Grieving a Stranger
Did you forget about us? How do you grieve someone you’ve never met? A recap of Monticello Live with Richie Alicea. The introduction of a new feature called "A Good Read." And, On the Bottom Shelf.
Grieving a Stranger
How do you grieve someone you’ve never met? This is a question which I’ve struggled with all of my life, even if it’s true that I didn’t realize it until several years ago. The bonds between human beings are so impossible to understand.
Publisher’s note: Today is the 46th anniversary of my father’s passing. And while it is no longer a day for grieving or melancholy, it does seem appropriate to be a day of remembrance and of honoring a life so brief.
For my entire life, save for the first three days, I only know my father from three sources: a very few photographs, a small cardboard box filled with scattered mementos of his life, and a gravestone in an old cemetery in South Florida. Through these sources I know that he was a veteran of the Vietnam War, that he did well in middle school (high school, not so much), that he liked to race motorcycles, and that he played softball. What the things inside of the box do not tell me is how he laughed, or what his voice sounded like, or how he walked. What did he smell like? What could you see when you looked into his eyes?
It is this photo that grabs hold of me. In it my father, with my very young and beautiful mom just next to him, stands in a church doorway with one long, gangling arm hanging onto the door opener while his other arm stretches upward with two fingers raised in a familiar greeting, a “peace sign.” The photo strikes me for several reasons: the fact that I often greet people with a “peace sign,” the similarities in our appearance, and his mischievous smile — a smile that highlights his youthfulness. At the time of this photo, my father was only 22 years old. He died within seven months.
Grief is such a funny thing. It comes upon us at strange moments — in the shower, driving by a place where you used to spend time with a lost loved one, hearing certain songs, and in dreams. Though I am well acquainted with the many forms of grief and how it strikes us, I shared none of these things with the man who helped create me. In fact, we never came into contact with each other. We never had a favorite place together, or a song which always made us laugh. We didn’t watch sports together or talk about “guy stuff”. The only thing we ever shared was a bloodline, and I never would’ve believed that would be such a powerful and haunting connection.
My father was in an automobile accident just a few days prior to my birth. The details are almost entirely unknown to me because not a single person who was there spoke to me about it. An afternoon designed to blow off steam involving some friends, family, hunting, and a pick -up truck ended in tragedy in a South Florida emergency room — at least that is all I know. Several days later a 23 year old husband and brand new father was dead. In the past, my mom shared details with me though she knows very little of the incident and parts of what followed. The exact details remain unknown to me.
The dangerous thing about losing someone is the almost unavoidable desire to lionize them. An average person becomes a hero. The pain over an unfulfilled life drives us to create what ends up as a fictionalized version of that person. In my case that is made worse by the fact that my father has all but disappeared from this world. Some pictures. An old gravestone, along with the guest book and a folded American flag from his funeral are what is left to tell the story of a brief life. And with the apparent lack of interest by anyone who knew him to share pertinent details of his personality or essence, that is what I will likely have of him here on this Earth.
Around age four, my mom and I moved to a new neighborhood. I was a shy kid but before long I made friends, one of whom completely changed my life. This part of the story takes place during a time when grown men taking an interest in a fatherless child was normal; I mourn the innocence of those times.
Frank was a very cool and laid back guy. He had dark curly hair and drove a Bondo-red Ford El Camino. He was our neighborhood’s version of ‘The Fonz” and was the kind of guy all of the neighborhood kids wanted as a dad. He and his friends constantly teased me in a good-natured way and of course I soaked up the male attention
Frank lived in an upstairs apartment next door to my house. In fact, his balcony overlooked our yard. I remember running through his house yelling, “Hi Frank, hi Frank!” before running onto his balcony and taking a flying leap into my yard. I wanted to be around Frank all of the time thanks to his low-key, friendly demeanor. Lucky for me, one day he came over to our house and made dinner. I don’t remember what he made for dinner, which was a huge treat considering my diet consisted of TV dinners and Geno’s Pizza Rolls, but I do know one thing — he never left. The next thing I knew, Frank brought his stuff over to our house and that was that. A few years later, I walked my mom down the aisle and soon after I started calling him “dad,” in part to distinguish him from the man I referred to as “my father.
I soon learned that Frank never met his own father and completely understood my situation. This fact ensured his support of my desire to maintain a connection with my father, to the point that he refused to formally adopt me due to the fact that his name would replace my father’s on my birth certificate, and gave us an unspeakable bond. In honor of the role in which he played in my own life, I took his last name as my own on my 18th birthday. Today it seems most fitting that his grandson shares a middle name with my own father and the last name of the man who is largely responsible for who I am today.
