Miles was uncharacteristically abrupt at the Morning Meeting.

“Something seems about to happen with the Iranians who are threatening to sink aircraft carriers. They’re still talking, though, so we probably won’t have to work too hard on military issues until next week.”

He paused.

“It is also Ash Wednesday. For the faithful, a time for fasting and contemplation on what is to be in the days ahead.”

He sat down slowly.

“I have directed the Old Salts to unpack the sturdy parcel that arrived by Parcel Post late last night.”

He pointed to the large carton by the conference room door. It was marked FRAGILE in multiple directions and looked like it had survived several delivery vehicles and perhaps a low-speed fall from a truck. The battered cardboard gave it a certain air of mystery.

There was the usual back-and-forth about explosive devices — some of us having had experience with drones, phones, and other accessories to unpleasantness. Keith stood tall and opened a lovely old Buck folding knife from a battered leather holster.

Vic stood to help. Holly climbed onto the wide conference table to steady the box.

“I’m going in,” Keith announced, easing the blade a quarter inch through the tape.

The three flipped the carton upright.

Inside was a shining silver envelope nestled against two black plastic bags. No markings. No identifying features.

Keith gave a triumphant snort and extracted one of the black bags.

It was roughly the size and shape of a quart Mason jar.

There appeared to be more beneath it.

Soon four tall black plastic cylinders were lined neatly on the table beside the bulging silver pouch.

Keith slit the silver envelope carefully.

Out spilled two dozen small ampules — glass containers resembling spice or cosmetic bottles. Each carried bright, cheerful labels.

Melissa picked up one filled with white liquid and squinted at the script.

“Sugarlands Sippin’ Crème,” she read. “What the hell is that?”

Keith took it from her and raised it to the light.

“I believe,” he said solemnly, “that the folks at Sugarlands included a bonus.”

He twisted the gold top, paused briefly in the direction of Miles, and downed the 50 milliliters in a single motion.

A sigh.

“These,” he said thoughtfully, “would go very well in the morning Flat Yank coffee. After Easter.”

The room shifted attention back to the four black cylinders.

“These,” Keith said reverently, “are from the Sugarlands Distillery in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. My Irish people got to that state before the Civil War. I suspect they would have approved.”

He drew the Buck knife across the top seam of one cylinder and peeled it back carefully.

The blade revealed a gold screw-top — unmistakably Mason jar heritage.

He unscrewed it.

A rich brown liquid glowed with a reddish tint under the fluorescent lights.

Keith held it up to the window.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, “we appear to be in possession of four quarts of authentic Tennessee moonshine.”

Melissa frowned. “I’ve never heard of them. What do they do?”

Keith, assuming full docent mode, began listing varieties — peach, butter pecan cream, rye whiskey — awards, accolades, craft distillery credentials. There was a murmur of interest from those who had not passed recently through the Volunteer State.

He tipped the jar slightly.

“Anyone interested in a sip?”

Miles spoke without raising his voice.

“No.”

It wasn’t forceful. But it was definitive.

There were products to draft, edit, approve, and transmit before lunch disappeared in the rearview mirror of history.

“That was entertaining, Keith,” Miles added. “Let’s put the moonshine aside until we get past Easter and into the Spring.”

Keith looked mildly wounded.

Miles smiled.

“Back to the Liquor Locker in the Galley. I read today is National Drink Wine Day. There may be opportunities later — even if it’s not as toxic as Tennessee mountain chemistry.”

He gathered the paperwork.

“In the meantime, I’m skipping lunch and contemplating life in historic times.”

Melissa smiled.

“That’s a good start, Miles. But we might also say a prayer about how we do.”

Copyright 2026 Vic Socotra

www.vicsocotra.com

Vic Socotra – Purveyor of glib words to the world