My father died today. We were never close and we would rarely talk; I would call perhaps on his birthday and maybe Christmas. That was about it. So I am not really sure how I feel about his passing and that is why I am sitting at the keyboard now, trying to figure it out.

Growing up he was not much of a presence in my life and I have only a handful of memories of times that we spent together. He was not physically abusive (outside the occasional wooden spoon to my backside when he felt I needed it) and he was far from the stereotypical alcoholic parent as he rarely even had a beer. When he did it was never more than two and it was always something god-awful like Pabst Blue Ribbon’s second beer, Red, White, and Blue (which he drank because he was extremely cheap).

By the time I started high school, my parents were fighting quite a bit and I would spend most of my time in my room, or out in the driveway shooting hoops. I was a good student, played on various sports teams over the years, and even sang in the choir for a stretch, but I can’t remember him ever asking to see a report card and never saw him in the stands or in the audience. I do remember that he had a fairly short temper, at least with me, which is why I found it best to just try to avoid him.

For as long as I can remember, I never went to my dad for anything. Advice, compassion, assistance, money? I either went to my mother or more often, I just figured it out on my own. He controlled the finances in the family and eventually, I just gave up asking him for that new pair of basketball shoes, pair of jeans, you name it. I learned fairly early on that the answer would always be “no.”

[There was that time, however, which I remember distinctly; I was a freshman and had just made the high school basketball team and I wanted the same shoes that the rest of the guys were wearing. But they were $70. It was going to take me two weeks (at least) to make that with my paper route and my mother did not have that kind of cash. I dreaded asking him, but it was my only option. He didn’t say a word, he just pulled out a three-inch stack of folded bills, peeled off three twenties, then sifted past another dozen or so bills to find a ten, and held them out for me. Why? I have no idea, but I was so stunned that I almost forgot to mutter a “thank you.”]

So I grew up not relying on or really expecting anything from him and that was fine, I just learned as I guess many kids do, that I could get along perfectly well without him playing any meaningful role in my life.

He wasn’t a “bad guy” as far as I could tell, he just took little interest in being my father. Perhaps because he was not very good at it.

In fact, long before I became a father, I would joke with my older brother about the “key” to being a good dad, and we agreed: “Imagine what dad would do in a given situation and then do the exact opposite.”

I realized when I was finishing this article that I did not have a single photo of my father. So I asked my brother to send me one. Rest in peace, dad.

My parents divorced after nineteen years of marriage when I was sixteen and a junior in high school. I remember thinking at the time that it was for the best; they had not gotten along for some time, which was clear to see, and my mother, with whom I have always been much closer, had been miserable for as long as I could remember.

A couple of years later, I left Michigan to go to school a world away in Maine, even though my father was convinced for some unknown reason that I wanted to go to the Naval Academy in Annapolis. Like many other issues, I never asked him what gave him that impression; I guess I really did not need to know.

A handful of years after their divorce, my father remarried and our already distant “relationship” became even more so. His wife was not a bad person either, as far as I could tell, but if my dad and I were polar opposites, she was on a different planet altogether. She would ask why I did not reach out to my father on a regular basis since that is what “good sons do”. That would usually work for a phone call, but it was tough for me to be a “good son” when I had little idea what a healthy father-son relationship looked like.

Once I got married and had sons of my own, I thought at first that I wanted them to have a relationship with their grandfather. But that was fraught with angst. Not only did I not want them to witness what my father and I “had”, but my father also seemed to approach my sons in much the same way I remembered my childhood. It seemed he didn’t put much effort into even remembering their names.

I decided that I would rather that they have a more idealized impression of their grandfather from afar, which I guess is what I tried to have, in a way, of my father.

Who knows what lasting impact my relationship, or, more accurately, my lack of a relationship with my father has had on me but I do know that I value my relationship with each of my sons above everything else. No, I am not a perfect father, far from it, but I like to think I try.

Tonight, on the day he died quite unexpectedly, I knew what wine I had to open: a 1990 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame. It is a bottle that I think perfectly encapsulates our time together here on the planet.

When his wife died, about this time two years ago, I went back to Michigan to help my brother and sister move him out of his house. She was a pack rat, the house was in woeful shape, and he needed to move out as soon as possible for many reasons.

When I showed up, this bottle was sitting there in the kitchen, unearthed by one of my siblings, and I was floored. What on earth was he doing with a 30-year-old champagne, which was sitting just a few feet away from the case of Michelob Ultra (apparently, his taste in beer improved, if ever so slightly)?

I grabbed the box, covered with a thick layer of dust except for the three “clean” circles where some tacky trinkets had no doubt been perched for well over a decade (at least). Clutching the treasure (neither of my siblings have much of a clue about wine), I declared it mine.

Then it hit me.

It was “mine” in a sense.

It had to have been in the late ’90s or early ’00s after a summer leading bike trips in France, that I purchased this bottle and brought it home as a gift to my father and his wife. In many ways, I viewed it as the perfect gift as it represented, at least in part, who I had become: someone who loved France, loved wine, and loved life.

But it also underscored how little I knew about him; he would never possibly know when or even want to drink it. It is even probable that he had forgotten the bottle was even there, not understanding the jewel he had in his possession.

I like to think he saved it all of those years to open it with me, but now I won’t ever get the chance to ask him.

I guess I really do not need to know.

1990 Veuve Clicquot Champagne Brut La Grande Dame, France: Retail ~$300. 61% Pinot Noir, 39% Chardonnay. I was cleaning out my father’s house and I discovered this bottle. It took me a while, but I eventually realized that I had actually given this to him over 20 years prior. The box was still in good shape (although covered in a thick layer of dust) and the bottle was even in better condition with great ullage and no signs of damage. So I took it home. Today, on the day he died, I decided to open this beauty since I like to think that he was saving it to share with me someday (it is more likely that he had completely forgotten about it). It opened with first a slight sigh (good sign) and then a broken cork (a pain in the you-know-what). Beyond golden and well into amber with a faint, but clearly present sparkle, this is old champagne at its best. Rich, sherried nose with some candied orange peel, caramel, and that intense, almost unctuous yeastiness that makes those of us who collect it, crave older champagne. Incredible. On the palate, the sparkle is faint but certainly extant, determined to hang on until the last glass. Intense tartness, loads of caramel, and yes, that incredibly rich croissant-like delicious flavor that makes my hair stand on end (in a good way). Look, I am not going to pretend that my father and I had a good relationship or even a relationship at all, but this was a sadly beautiful way to say goodbye. Outstanding. 96 Points.