Some of you may remember previous postings (Pipes in Baghdad) I’ve made about my friend “Bill” who has been serving in Baghdad since last October. I’ve really missed seeing him. Fortunately, every ten days or my cell phone will ring. The caller ID will say “Blocked” and I’ll know immediately Bill’s checking in to tell me all’s okay.

Last Saturday I was sitting among my friends at the Old Virginia Tobacco Company chewing the fat, telling lies, and trading insults. I looked over at my pal the Deacon and saw a strange look flit across his eyes. I felt a hand on my shoulder; I turned to the right and looked up and there – for crying out loud – stood Bill in a white silk shirt, shorts, and ponytail.

My jaw was agape. I thought I was seeing things. That crazy, lopsided grin of his told me I was still compos mentis  when he said, “Seeing that look on your face made it all worthwhile not telling you I was coming.” I was not amused. I sputtered. I stuttered. I exclaimed, “But I just talked to you in Baghdad a couple of days ago!”

I learned in short order that Bill had hopped a C-130 from Baghdad to Kuwait where he caught a non-stop home for three weeks of R&R. Saturday night Wendy and I joined Bill, his wife, and a bunch of friends for a joyous, raucous, gold-old-Saturday-night-kick-it-in-the-ass-and-dance celebration of Bill’s return to us.

I just returned from some serious bourbon drinking and pipe smoking over on Bill’s porch.

We spent late afternoon at the pipe shop after which several of the seedier of us repaired to Bill’s home and proceeded to smoke our pipes, imbibe the best bourbon money can buy, and catch up. Bill’s ancient long-haired dachsund sniffed at our legs, Bill’s wife complained about our noise, and we ignored everything but the bourbon and each other. It was grand. Simply grand. You see above a picture of Bill enjoying his pipe; for reasons related to security, I’ve obscured his face.

Let me tell you, if you haven’t ever smoked mature red Virginias with George T. Stagg’s uncut, unfiltered bourbon (144 proof) on a porch in the Saint Patrick’s Day twilight with a much-missed friend, you haven’t lived. I had no idea just how much I missed my friend until I got him back, at least for a couple of days.

Between puffs of McClelland’s Virginia No. 25 – a vintage tin supplied by my dear friend, Robert Lawing (Lawdog) as a gift – we drank George T. Stagg bourbon. This stuff is heavenly. Unlike most bourbons to which water is added in the barrel, this bourbon is what’s left in the barrel after the angel’s have drunk their share.

Some people believe that the twenty to thirty percent that’s missing from the barrel evaporates through the oak staves, but those of us who have tasted it know that it is, in fact, taken by the angels in payment for the little bit of heaven left in the barrel for us to imbibe. It makes sense to me; the angels have a habit of taking some of what’s precious from us in payment for what’s left for us to enjoy.

I just pray they don’t decide to take Bill. It’s so damn good to have him here. God knows enough of our best and brightest – too many of other peoples’ Bills – have been taken. It’s no easier to accept, knowing that it’s the angel’s share.

God bless our service men and women. Bring them safely home to the bosom of their friends and families.