That cold night, as I made my way through the backyard hedge-row separating my father’s home from his neighbour’s, I wondered what I would say.

My wife had urged me to pay a final visit to Ed because, after all, he was my father’s best friend. But I was exhausted and emotionally spent after the sorrowful task of deconstructing my father’s home in the wake of his sudden death.

His home had been a touchstone for our nomadic military family for decades and there were memories in every room: quiet mornings sharing our coffee on the back porch, the clamour of relatives at a family reunion, watching him teach my son to drive his tractor, and meeting his neighbours as they stopped by for pie and coffee late in the evening. It was nearly unbearable, especially as I lowered the American Flag he proudly flew in front of his house for the final time.

But I was heading back to Singapore early the next morning and, knowing I would never return to this house, a last visit was now or never. Despite my reservations, and after tripping over hedge-root, I knocked on his door, unannounced, for what I thought would be a quick goodbye.

His adult-son answered, opening the door slightly to see who was calling well after the dinner hour. However, Ed saw me from his perch atop the landing and waived me in. His advanced years showing, he shuffled and spoke in a whisper as he led us to the kitchen table.

As we sat, I began with a feeble attempt to break the ice and, already building my exit strategy, explained I couldn’t stay long.

But Ed stopped me with a raised finger, then looked at his son and said, clearly and with authority, “Get the bottle”. His son looked perplexed, then shocked, as he responded with “Dad, do you mean THE bottle?”. Ed nodded his head as he pointed to the kitchen cupboard high above the stove. “Are you sure…?” his son trailed off, resigned to the futility of further protests. Ed reiterated, this time impatiently, with “I said, get it.”.

I was confused by the exchange but my curiosity was piqued as his son went to retrieve a step-ladder. Climbing it to the top rung, he reached to the back of the small cupboard with an outstretched hand and retrieved an old, dusty, bottle from a dark corner.

Bringing it to his father, Ed held it tenderly as he wiped years of dust from the label. Contented with his work, he sat it on the table and began to unfold its story while his son gathered three glasses.

Ed told me of his time in Army in early 60’s when, as a young man, he was stationed in Europe. He talked about how surreal it all was for a young man from Kentucky to walk the streets of Europe’s capitols as well as the cobblestone roads of its small villages.

Knowing he would never return, Ed wanted to memorialise that special time, those magnificent moments, and what it was like to be young, vibrant, and alive in a beautiful place. He captured it all and put it in a single bottle—a very rare, very fine, bottle of vintage cognac. The kind of bottle that demanded the finest grapes from the Champagne region of France, from those select few vineyards designated as “Grand Cru”. In short, a bottle for the ages.

His friends from the barracks must have thought he was crazy to spend his scarce savings and what little the Army paid him for something so extravagant. No one understood but he didn’t care.

Upon his return, Ed married, had children, then grandchildren, all while working a lifetime as a Union Machinist in a factory. For more than 50 years—through hot and cold wars; political and social upheaval; economic booms and busts; even through Beat-nicks, Hippies, and Yuppies—he safeguarded his bottle until it became a matter family legend. Part touchstone and part talisman, he kept its mystery to himself.

That is, until the night I paid a visit. Quite by accident, I had stumbled onto a moment that was bigger than myself and one I could not, and would not, ignore.

As Ed opened the bottle and poured a measure into our waiting glasses, I could already tell, this was something very special. It’s dark Carmel hue was a thing of beauty.

Once served, he set the bottle down, raised his glass, and offered a toast “To my friend Richard Walker, I will miss you.”.

The cognac had a silky-smooth texture and a strong potency that was balanced against a subtle, complex sweetness. As a man of many words, I struggle to do it justice—I just call it liquid gold. This bottle would never see a cork again, it demanded to emptied in one sitting.

As it gently warmed our throats and loosened our tongues, Ed began to spill out recollections of my father. He remembered the first time he had seen my father and stepmother in their backyard shortly after moving into their new home. And how, while they were raking the Fall leaves, they dropped their rakes, embraced and, in an outburst of joy, began dancing and kicking their way through mound after mound. Witnessing this, Ed knew they would get along splendidly.

The years rolled by and, in large ways and small, their friendship was cemented. He recalled story after story: how they stood together in front of a grocery store, in the rain, collecting signatures for Ed’s daughter to get on the ballot for her County Judgeship run as the deadline neared… and how my father helped him with the restoration of his classic-car… or how they went to breakfast way-too-early each morning after they retired…and the countless projects they worked on together, at each other’s homes. The stories were endless.

I listened to them all and never once looked at my watch. All too soon, in the wee-small hours of the morning, the bottle was drained and it was time to go. I made my way back through the hedge-row and, miraculously, caught my morning flight.

As I slid into my seat with bloodshot eyes and a sore head, I pondered the night before. It dawned on me that Ed had not opened that exquisite bottle when he married, or when his children and grandchildren were born, not even when his daughter was elected to office. Nor did he want to leave it as a family heirloom. Instead, in the twilight of his life, he opened it to honor the memory of his friend and share stories about him with me.

The plane picked up speed and broke ground as I realised my father had one more gift to give, one more lesson to teach me, as I began to face life without him: always strive to be a man worthy of such an extraordinary tribute.