It sounds like the beginning of a country song. Perhaps even one of those that describes a day when your dog gets run over and your truck breaks down on the side of the road. I am not a beer drinker. Normally. I love a good bourbon or a good margarita but beer is not something I reach for to sooth the wounds of the day. Until now.
I have fallen in love with Oyster City Beer. I enjoyed my first Oyster City Beer, a Hooter Brown, on a hot September Day at Sparks Bar-B-Que and Brew in Port Saint Joe, Florida. I don’t know what made me order a beer that day other than we were sitting on their patio, chatting it up with the late, great Butter (God rest his soul) about the smoker. It just seemed fitting to have a beer at a place with “brew” in the name. I was about mid-way through my Hooter Brown that day when I realized it was very potent. And, I liked it.
I have had an exceptionally long, rough, extra long, busy, stressful, (and did I mention long) day. I’ve been extra emotional for no reason in particular. Maybe menopause. Maybe I’m just extra sensitive right now. Whatever reason, it’s just made me pretty teary eyed at all sorts of things today.
I brought home a few souvenirs from the beach. By souvenirs, I mean three six-packs of a variety of Oyster City Beer. I intended to come home, pour a shot of my favorite bourbon, and sit on the patio, licking my figurative wounds. But, something reminded me of my dad today and I couldn’t help but reach for a beer instead.
My dad loved Old Milwaukee beer. When he was taking chemo, he had to drink nonalcoholic beer, and that was a treat for me because he would sometimes share. Regardless of the kind of beer, he would always take the salt shaker and tap a decent layer of salt around the rim. As a kid, I didn’t realize that putting salt on beer was a thing. I thought it was an oddity of my dad, like his mayonnaise and cheese on top of pound cake snack. Apparently, beer salt is a thing and I guess as an adult, I should have figured that out since salt pairs perfectly with margaritas. I may have mentioned this a time or two, I think I’m a slow learner.
I pulled a Mill Pond Dirty Blonde Ale from the refrigerator and sprinkled a generous portion of salt around the rim. I reminisced about the days as a kid when Daddy would ask me to go get him a beer from the fridge. He kept a salt shaker somewhere near his recliner in our living room. I would bring him his beer after a long day at work, he would crack it open, and salt it down. I would carefully watch for when he was done with his beer and he would let me drink the last sip. It wasn’t much and I didn’t really like it anyway. I just wanted to be cool like my Daddy and drink beer.
I don’t know what made me remember the salt today. I haven’t really even thought about it for years. I guess being in my feelings brought up memories to comfort me. I can still remember the way the Old Milwaukee tasted and how I could usually get a little bit of the salt with that one last drop. My Daddy was what most people today would call a functional alcoholic. He loved his beer and his Wild Turkey. But he was never a mean or a wild drunk. He never started fights or hit anyone. Mostly, he was a silly drunk. He would tell jokes and laugh about the silly stuff. Then he would fall asleep in his recliner, worn out from his day and his drink.
I don’t drink often. I’m certainly not sure if I’m functional but I know I’m not an alcoholic. I know Daddy had a stressful job and I’m sure it took something like alcohol to balance him out. This was before the day and age of medication to help level your anxiety, or at least if it was available, he wasn’t taking it. Some days just call for something. For me today, it was a beer. It wasn’t so much for the alcohol as it was the memories. Memories can wrap you up like a hug some days. When I opened mine, I held it up and told my Daddy, “This one’s for you.”
P.S. That’s a really bad haircut…that’s the 5th grade summer hair cut for a tomboy. And boy oh boy is it fluffy.
Messpot Diaries 