by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy
(*another Mule alum, she’s most assuredly part of our family)

To most folks, Christmas smells like fresh pine or sugar cookies baking in the oven or something but to me, it just doesn’t smell like Christmas without the smell of aged bourbon.   Now that’s not because I am a drunkard although I have my little sip now and again.   I know when to sip and when to stop; you don’t need to know any more about my drinking habits than that although I will say I am a good Christian woman.   But, what I will tell you kind folks is why the perfect scent of Christmas to me is two parts evergreen, one part cookie baking, and one part bourbon.

It goes back to the year that my tee-totaling mama decided she would break down and give my loving, whiskey-drinking daddy something he really wanted for Christmas.   Forget the Old Spice in a red and white carton or the box of .410 shotgun shells, she decided that she go all out that year and buy him a fifth of the finest Southern bourbon she could find.

We wrapped that bottle in shiny aluminum foil for her and tied a big red bow around it.   She wanted it to be stuck into his stocking and so we did, working the bottle deep into the stocking with care.  Since the best part of gift giving is the anticipation, Mama had fun looking forward to the look on Daddy’s face when he reached into his stocking to pull out a bottle of Jack Daniels black label whiskey.

Early on Christmas my little brother and me crept into the front room, arms filled with presents for our parents and the other kids.   I handed little brother the bourbon-laden stocking and told him to go put it somewhere safe.   I turned to put up Mama’s stocking on the other side of the room and heard a muffled thunk as that bottle of bourbon hit the hard wood floor.    I thought that maybe it was okay, that the stocking cushioned the bottle but as I rushed over to pick up the stocking, I inhaled the first sweet, mellow aroma of whiskey.  Little brother had tried to hang that heavy stocking on the arm of a floor lamp, which had dropped the stocking, bottle and all to the floor in a hurry.

By then I could see the puddle of Tennessee whiskey spreading around the stocking and since I knew that Daddy’s experienced nose would pick up on that bourbon smell faster than our old hound dog caught the scent of a coon, I hurried to tell Mama.  I knew she wouldn’t be happy but I didn’t expect her to lose her temper all the way.

She raged and she howled.   Then she cried and then she screamed at me some more.   I was crying, she was crying, the little kids were bawling like hungry calves without milk, and even Daddy had a tear in his eye, mourning the loss of that good bourbon.

Seemed like Christmas was ruined and that’s what I told my Mama, that it wasn’t Christmas any more.   That reached through her anger and despair so she said for us all to go to bed and start over.  So, we did, choking back our tears and snot, getting back up in a little while to start the day over, without bourbon.

All day long, the warm house smelled of good things, the pine from the Christmas tree, the turkey and ham in the oven, the cookies we baked the day before, and the rich smell of good bourbon.  It permeated the house like the inside of a whiskey barrel and probably shocked the socks right off Mama’s church friends when they came to call.

Now my tradition includes a pretty Christmas tree, a good dinner, and a bit of bourbon ‘cause it just isn’t Christmas without a drop or two of good sipping’ whiskey.

Y’all have yourselves a very bourbon….I mean merry…Christmas, you hear?