Dad’s Favorite Beer
From the beer community
It was my own father who first exposed me to beer. At an early age, there was an after-dinner tradition of story time, where my father would tell my brothers and sister tales from his youth growing up in Philadelphia.
He worked at the bottlehouse for Schmidts while attending Villanova in the 1950s. He had landed the job from an uncle who worked at Esslingers. “It was grunt work,” he told me. “I worked the 4 pm to midnight shift. And they gave you three twenty minute beer breaks.” At the time, he was underage and unable to imbibe, yet he would smell like a brewery on his ride home on the El late at night, much to the consternation of fellow passengers.
Years later, as a middle-schooler with a paper route, I would collect discarded beer cans that littered the local yards after late night high school parties, while I delivered the Washington Star on Saturday mornings. When it appeared that my collection wasn’t a passing fad, my father would return from business trips abroad with empty cans for my collection as souvenirs.
During summers at the Jersey shore, my father and my uncles would play pinochle in the garage, which was stocked with cases and cases of Carling Black Label; Uncle Paul, my grandfather’s best friend, worked for a beer distributor and had the bent knuckles from moving cases of beer to show for it.
But despite the fact that beer was prevalent in family discussions and during beach vacation card games, I rarely can recall my dad drinking it growing up. He didn’t drink at all for the longest time and when he finally jumped back into the game he was a wine man. Later he worked with a fellow who he claimed was a “Guinness guy.” “He would make this punch with that and champagne that looked like root beer,” he said. My father himself would sample Guinness on a trip to Ireland but upon return found that the beer stateside wasn’t the same as what he’d had in Dublin.
After college, I relocated to Southern California in 1990 and found myself in the midst of the craft beer boom. When my father had to make a trip to San Diego, I drove down from Los Angeles and we went to a local microbrewery there; he had found his way back to beer. By the time I moved back to the east coast, my dad was a full-blown Heineken fan, so much so that when my sister got married, it became the de facto beer for her reception.
These days, when traveling abroad, he will typically ask to sample a local brew like Lithuania’s SVYTURYS or Australia’s Cooper’s Original Pale Ale. His palate has opened up and now a world of beer awaits him.
In the spirit of that generational giving, All About Beer Magazine posed the question “What is your dad’s favorite beer?” to its contributors, readers and others in our extended family to see what they had to say about it. This is our homage to dads and their beer.
—Greg Barbera
From our writers—
Matt’s Premium. We lived in Syracuse and it was as “local” as you could get.
—Rick Lyke
There was one ritual that will forever stay in mind: the spring bock beer run. Each year, when the Formosa brewery of Ontario would release its seasonal bock in the five liter mini-keg—or whatever the Imperial equivalent was in those pre-metric days—my father would drive across the provincial border to pick up at least two and, since gas was always cheaper in Ontario than in Quebec, fill up the tank. The tricky part, of course, was that the trip would need to be timed so that the tank was almost empty, but not so much that the car would run out of gas before my dad made it to Cornwall. I don’t recall him even once not making it.
—Stephen Beaumont
My dad’s beer was Busch. He would let me have sips of it whenever I wanted. And I liked it! I remember enjoying the way the bubbles tickled my tongue. They were different than pop bubbles. I also liked the cans—they were blue with a big, white mountain on them. You don’t see mountains like that growing up in Tulsa, OK, so it was quite exotic.
Granddad’s beer was Coors. I think that was mostly because he couldn’t get Coors at the time in Houston, where he lived. So when he and Granny would drive up to visit us in Tulsa, they would head home with a trunk packed with so much Coors, the back end of their car nearly scraped the road!
—Lisa Morrison
My dad drank two beers that I remember. When I was very young, he drank the confusingly-named Duke Ale, The Prince of Pilsners, from the Duquesne Brewing Co. of Pittsburgh. When they went under—and a sad day it was in our house—he switched to Miller High Life, which turned out to be an important step for my beer education: I didn’t like it. I had no reason not to, no one had told me that beer even could taste different—it was “beer” —but when I filched one, it tasted grainy, nasty, and I went back to drinking illegally purchased Genny Cream Ale and National Bohemian. But now I knew that beers really had differences. I finally got my dad drinking Yuengling Traditional Lager with the “drink local” argument.
—Lew Bryson
We lived in Boulder, CO, so it was definitely Coors. I used to get the first sip when I would fetch him one and I can still remember that crisp taste.
