Though our paths briefly crossed at past Garofalo gatherings in Minnesota, it wasn’t until this July, when JP visited Don and Pat, that I truly had the chance to meet him at our home. From the moment we shook hands, I could feel the ease with which he connected with everyone he encountered—his warmth and open spirit seemed to invite friendship from all corners.
Somehow, our conversation turned to bourbon and whiskey—a mutual love we shared. JP mentioned a list of his top whiskeys to acquire, and at the top was Evan Williams Single Barrel. Without him knowing, I went down to my bar and grabbed an unopened bottle I’d been keeping. I brought it up to him, and though he hesitated, insisting he couldn’t accept it, I gently insisted that he had to.
A couple of weeks later, he sent a photo—his pour of Evan Williams in hand, the bottle resting beside it, with the serene view from his back deck stretching out behind it. That simple gesture, that shared moment, was something I’ll always treasure.
On Christmas Eve, as we sat around playing Scopa, JP called Don to wish us all a Merry Christmas. The sound of his voice, just for those few minutes, brought an unexpected smile to my face. It was the kind of warmth you rarely find, even in brief exchanges.
To hear of his passing only a few days later hit hard, the world losing someone so genuine, so effortlessly kind. Despite having spent only a few hours with him, it felt like we’d known each other for a lifetime. That’s the kind of man he was—one who made you feel like an old friend, even after such a short time.
May he rest in peace, protecting his family from above, and may his next chapter be full of light. Here’s to him, and to Tony Garofalo, now reunited in heaven.