Who knew that the Father of Our Country made and sold whiskey? Rye whiskey, most probably foul-tasting, un-aged, as was the custom of the day. I would not tell a lie.
I did not have a clue about Washington’s entrepreneurial acumen and retirement project as distiller until a recent trip to Mount Vernon. Let me set the scene for my discovery, yet another thing they didn’t tell us in school.
It was spring break, or must have been, somewhere, because enough children to start 28 soccer leagues were sprinting around the groomed Mount Vernon grounds, accompanied by adults who looked exhausted at 9 in the morning. In fact, they all looked like they could use a drink.
I was with a savvy friend who lives nearby and knew to come early. We made it into the mansion pretty quickly, but were out even faster.
Now, I love tours of old and historic houses — I have been to Monticello twice and gladly would go again. I once toured Southern authors’ homes for a newspaper project and found myself copying details I found pleasing. I built bookcases like those at Carl Sandburg’s farm, a porch like the one at Marjorie Rawlings’ Cross Creek.
I can’t tell you a single thing about the rooms of Mount Vernon. Well, maybe one. I loved the bright-green paint in the dining room, but, aside from that, it’s all a blur. I’m sure Martha had excellent taste, but you can’t prove it by me, hustled through as I was, with the throngs.
It was a relief to get outside and explore the rest of the estate. The best thing was a 16-sided treading barn, where horses tromped in circles to separate the grain from the straw. The innovative thrashing barn was replete with holes between the floorboards so the goodies from the wheat could fall into a granary.
But back to the whiskey.
It was in retirement when George was persuaded by his Scottish plantation manager to do something constructive with the rye he planted as part of his sensible crop rotation. He had the rye, a good water source, and he had a recipe.
Two miles away from the house are reconstructions, circa 2009, of Washington’s grist mill and distillery. Tours at both were fascinating and unhurried, the opposite of the Mount Vernon proper scene.
By 1798, following the sage advice of Scotsman James Anderson, Washington owned the largest distillery in the country, five stills, and was producing 11,000 gallons of whiskey. The former revolutionary, general, president was successfully ensconced in the whiskey business. The next year he died, presumably not from bad whiskey.
And if you mortgage your own farm, you can still buy a pint for $98. I passed. “If you love history, this will be the best whiskey you ever buy,” the guide told us. “If you love whiskey, it may be the worst.”
Forewarned is forearmed. I bought a refrigerator magnet of Washington’s false teeth instead.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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