Page 17 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
I clicked "purchase" on the cabinet order, watching my checking account balance plummet by two hundred dollars. The compact storage system would fit perfectly along Ginger's back wall, with fold-down shelves and a narrow wardrobe section. Worth every penny, I told myself, though my mother's voice echoed in my head with warnings about unnecessary expenses.
One of the library books lay open beside me—Hidden Distilleries of Kentucky: A Comprehensive Guide. The author had clearly done his homework, documenting not just the famous names but dozens of smaller operations scattered across the state like hidden treasure. I'd been reading for twenty minutes and already felt overwhelmed by the scope.
The laundry room door squeaked open, admitting Tracy Oney with an armload of fresh trash bags and a spray bottle of cleaner. Poppy's mother moved with the same boundless energy as her daughter, though tempered by adult responsibility. Her graying hair was twisted into a messy bun, and she wore a flowing tie-dyed tunic over faded jeans. Silver bangles clinked softly on her wrists as she worked.
"How are you settling in, honey?" she asked, yanking the full bag from the waste basket with practiced efficiency.
"Things are fine, thanks. The campground is nice."
Tracy paused in her cleaning to study me with the same direct gaze her daughter had inherited. "Poppy mentioned you don't have any family. That must be difficult."
"It is what it is."
"Well, you've got us now." She tied off the trash bag with decisive movements. "Lou and I believe in taking care of our extended family here. You need anything—anything at all—you come find us, okay?"
The unexpected kindness made my throat tight. "Thank you. That means a lot."
"I hope our little chatterbox isn't making a pest of herself. She's taken quite a shine to you."
"Not at all. I enjoy her company. She's... refreshing."
Tracy's face softened with maternal pride. "She is that. Sometimes I worry we're raising her too wild, but Lou says better wild than timid." She sprayed disinfectant on the folding table, the sharp chemical scent cutting through the fabric softener-scented air. "You remind me a little of myself at your age—that look of someone trying to figure out where they belong."
"Did you figure it out?"
"Still working on it," Tracy laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "But I learned that home isn't always a place. Sometimes it's the people who accept you as you are."
After she left, I reopened the book with renewed focus. But the more I read, the more discouraged I became. The guide listed distilleries I'd never heard of tucked into remote hollows and forgotten valleys—places like Wilderness Trail, Old Ezra Brooks Heritage, Preservation Distillery. Small operations that might employ a handful of people, or family-run businesses that had been operating for generations without fanfare.
My finger traced the map on the book's inside cover, marking location after location scattered across Kentucky's hundred and twenty counties. The famous bourbon trail only scratchedthe surface. There were micro-distilleries in converted barns, craft operations in repurposed tobacco warehouses, and family recipes being revived in places that didn't even have websites.
My father could be anywhere—a master distiller at a prestigious operation, a warehouse worker at a forgotten facility, a grain supplier to multiple distilleries, or a retiree who'd left the industry entirely. He might work at a place so small it didn't even warrant mention in guidebooks.
The enormity of Kentucky stretched before me in my mind—thirty-seven thousand square miles of possibility and dead ends. Six months felt simultaneously too long and nowhere near enough time. What if I spent every day of the next half year riding bourbon tours and never got within fifty miles of the man I was seeking?
What if he'd moved out of the state? Out of the country? What if he'd died?
I slammed the book shut, the sharp sound echoing in the small space. The washing machine sat silent and patient, waiting for me to transfer my clothes to the dryer, to continue with the mundane tasks of living while my larger purpose felt increasingly impossible.
The sounds of campers settling in for the night floated in through open windows—distant laughter, screen doors banging, the hiss of propane grills. Life going on around me while I sat paralyzed by the vastness of my search.
Maybe Poppy's mother was right. Maybe home wasn't a place but the people who accepted you.
The question was: would I ever find either?
July 15, Tuesday
strike waterthe hot water added to grain to begin the mashing process
THE CORKbulletin board stretched across the weathered picnic table like an empty canvas. I'd bought it at a hardware store along with a laminated map of Kentucky, colored push pins, and a pack of fine-tip markers. The afternoon sun beat down on my shoulders as I carefully positioned the map, smoothing out air bubbles with the side of my hand.
"What are all those little circles?" Poppy asked, perched on the bench beside me with her elbows propped on the table. She'd appeared the moment I'd started spreading materials around, drawn by curiosity like a moth to flame.
"Distilleries. Each dot represents a place where they make bourbon." I pushed a red pin into the map at Woodford Reserve's location, the metal point sliding through the laminate with a satisfying pop.
"There are so many!" She counted silently, her finger tracing across the map. "Like, way more than we visit on tours."
"Exactly. That's why I'm making this." I switched to a blue pin for Wild Turkey, then green for Four Roses. "Different colors for different types of operations—big commercial distilleries, craft operations, historic sites."
