“The Angel’s Share” https://www.merriam-webster.com/words-at-play/the-finest-words-for-drinking/angels-share

Definition:

: an amount of an alcoholic drink (such as cognac, brandy, or whiskey) that is lost to evaporation when the liquid is being aged in porous oak barrels.

As I pondered over the idea of writing this blog; I debated what I would call it. For some reason the liquor commercial for Jim Bean (I think) came in my head. I thought about the verbiage of that advertisement. Declaring the Angel’s Share is lost forever through evaporation and the Devil’s Cut is the loss which is absorbed into the wood of the casks. A metaphor of sorts began to speak to me. During my lifetime I have experienced both of those terms in my life; repeatedly. It was so relatable; I almost couldn’t read my writing as the ideas flowed onto paper.

MY definition of the “Angel’s share” began that night, when I was called “The Island Whore” and beaten in a cornfield by my father.

The amount of innocence I lost, the feeling of being aged beyond my years and it was truly lost forever. It was the first time I began to understand what my father was; an alcoholic. The innocence of being a tomboy, just starting to feel some interest in boys was forever lost as my father called me a whore. The irony of being so young but feeling aged from the experience. This truly was the Angel’s Share; unfortunately it would not be my last experience with the amount of life, love and innocence that was truly “lost” to alcohol.

Equivocally; the definition of the “Devil’s Cut” was learned at the young age of 13.

In that cornfield that night something was absorbed; like the liquor in a barrel into the wood casks. It was forever with me; mocking the embarrassment I felt. That friend that had a front row seat to the abuse I experienced at the hands of my alcoholic father; never spoke to me again; her eyes never smiled at me in the halls of school and all I sensed from her was pity.

I absorbed the words “Island Whore”, and decided that was all I would be in my father’s eyes; therefore that is what I became in my mind; unimportant, disposable, used, worthless and dirty.

The next morning I heard my mother as I crept down the hall to peak to see if my father was awake. She told him she would take my brother and I and leave him if he ever hurt one of her children again. He told her he didn’t remember what had happened; which is very possible considering the amount of liquor he consumed that night; having had an extremely difficult week at work with a coworker.

Over hearing that conversation made me understand another way an alcoholic will deflect the damage of the chaos they have caused; blame. He blamed his coworker for being such an asshole to him all week, he blamed my mother for not making sure she told him when I would be back from that tractor ride, he blamed me for being with boys on a tractor wagon driving through mud puddles and being a kid, he blamed the liquor for the blackout and accepted responsibility for nothing.

When I returned to the cabin after the cornfield incident; my friend and I barred the sliding door with the end of the bunk beds; we were so scared he would “attack” me again. My mother and our family friend had followed my Dad on foot behind his riding tractor and much to my surprise witnessed some of the abuse. My mother asked me if I was okay as I stood from the dirt; I said, “he beat me”. Her response was simple, “Let’s go and be quiet.”

I didn’t know it at the time; it was weeks later I heard that my Dad had jumped back on his tractor and rode to the lot where the owners were that had the tractor and wagon. He assaulted the owner and threatened his family members; assuming they had “messed” with me. No one even touched me; he had created this horrible scenario in his head of me giving blowjobs on the back of a tractor wagon or spreading my legs at 13 as we rode down the Island trail. I learned alcoholics have “quite” the imagination.

My father’s apology was later in the day; when the fogginess cleared his brain and he had time to convince himself he was reacting to danger and saving me. My response to his gibberish, “If you ever hit me again, I will kill you.”

It was the LAST time he ever laid a hand on me; by the time I was 13 my father had taught me to shoot a gun quite well; I’m pretty sure he knew I was dead set on my promise.