The first time was when my aunt came back from a vacation and generously brought my father--her brother--a bottle.
Sadly, that bottle was broken. The story of how it was broken depends on whether you heard my father's version of the events or my mother's.
Back when she was still alive, that is.
The next time I came across a bottle of that particular brandy was years later when my much older and less attractive brother found it when he, in an interesting coincidence, was also on vacation. Like our aunt, he, too, was generous enough to bring back a bottle for each of his siblings, as well as replacing our parent's broken one.
Between you and I, it was probably his wife who actually bought the brandy, and the most my brother did was take credit for it.
But you didn't hear that from me.
Recently, I took my father to one of his many doctor visits, and, in a rare show of generosity himself, he took the special bottle of Pierre Duchene as a thank-you gift for his doctor.
"What's Henry going to do when he finds out you gave away the brandy he gave you?" I asked, teasing him.
"Who's going to tell him?"
"I am."
My father considered that.
"He'll just buy me another one," he concluded.
When he offered the bottle to his doctor, my father told him, "I'd like you have this bottle of brandy. It's from my uncle's distillery in France. It has his name on it."
That was a completely made-up story. I don't even know who Pierre Duchene is or if he ever actually existed. Telling such a fabrication is out of character for my father, one of the most honest individuals I've ever known.
At least, he used to be.
I don't know if the doctor bought the story or not. My father is in his upper nineties, so how old would that have made his uncle? Still, the doctor was appreciative.
"Thank you, Mr. Duchene," he told my father. "I appreciate it, I really do, but it's probably better if the bottle stays with you. Besides the familial connection, the truth is, I'm not a brandy drinker. I tried it once, and I didn't like it."
"Well, I'd like to get you something," my father insisted. "How about a box of cigars?"
"I tried cigars once--Cubans, in fact--but I didn't like them either."
Just then, there was a knock at the door and a younger doctor walked in.
"Mr. Duchene, let me introduce you to my daughter. Some day, when I retire, she'll take over my practice."
"Please to meet you," my father said, standing up to shake her hand. "I bet you're an only child."
Raising My Father
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