—Adem Tepedelen
My dad’s always been very susceptible to advertising and the power of suggestion. So for him, growing up, hearing jingles such as, “What are you gonna have? Pabst Blue Ribbon,” it used to be PBR. Now he loves wheat beers: “heferweizen” (though he’s lived in California for over 40 years, he still has his Brooklyn accent). He brings home mostly Widmer Hefeweizen and Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat, and when we’re out, I’ll steer him toward Gordon-Biersch hefe to go with the garlic fries at a Dodger game, or take him to a proper beer bar and suggest Blanche de Bruxelles.
—Brian Yaeger
From our readers—
Dad drove a truck for a beverage distributor in Wisconsin when I was a kid, so besides the bounty of brew in the fridge, the basement walls had a tasteful coat of beer posters and wall hangings, as well as coasters, pool cues and mugs.
—Doug Smith
Budweiser. Grandpa? Budweiser. Uncle Dave? Budweiser. Grandpa drove a Budweiser truck in Los Angeles in the 40s and 50s, Uncle Dave in the 60s. It’s in my DNA, yet rarely in my bloodstream. Though, whenever I visit the folks I’ll bring the King of Beers in order to keep in good stead. Talk around the family campfire inevitably leads to “the takeover”. Grandpa’s rolling in his grave.
—Michael Brainard
My father did not drink beer, however my grandfather did. His choice of beer was Knickerbocker, which came in the form of a stubbie. As a kid I used to find them “hidden” throughout his basement workshop.
—Jay Sheveck
My dad used to drink a beer called Reading until they went out of business and then he started drinking Schaefer. I think it all part of a scheme he had to discourage his kids from drinking.
—Craig Zearfoss
Schlitz. The beer, not the bull. Tall skinny white can with pull tab, on more than one occasion nestled between him driving and me in the front passenger seat, no seat belts.
—Kevin Collins
My dad grew up very conservative. Consuming beer, or any alcohol for that matter, was taboo. However, I took my dad into a beer market with me about a year and a half ago where I was looking for a bottle of Chimay. That day my dad realized that beer just might be okay and for his birthday recently, 30 years after he was legally allowed to have a beer, he had his first…and many more to come. Out of all the beers that I’m aware my dad has had since then, he talks most about Paulaner Oktoberfest Märzen Amber. I’m proud of him for sticking to his convictions all those years, but for also having an open mind and being willing to try something new at the ripe age of 51.
—Brandon Roth
Dad’s favorite beer was PBR—Pabst Blue Ribbon. We’re talking the late ‘60s here… if I close my eyes, I can still those brown glass longnecks and that red, white and blue label. When I was three, my dad caught me hiding behind the living room curtains drinking one of his beers!
—Cindy Brickman
Dad still drinks the cheap, yellow, canned American swill. The cheaper, the better—if it’s yellow and you can read the paper through 12 ounces of it, he’ll drink it. Dad has enjoyed drinking these beers with his fellow aviators, many of whom seem to drink nominal priced cans of pilsner regularly. He proudly keeps a photo of Steve McQueen drinking a sixer of Old Mil on the back of a pick-up on his living room wall, next to the family photos. Sadly, he has passed this terrible affliction on to me. Thanks, Dad.
—Michael Benson
Dad drank Schlitz when he ever had any at home. A truck driver friend that grew up with us drank that too, but he’d sprinkle salt along the can’s spout. I’ve never had the courage to try that.
—Jeff Hart
My dad’s favorite beer was Hamm’s. I think he liked the bear commercials. He is a Chicago Bears fan.
—Kim Anglin
I used to watch the Yankees on Saturday afternoons in my parent’s living room as a kid, and my dad would crack open a can of Budweiser, and pour me about 1/5 of a plastic cup so we could enjoy the time together, hoping for Goose Gossage (my favorite player at age six) to get the save.
—Nicholas Porochnia
In the Portland area, the “good” beer was Henry Weinhard’s, brewed right downtown. The city smelled like stale malt. I recall a beer spill flooding the streets, but I could be imagining things. I also remember Michelob being considered “exotic
—Ryan Whitehead
Funny topic. Definitely Budweiser. And in cans, never bottles. Preferably a whole case at a time.