Monticello Live
Last Sunday (the one in which the Bills didn’t lose to the Chiefs) we had Digital Strategist Richie Alicea on to talk with myself and Mary Anna Mancuso. Lots of talk about the future of the GOP and how the digital world fits on.
We will see you again this Sunday evening at 8pm Eastern.
Will Florida Elect a Third Party Governor?
Spoiler: No.
But the subject came up again this week with rumors floating around that former Florida Congressman David Jolly was considering a run for Florida Governor as an independent.
Truth be told I’d love to see it. Our current governor would struggle to lead a chear at at a Turning Point rally. His staff hiring process skips competency and experience in favor of loyalty to Trump. His press office is just a cheap substitute for the Communications Office at the Republican Party of Florida. And, barring Jesus’s return to Earth, he will likely win a second term.
The sad truth about politics is that you can’t beat something with nothing, and believe me I have tried. A few times, actually. And Florida Democrats don’t have anyone. Agriculture Commissioner Nikki Fried is only in office due to the impressive and embarrassing incompetence of her 2016 opponent, who traded a career as a respected, bipartisan policy wonk for six months on the campaign trail as a wannabe Matt Gaetz. A strong challenge by current Senate President (and actual farmer) Wilton Simpson would end her career.
But I can hear you now: “If the current Republican Governor is so terrible and the Democrats don’t have anyone isn’t that a good thing for someone like David Jolly?” Logically, yes. But nothing about politics is logical. Democrats handed the White House to Donald Trump in 2016 by nominating Hillary Clinton when logic suggested that it wasn’t such a great idea. Florida Democrats handed the Governor’s Mansion to Ron DeSantis by nominating extremist Andrew Gillum over respected moderate Gwen Graham. And, while on the surface a Jolly candidacy seems to make some sense the harsh reality is that he lacks the infrastructure and ability to raise the $70 million needed for a successful campaign. At this point he’s more likely to hand the race over to a self-funding Billionaire Democrat than win it himself. Which is too bad. Florida deserves so much more than what we currently have.
How to Remember What You Read | How I Digest Books (Plus: A Few Recent Favorite Books) | Tim Ferriss
It’s Tim Ferris. Watch it.
A Good Read
Pappyland by Wright Thompson
From the very beginning of this newsletter I’ve been telling Jessica that we need to talk about books more often. After all, me not talking about books is like Donald Trump not talking about himself. Or, about Ivanka.
So i thought a good one to start with would be Wright Thompson”s “Pappyland” and maybe not for the reason you assume. Sure, it’s about bourbon. But it’s about bourbon in much the way that Star Wars is about space travel. In fact, it’s more a deep dive into fatherhood, legacy and tradition and it seemed fitting given how we opened this edition.
If you’re not into bourbon you may not know much about Pappy Van Winkle. It’s a near mythical spirit made from a secret family recipe and aged anywhere from 15-23 years (bourbon is usually aged around four years.) It was made by the Van Winkle family for several generations until the Mad Men generation eschewed bourbon for white spirits. Julian Van Winkle II inherited the family company in 1981 and has spent decades trying to recreate the family recipe literally from taste. The very idea of engaging in high tech chemistry from the memory of a taste is just mind boggling.
Wright Thompson is an incomparable storyteller and also a Southern man, and both factors play well throughout the story. After all, bourbon is a Southern spirit. Thompson, with his own complicated family story and relationship with his late father, is the right guy to explain the powerful meaning of family legacy.
Wright Thompson is a brilliant biographer and this story won’t disappoint, regardless of whether you care about bourbon or not.
Pappyland: A Story of Family, Fine Bourbon, and the Things That Last
On the Bottom Shelf
Ezra Brooks
It’s weird when a bourbon tastes too much like my jokes. And while “corny” isn’t exactly an unexpected flavor from a spirit primarily made from corn in this case it’s a little much.
I wanted to like Ezra Brooks. It came recommended and checked off several boxes for me. It has a high corn mash bill, which should give added sweetness and it is charcoal filtered, which should give it added smoothness. Which I guess it did, meaning it tastes less like very cheap whiskey and more like corn syrup with a buzz. And a little caramel.
The nose is pretty basic bourbon. You get lots of corn with some hints of vanilla. There’s a bit of whiskey burn as well. On the tongue it’s sort of a burnt corn taste and maybe a nutty flavor as well. It’s a little richer than I was expecting here. The finish is very peppery with some more vanilla and caramel.
Ezra is kind of boring and doesn’t do much to separate itself from the crowd. It might be a bit smoother due to the charcoal filtering but that’s about it. Overall, a decent, budget sipping bourbon.
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Monticello was created by and published by Jacob Perry. Our editor and contributor is Jessica Redding. On social media: