By Patricia DeChurch, Louisville
My dad, Fedrick Neville Simpson, better known as Ned, was superintendent of a distillery named Glencoe in Bardstown. He started around 1934, and for the next 30 years, he was in charge. The distillery, which eventually became Bardstown Distillery, was built by Jim Beam himself. My family moved into Beam’s former house, just across the street, in 1945, when I was in fourth grade. Beam lived in it for as long as he owned the distillery. When we moved out in 1960, the house was demolished, as it was eaten up with termites.
There were two huge ponds and a third that was built later. Good water is important in making bourbon. There were many times when Dad went fishing, and we had fried catfish for dinner. Fried catfish is still my favorite. We also used to go frog gigging. I got to hold the flashlight. I loved fried frog legs. I have to tell you that the first time I saw a skillet of frog legs, several jumped up at me and scared me to death. I yelled out, “They are alive!”
Whenever I was sick, Dad fixed a hot cup of tea, made it real sweet, and put in a splash of bourbon. I loved it and slept like a baby.
One of Dad’s favorite things to do with a newcomer touring the distillery was to encourage them to take a deep smell of mash. Now if you have done this, you know it can knock you off your feet. It has quite a kick.
Sometimes Dad had to go to the office after hours. He took my two sisters and me with him. We had a grand time rolling the big carts in the warehouse. These were on wheels and carried barrels of bourbon. They were easy to roll and could turn on a dime. We had our own roller derby.
Every barrel of bourbon had to be tested. Testing meant taking a mouthful, swishing it around, and spitting it out. Dad had to do this to a number of barrels. The test was to make sure the bourbon was good. Of course, you could not help but swallow some. Dad always came home with a bad headache, but being the manager, he had to do it.
Dad’s distillery was the first to use a fiddle bottle. The idea was to commemorate the songs of Stephen Foster. Dad’s best-known brand was bottled in the fiddle bottle. For several years, he gave a miniature fiddle bottle of bourbon to guests. The state decided that that was too much bourbon to give away for free and ended that.
I always thought the distillery was beautiful. The office building and all the warehouses were painted white. Dad had a tulip garden built in the shape of a fiddle. A little farther down from the flower bed, he had a pond built, complete with goldfish. I never went to the distillery without feeding the fish. There was nothing so beautiful in the spring.
One afternoon, when I was 12, a car drove up to the house. There were two ladies and a gentleman in it. The lady driving talked to Dad, and then Dad opened the back door and shook hands with the gentleman. They talked for several minutes. I saw the gentleman and never forgot how he was dressed—nattily, with a plaid jacket, tie and hat. After they left, I asked Dad who the gentleman was, and he said, “Well, Pat, that was Mr. Jim Beam.” He was 92 years old and wanted to see his old home one more time.
One day, Dad got a call from the neighbor, Mr. Blandford, who owned a cattle farm adjacent to the distillery. He had been getting the distillery’s slop, which is the waste after the alcohol is taken out. It is mostly corn and good for cattle. Mr. Blandford asked Dad to come up to the farm because he wanted to show him something. Dad went up, and Mr. Blandford took him out to where the cattle were. Dad stood looking at the cattle and didn’t notice anything and asked Mr. Blandford what he was looking at. Mr. Blandford said, “Well Ned, they are all drunk.” Then Dad noticed the cattle were lowing their heads, swinging them from side to side, and lots of them were upchucking. There were 300 head of drunk cattle. I wonder if that turned out to be the best tasting beef ever recorded.
In the 1950s, the distillery was up for sale. The only thing I remember was Dad coming home from work and being relieved. He had four men from New York visit and look over the property. Dad had been informed that they were with the mafia. He was uneasy the whole time and was glad when they left. They did not buy the plant. It was bought by a company from California. At that time, Dad decided it was time to retire.