—Shayna Daub
My dad drank what grandma called “weird beer” Sierra, Sam and Negro Modelo. Thanks, dad, for instilling in me that good beer has flavor!
—Melissa Jernigan
This is embarrassing to admit, but I grew up with my dad drinking Carling Black Label. I can still remember that if I helped with a chore, like washing the car or pulling weeds, I’d get a half a jelly glass of beer, always with that shockingly white, airy head. I always felt cheated when the glass would start out full, but the head would recede to just half the glass.
—Greg Givan
My father is and was a beer lover…he taught me about good beer. My favorite story is when I was in college and we were just discovering how fun the other could be. We went to a bar in Athens, OH called O’Hooleys where they brew their own beer. It was my first “home-brewed” pale ale…it was delicious! What he neglected to point out to me was that the alcohol content was slightly higher than what I was used to. It was such a fun night, one I will always remember.
—J Walker
Beer is part of every birthday, Father’s Day and Christmas present. My fiancé and I love putting together six-packs of new flavors for my dad to try. For Christmas this year, we got him a case of Yuengling and he couldn’t have been happier.
—Rachel Mischke
I come from a long line of working class beer drinkers. I remember my grandfather drinking Black Label, Schmidts and Piels. My father started with Reading then moved to Miller Lite. Once a week he would come home with a case and I’d have to arrange them on one of the shelves in the refrigerator. It’s amazing how perfectly they fit. He would enjoy two or three cans when he came home from work, sit on the sofa, put his feet up on the table, wait for his cat to jump in his lap for a nap, and light up a Pall Mall cigarette. He was a wonderfully simple man who was a fantastic father and husband. I miss him!
—Bill Garrison
And from other sons and daughters—
When I was old enough (seven), my job was to fetch Dad a beer and have it opened by the time I got to his recliner. The ritual stopped as I got older, when the beers arrived to Dad’s chair with increasingly less contents.
—anon
One of my fondest memories is when we were in Ireland together. We shared quite a few pints of Guinness and had some great conversation while taking in the beautiful scenery and relaxing in the pub.
—anon
He was a steelworker in Pittsburgh and drank beer daily after work. He now drinks all the microbrews and craft beers. He says that as a young man in the mills, him and his buddies would have turned their collective noses up at wheat beer, imperial stout, winter ale and the like. He marvels today at the variety of beers and wonders why brewers were not more creative in the 40s, 50s and 60s. This Christmas, in what has become a tradition in the family, he received over 60 different beers from my mother, sister, wife and grandkids. The beer will be gone by March and we’ll repeat the process at Father’s Day. He is not too keen on sharing.
—anon
My father loves brewery tours. We lived in Houston and went to Anheuser Busch monthly. When he retired, he moved to Schulenburg and then Shiner Brewery became our monthly meet. It still is.
—anon
Dad had a friend who was a long-distance truck driver. A couple of times a year he would get a case of Coors before they shipped over the Rockies. You would have thought it was the nectar of the gods.
—anon
After my father entered a nursing home for the final stage of his life, he glowed when seeing my brother or me bring a little cooler when we visited him. He knew we had a beer for him in there, and he enjoyed every sip til his last day. Those smiles from him will stay with me forever!
—anon
He would drink Pabst in a can. I remember one of the good rear end spankings I got. It was when he told me to go get him one. Well I did and shook it up real good. The rest, as the say, is history. Or a good ass beating!
—anon
On special occasions, he would have Beck’s Dark with fresh ground black pepper, which was the first taste of beer I ever had. I’ve been hooked on German dark beers ever since.
—anon
A ritual in our family was for my dad to bring my brother and I to the corner bar a few times a week to have a cold one (we had Coke) and share some camaraderie with the other patrons.
—anon
Instead of my father being a beer lover, I actually introduced him to beer. My dad never drank anything when I was growing up. It was on the return trips home from NYC to Winston that I started introducing my dad to more interesting beers. He, by this time, had rekindled an old love affair with wine. But, slowly, he has warmed up to craft beers as brewers have gotten more creative; and I think I have won him over with the argument that the very best in the beer world can be had for a fraction of the price of a bottle of wine. So I guess you could say that my dad and I have bonded over beer: it is something we can talk about besides the financial crisis and Wake Forest basketball (the latter, however, is a topic that never gets old).
