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
