“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.” ~Oliver Goldsmith
After much consideration and a smile on my face, I decided to write about beer. Yes, beer! I came from a long family line who enjoyed the golden concoction, most everyone that is, except me. With the popularity of new brewing companies popping up in every town, I have succumbed to the substance every Irish pub serves an abundance of, or a proper polka party can’t do without. It hooked me on one blistering Saturday afternoon, and if I remember right, it happened something like this… We, (as in my spouse and I) were hauling and placing new mulch about our shrubs since well before noon. The sun, the heat, and the high humidity made it hotter than Dutch love in a sauna. My partner in crime disappeared into the house and when he came out, he had a small cooler filled with ice and a several beers. I have to confess, it was difficult not to turn down a cold one, especially when the liquid is enticing me through a frosty mug right out of the freezer, “Drink me, you know you want to!” Ugghhh! I took the offered beverage, downed over half of it before it began to quench my thirst. Yes, I had been seduced, and I liked it. I liked it so much that day I had several more while spreading mulch (I think I used the excuse I was sweating it all out).
I know our taste for different substances change as we age, but never would anyone ever hear that I actually liked the taste of beer, let alone ask for one. My sister-in-law once told me I must not be a true LaRocque because I didn’t like beer and can become inebriated sipping “sissy wine.” (Please, give me a break…yes, she was laughing when I tripped going up the stairs to bed!) That sweltering Saturday last August marked the day I drank more than one golden elixir, the day was perfect, the company was first-rate, and I never went beyond acting silly. All this is coming from the girl who usually gets dizzy sniffing bottle caps!
I will never be a beer connoisseur, nor do I want to be. The summer afternoon I mentioned happened only once, but there is another hot summer day that comes in at a close second. (Oops, I shouldn’t have let that slip out!) If there happened to be contest among family members for burp talking then maybe I’d consider drinking it more often (probably not). My family gets a kick when I let my hair down, for them, it’s a rare sight to see me dance on the table (figure of speech)…but, I assure you, I don’t or have ever participated in a public hooley (at least I don’t remember)! If you’re wondering if I’m drinking a beer right now, I’m not. Geez, I hope you’re not getting the wrong impression of me! But, come to think about it, I think I have to finish up a few things out back!
When I think of beer on a warm summer’s day I can’t help but think of the fond memories I have of my dad, sipping on a Stroh’s longneck and listening to Tiger baseball on a transistor radio. He loved baseball, and as I recall, he never attended a professional game. Here’s the setting at our house for Game 7 of the 1968 World Series. My family gathered to watch the pitcher’s duel, Detroit’s pitcher Mickey Lolich, and St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Bob Gibson were both dominating the mound, both keeping their teams in the Series. Only one would win the duel and the Series. The Tigers had already been victimized by Gibson twice, striking out a Series record 17 times in Game 1, and managing only one run on five hits in Game 4. Lolich had already won two games in the Series himself and it was doubtful he was up to the challenge of taking on Gibson in Game 7. Lolich spun a gem, with only a ninth-inning homer by Mike Shannon spoiling his shutout as the Tigers won the World Series in seven games. It was a grand day even for me to see the Tigers win the Pennant, fresh beers for everyone and my dad’s famous hamburgers were part of that celebration. Summer, baseball, swimming at the lake, hamburgers, hotdogs, backyard games, and picnics were some of the best memories I have associated with the certified beer drinkers, I call family.
We recently went to dinner with another avid beer drinker and his lovely wife at one of the local brewing companies I spoke of earlier. He swirls his beer in his mug, examining the color and the aroma, while we all roll our eyes. Then in an English theatrical sort of way, he states (I’m going to adlib here) that good beers are powerful in an obvious, nose-punching way, but the best beers rely on the subtle subversions of the norm for their strength. The discerning public seeks it out, they consume it, they let its flavors coat their palates and its essence infiltrate their souls. They ponder, and move on to the next in an eternal cycle, which to the outsider appears intimidating at best and inane at worst, but to the connoisseur it is simply glorious. Each cycle presents fresh insights, a new chance to observe the majesty of creation and the beauty of innovation. Yes, our friend is a bit of a diva…sorry son, we love you and know you’re only searching for the perfect beer!
So in retrospect, if I could go back in time, I would want it to be in our old Detroit home. I would be an adult, not the fifteen year old I was when we moved. The soft breeze through the bay window carries the scent of freshly mowed grass into the room. I would be sitting across from my dad at the 50’s style red and gray kitchen table anxious to grant him my birthday wish. I would proudly lift my amber bottle and tip it in a casual toast and say, “Here’s to you dad, I hope you don’t have any plans next weekend because I have two tickets to the Tiger's home game! Happy Birthday!"
Raymond J. LaRocque May 8, 1907 - January 26, 1978
4 comments:
Our memories of our fathers...they are special, are they not ? My father didn't drink. He didn't mind if company did, and he always had it there for anyone who wanted it. But he never did. Reason being is that his father was an alcoholic. Grandpa, the man before I was born was a mean drunk. Drinking up the money for bills, food and the simple nessasitys of life. One morning Grandpa woke up, and saw that he had beat the shit out of Grandma, and never had another drink the rest of his life.
I had an Uncle that drank 3 cases of beer a week, and sometimes more, and if you were to meet him you'd of thought him to be the soberest man alive...lol
I had another Uncle that always smelled of whiskey...and I loved it. To this day I love the smell of whiskey on a mans breath...(to each is own) as they say...lol
Happy Birthday to your dad...and all the memories that flood our minds.......
I must of been in a hurry when I wrote the above comment. For I left out something. I do that often when writing and then have to go back and fill in all the blanks...lol
My grandparents on my mothers side were just simple the "cute couple". Grandma being very old fashion, and very very much the proper lady, so when she did something out of "her" ordinary it was notice with laughter and smiles. Grandpa was sort of a smart ass, and I like to think that's where much of my laughter on life comes from.
Grandma NEVER wore slacks, it wasn't proper don't ya know...lol so there she'd be on that sunny hot afternoon in Detroit mowing that typical Detroit greener then green perfect lawn with a push mower. Not of the moterized kind either. I can still hear in my mind the swishing of the blades and smell the freshly cut grass. Did you know that grass cut with one of these mowers has an all together different smell to it ? It's wonderful!
When she was finished she would come inside, rinse her face in cool water from the kitchen faucet, and go straight downstairs to the basement, open the fridge, pop a beer, and simple guzzle about 1/2 of it. Bring the rest back up to the kitchen and pour it down the drain. The only other time Grandma ever took a drink is at Christmas and Thanksgiving, when Grandpa or Dad would fix her a sloe gin and squirt. She loved it and said it taisted like red-pop. And she was right, as I always got to have that last little swollow. lol
I never ever saw my Grandpa drink a beer. At the holidays he'd have a Manhatten or two, and that was it. Grandpa drank hot tea at every meal, but his beverage of choise was a simple glass of water.
About that fridge in the basement. It was just a extra that Grandpa had picked up somewhere. He needed it to store all the beer in. Why all the beer ? Well the man next door drove a beer delivery truck. Back then you were aloud so many bottles for breakage. And if he didn't break them, he'd bring then home. Years later I found out that most of the neighbors all had an extra fridge in there basement...LOL Way to go Grandpa...lol
This is a story I can also personally relate to. My own father enjoyed listening to weekend baseball with an occasional beer. Nice memories you ressurrected.
This was an awesome memory, once again, thanks for sharing.
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