—Rich Grogan
My dad died just last Nov. (a year after my mom died), and many of my memories of both of Mom and Dad have beer as a significant part. Dad always had some good beer on hand, both more nationally known brands such as Sam Adams as well as locally brewed beers. He lived in Asheville, NC. which has several excellent breweries, as well as several places where beer figures in prominently in their menu. He was a regular at the Asheville Biergarten, where he had gone often enough to be friends with John the brewmaster. (You can’t go wrong at a place that has a beer menu that is about 20 pages long!) He even had monthly meetings with retired clergy (he was a retired Episcopal priest) there, so they could all enjoy and compare while they solved the world’s problems.
—anon
Part of a very large family, and we all lived in the same town: 11 aunts and uncles and roughly 30 cousins. Many nights, my dad and his brothers and sisters would get together at my grandparents house and share their stories over a cold beer. It was like having a family reunion almost every weekend, getting everyone together aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. It was a special day when I turned 21 and was allowed to enter the “circle” out on the back porch, and share a beer and my stories.
—anon
My father was not a big beer drinker, but I do remember being able to taste the Piels, Ballantine or whatever he had at dinner. I found out later when I read his WWII diary that he fell in love with Belgian beer while he was there. Ironic!
—anon
When my brother was very small, he wanted to emulate my dad. When my dad had a beer, my brother would beg for one too. So my mom poured a tiny bit of beer in a glass in front of my brother—then filled the glass with water, behind his back. My brother proudly sat next to my dad and they drank their beers together.
—anon
I grew up on a farm and remember as a teen baling hay and unloading the wagons in the barn, then my dad, brother, and I each enjoying a bottle of dad’s current brand.
—Doug Kepner
He wasn’t a heavy drinker, but back then at the Legion in town, which was dry, you had to buy your beer and mark the bottles with your initials so you were being served your own beer.
—anon
Once I started drinking, I would make it a point to bring home a new brew for both him and I to try together whenever I went over to the house. Before long, he was even surprising me when I showed up at the house with something new and interesting to try! These pints and the words shared over them have become one of my most cherished memories between my father and I, and I hope they continue to happen for a very long time.
—Pete Dickson
Back in the 1950s, we moved out to the country, and he built a huge garage out of cement block, which he would work on after or before his shifts at the steel mill. His “helper” for the project was his favorite beer: P.O.C., which stood for “Pride of Cleveland.” Dad would get up on the scaffolding, take some gulps from his can of P.O.C., lay a few blocks, finish the can of beer, then drop the empty can into one of the blocks’ holes. My brother used to say that “Dad and P.O.C. built that garage!” We had no idea how many cases of P.O.C. went into those walls!
—anon
When I was a kid, every Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Labor Day my father would have a cookout . He would get a barrel of beer and while he prepped the yard and food we would go clam digging. Later in the afternoon, we’d have steamers, chicken and steak with the adults enjoying the beer. Some of my favorite pictures of my father are him with draft beer in hand in front of the homemade grill (1/2 of a 55 gallon drum)!
—anon
My dad was a home-brewer the moment it was legal back in ‘78, but he got away from it and the equipment went into storage at my grandfather’s home until the brewing bug bit me. I now use the same fermentation lock and capper that my Dad had used. My first all-grain was also the first all-grain my Dad had done, and we did it together (a roggenbeir). We were just novice brewers, way in over our heads. Beer has now become a staple in our house. We read articles about beer, we go out in search of the brews we haven’t tried, and we make the beers we can’t find. Beer is a great bonding agent.
—Jacob Wachholz
My dad was not the only significant figure in my life that loved beer. So did Santa. Every Christmas Eve, we left out a chocolate chip cookie and a bottle of beer for Santa. Every Christmas Day there was an empty plate and bottle of beer and a thank letter signed by Santa.
—anon
One of our favorite stories involves Dad and his beer. My mother was changing my brother on the changing table and told my father to come over because it was time he learned how to do this. Stein in hand, he reluctantly walked to the table for his diaper-changing lesson. My mother unpinned the diaper and my brother released a stream of urine that arced perfectly…right into the beer stein! The next diaper change my father participated in was that of my son! It took him a long time to get over that.
—anon
Even though my tastes are more on the hoppier side, I still think of my dad when I have the lighter pilsners and the times we would sit in the garage and watch the rain storms, with cans in hand.
