gathered up our things and told our grandparents goodnight. We walked down the long skinny ramp that lead across to the marina. Our sneakers squeaked and squashed with every step. It was a gross feeling of bare feet in wet shoes. Our untied laces flopped as we listened to the sound of bugs getting juiced in the overhead purple/blue florescent zappers. Folks would be fishing off that ramp till daybreak; Silently staring into the lime green water. Beer cans in hand. Cheeks swollen with chew. As we walked passed them in the dark, the sound of occasional spit into the lake was the only silence breaker.

     We nearly reached the parking lot and the liquor was not making me feel funny. It did make me feel a little grown up, even if I had to sneak it. "Maybe I didn't drink enough." I thought. Oh well, it didn't matter. We were soon playing games and singing songs on the way home.  My friend said nothing of it. Perhaps, this is an unsensational story. It was, however, my first encounter with alcohol. It was also my first experience with Kentucky Straight Bourbon, which is always sensational! It would not be my last.

     That old leather decanter was always around at my grandparents house for many decades. The last time I saw it, it was pretty beat up. If I ever see it again I'll try to arrange to have it in my home bar some day. 

This photo was taken on the houseboat around this same time. I am on the far right.