—anon
My Dad loved his Rheingold Beer. I can still hear the pop of the can, his first sip and his “Ahhhhhhh.”
—anon
My dad has always been a beer drinker and lover. He loves beer so much that he made his own kegerator out of an old refrigerator we had. Once I got a little older, I remember how cool all my friends thought my dad must be because he was the only person they knew with his own kegerator. It later impressed my husband on his first visit to our house and he and my dad have bonded over beer ever since. My dad passed on his love of beer to us this year by purchasing us a kegerator of our own for our first house.
—anon
I lived in Salzburg, Austria a few years ago, and when my parents came to visit, my dad, a huge lover of beer, had learned one German phrase: Ein mal bier, bitte! Which translates into, “One more beer, please!” I’m happy to report we used that phrase many times during their visit,
—anon
During my early years my father would always drink what my grandmother called “weird beer” i.e. whatever craft beer my father was drinking at the time, not Bud, Miller or Coors which is what my grandparents were used to. As I became older, I started to taste these “weird beers” that my father drank and because of this exposure, I have become an avid homebrewer and craft beer lover. Thanks Dad for instilling in me the love of “weird beer.”
—anon
On the eve of my 21st birthday, he took me out to a local pub and bought me my first legal pint of beer. It was a Bass Ale. It is a moment I will never forget as long as I live.
Paul Minarik
—anon
On warm summer nights, I remember being on the swing set and my dad sitting on the picnic table drinking his first PBR of the evening.
—anon
On payday he would go to the bank to cash his check and then make rounds of two or three bars. On weekends he would go to a club that he and some friends set I guess to have an excuse to play cards or cheat play bocce and of course drink beer.
—Barry Smith
Sunday afternoons at the family kitchen table when I was eight or so usually consisted of a pork roast, sauerkraut and dumplings, and my dad pouring a frosty beer into a glass—one of which, if I recall, used to have a Blatz logo on it. Almost like a priest—we were Catholic, after all—he would pass the glass around to me and my siblings. He would never have more than one beer with dinner, and it wasn’t as if any of us ever took the liberty to chug down his glass. In hindsight, this was perhaps a variation of families in Italy that serve wine at the family dinner table just so the kids can get a taste of it before they go out into the “real world.”
—anon
My best memory having a beer with my father is when I was drinking in the kitchen, just enjoying the silence of the house and he came in, grabbed a beer and sat down with me. It was a great time. There is something about sitting down with your father having a great beer and talking that no money can buy. I see him less than now but we still have our time to sit and have a beer. Cheers to all you fathers out there.
—anon
After mowing the lawn or fixing his car, he’d ask me or one of my brothers to get him a beer. We would race to be the one to get it for him. Then we would just sit with him, on the brick wall in front of our house, while he enjoyed his beer after some physical labor. That was our time to ask him about lawnmowers, cars or anything else we wanted to figure out about being a man. I can still taste those “baby sips” he let us take.
—anon
It is because of my father that I love beer as much as I do. His famous words will always be, “Kate, if you’re going to drink a beer, it damn well better be a good one.” Every time I pour myself a beer, I smile and think of my father.
—anon
My fondest memories of my dad were Sunday afternoons in the mid 1960s watching the New York Yankees on WPIX television, my dad drinking Schaefer beer: how well he knew the game, how he would break down the game for me, tell me what to watch for and how to enjoy the game. My dad seemed to work all the time so the time spent with him was very special.
—anon
I remember when my father and I went to Minnesota to meet my grandfather for the first time. My father was adopted and just found out who his dad was a earlier that year. If I remember correctly my grandfather Clyde was 93 at the time of the visit. We stopped to pick him up to do a little fishing and out comes Clyde standing about 5 foot tall. I am 6’4” tall and my dad is 6 foot, so I was expecting someone a little taller. So we help him into my dad’s ‘77 Chevy Suburban and are heading to the bait shop. After a little small talk, Clyde speaks up in a loud voice and says, “Aren’t we gonna stop and get some beer? I can’t be out there fishin’ with out any beer!” So we stopped at the liquor store. Clyde proceeds to the beer cooler and grabs a six pack of Schlitz Malt Liquor Bull, turns and looks at my father and me and smiles. My grandfather drank three of the beers within four hours of fishing. We also caught three Northerns, the smallest at three pounds and the biggest just under nine. So that was one of my first memories of having a beer with my father and his father: three generations toasting to beautiful sunny day, on the shore, with crystal clear water and a “Bull” in our hands.
—anon
My dad had to have an ice-cold beer—chilled in the freezer—to enjoy after he mowed the lawn on hot summer days in New Jersey. This was in the early 70s and I remember as a little girl being so excited when I got to put the bottle in the freezer, watch the clock so it wouldn’t be in there too long and then bring it out to him. He would sit on the back steps and while he slowly enjoyed his beer, and tell me stories about when he was stationed in Germany as an army truck driver in the 1950s. He said that’s when he developed a taste for beer because there wasn’t much else to do between deliveries. He said American beer was better, though!
—anon
I can remember when my family built our house on the weekends. Under the foundation for the back steps there are hundreds of beer cans.
—anon
We frequented a local joint called Lou’s Pizza. I remember my dad getting done with work, picking us up, and we’d sit there in the booth. That frosty, cold pitcher of Michelob would be brought to the table. Never did a four-year old boy want to be 21 so badly, so he could experience the joy of an ice-cold beer and some time together with family at the end of a long day.
—anon
I remember those summer weekends when he and the other fathers in the neighborhood would get together in one of their backyards. Each one of them would have those brown bottles in their hands talking about what fathers talked about during the 1960s. That is when I knew there was something special about beer and how it brings people together.
—anon
Beer has brought my father and me closer together than anything else I can think of; it is one of the few fascinations we both share. Our tastes don’t converge all too often, but that’s actually been a blessing, because it has allowed us to share different styles of beer together that either of us might never have sampled otherwise. We’ve recently begun brewing together and, cheesy as it sounds, are becoming more like friends than simply relatives.
—anon
I was born late to old parents. They were 40 when I was born. Dad loved his beer and fishing. We used to take cheese, Vienna sausage and crackers with us. One day when I was around seven years old, he dipped the empty sausage can in the lake and rinsed it out. He filled it up with beer (Bud) and gave it to me. He said if I was old enough to enjoy fishing with him, then I should be man enough to enjoy a good cold beer with him. One was all I got, but it became a ritual that Mom never knew about. I guess today that would be called child abuse, but to me and my Dad, it was love and bonding. He died when I was 12, but to this day I remember every fishing trip. God, I miss him.
—anon
Growing up, I can’t remember a single time that my family got together and there wasn’t a cooler full of Schaefer or Schaefer Light somewhere. In fact, I thought my name was “Get me a beer” until I was 11 years old.
—anon
My father loved his beer, probably a little too much. I remember he would sit out in front of the garage grilling a steak until it was very well done and he would always have a Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand. He even had a can holder installed on our riding lawn mower!
—anon
Every so often my father would send me a letter while I was away at college (University of Tulsa, 1972-76) with five dollars that was designated as beer money.
—anon
He use to collect beer cans and steins. He had about 250 different cans and around 70 different steins.
—anon
I grew up in the Pittsburgh area. I can remember so many times that involved beer and dads, granddads, uncles, great uncles. I remember being allowed in the kitchen with the “mensch”; listening to the Friday night fight; beer, bread, cigars and cheese (limburger). I also remember late summer afternoons on the back porch, beer, dark rye bread, salt, mustard, tomatoes and green onions fresh-picked from the garden alongside the house and the fellowship of the males of the family who gathered to share their week’s experiences.
—anon
When I think of my dad and beer, I think of Saturday afternoons after working in the yard. He would come in, open the fridge and pull out a bottle or can. When I was in college, I finally got to join him in that summer-Saturday ritual.
—anon
Beer is like baseball. It gets past down from generation to generation. Go to one game or have just one beer and you are a fan for life, and you remember your dad because he took you to that game and you drink beer because you want to be like him.
—anon
My dad was one of the first people to convert an old refrigerator into a “tap,” with a keg inside. It held a half keg and he taught me as a young girl how to pour a beer with a perfect head. As a result, I was always the one he called when friends showed up to go draw a pitcher of beer for him and his friends. It made me feel proud to bring that pitcher of beer to the table for him and his friends and I was only 10 years old!
—anon
My dad loved beer. He had a vinyl graphic that looked like a Coca-Cola can label but it read Caco-Calo. The trick was that it would cling to any 12 oz size canned beverage to make it look like Coca-Cola. The beer my dad loved so much could now be consumed in environments where beer consumption is otherwise unacceptable. Genius!
—anon
I come from a line of epic drinkers. My father and uncles were all bricklayers and I remember being the lil’ beer runner when they were building my uncle Gerald’s house in between helping with little jobs around the job site. I would slyly take sips here and there of their favorite nectar.
—anon
My father let me have my first beer when I have 13. My mother was out of the house and my siblings were in bed. He let me try some, but followed it up with “If you say anything to your mother, I’ll deny it.”
—anon
I converted my father from an average Joe to a beer geek.
—anon
My father was raised in a small German-Lutheran community west of Chicago. Naturally, beer was a part of Sunday post-church activities. Whenever I’d hear the distinctive sound of a Hamm’s being cracked open, I’d run to get my shot-sized beer mug. Together we would toast, and share the golden goodness. My beer tastes have evolved greatly over the decades, but I’ve never since shared a beer that meant so much.
—anon
My father and I enjoy a tradition with some of the other men in my family once a year where we gather a group of a particular genre of beers and conduct a blind taste test. The results have always been enlightening and very educational, and have led to changes in our favorite beers and the insides of our “man fridges.” Unfortunately, we live a few states away now and don’t get to experiment with new beers and styles together as often as we’d like, but it’s always something we look forward to on the annual beach trip. This year, Dad, me, and the rest of the family are excitedly awaiting the genre on deck, IPAs.
—Dave Spannhake
My dad would mostly drink Miller High Life, and upon occasion he’d pour me a cold one. He’d pour it into a shot glass for me. I still remember that shot glass, as it had a turn-of-the-century bar motif. To this day, I am still trying to find that shot glass so someday I, too, can pour a cold one for my son.
—anon
When I think of my dad and beer…my memory is of him during summer, standing at a grill with a can of Old Milwaukee. And it’s the 80s and he has a perm!
—anon
My father loved beer: growing up, it was always the center of the family get-togethers and always used in the cooking. specifically, bratwurst boiled in Leinie’s.
—anon
Even though my dad loves a good margarita and an occasional bourbon, he always has made it known that you can’t be a real man if you don’t drink beer. He first introduced me to Leinenkugel’s on a fishing trip in Wisconsin with my grandfather and uncle. Even now, when we go hiking out West, he loves to have a few ready in a cooler to slake our thirst after a long day’s hike.
—anon
My dad made his kegerator in 1970 by hand. If he would have lived until the 90s, I am sure he would have liked all the different beers we are blessed with today.
—anon
Today he is in his eighties and still loves beer. When my wife and I traveled to Minnesota from Florida for the Thanksgiving holidays, he surprised me with a growler of Flat Earth Angry Planet Pale Ale! It turns out he takes a “field trip” over to St. Paul on Thursdays and has his growler filled. My mom thinks that he is at the hardware store.
—anon
My fondest memory would happen to be at the age of three, a hot summer day out in the back yard. My father was swimming in our pool and happened to use my Little Radio Flyer wagon as a cooler for his choice of beer for the. Being the generous three year old I was, I felt it was my duty to share this glorious, cool, refreshing beverage with the whole neighborhood. So I took the wagon and went up and down the only side of the road I could be on and gave away the brew for free! The neighbors were always so kind after that. Needless to say, I don’t quite remember what the consequences for my actions were, but I have heard that story countless times in the presence of friends, family, and my future wife.
—anon
Every evening, he would cook dinner on the Weber grill, drink his Yuengling Premium, and we’d listen to Phillies games on the radio. He loved it, I loved it. Great memories!
—anon
My father is a football coach, and game day is a busy and stressful event. After the game, I always liked to be there as he left the locker to join his family and friends who were tailgating. Being the one to first hand him a well-earned beer and congratulate or console is a memory I cherish.
—anon
Whenever I came home from college, he always sat me down to have a beer and go over what was happening in my life. It had a bonding effect. By being able to have a beer and my dad not be afraid that I will be a binge drinker, I learned to appreciate it, savor it. Sadly he died in 1985, but to this day I stop by his grave, leave him a cigar and have a beer with him. I now am a homebrewer and brew with my sons, hoping they have the same experience I did with my dad.
—anon
Growing-up, my dad never was much of a beer drinker, however, whenever his beloved Steelers were playing, he always enjoyed a Rolling Rock.
—anon
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