Old Style, indeed.

If you don't already love my family, prepare to start.

I went up to Tower a couple of weekends ago to spend some quality time with the fam damily. I believe it was Thanksgiving. Oh yes, the loneliest Thanksgiving of my life because my siblings had better things to do. Whatever.

Back to my story. One sad, lonely afternoon, I noticed a toilet paper bag full of beer cans next to the couch in the basement. I assumed the cans were empty but realized, upon closer inspection, that they were full. Jackpot, right?! I had myself a giggle, assumed it was all a product of one of dad's hunting weekends, that a toilet paper bag had been most convenient for toting them from the shack to the house.

WRONG!

Later that day, when I was bullshitting with the old man and made a passing comment about the beer, he filled me in. The prior Sunday, during weekly rummy visit to Grandma's house, she mentioned that she'd found some beer in the basement and was planning on POURING IT DOWN THE DRAIN. That's not a very Popesh thing to do. Damn it, that's not a Morley thing to do either, and Dad, being the conservationist he is (he plants thousands of trees a year, for God's sake...he's a good man) just couldn't allow her to go through with it. He did what he needed to do. He brought it home with him.

The very best part about all this is that Grandma doesn't drink. She was the product of an alcoholic, abusive father so she never really dabbled in that. In fact, when she passed out Christmas cards last weekend she yelled, "no spending my money on booze or smokes!" Grandpa was never, to the best of my knowledge, permitted to drink in the house. Out of the house though, all bets were off. Grandpa Popesh liked the sauce. I/we think it's safe to assume that the beer belonged to him...maybe a little something he took home with him from one of his Fourth of July camping trips. Maybe he was saving it for the next year and forgot.

Whatever the case...grandpa passed away eleven years ago. I was pretty young and my memories aren't the sharpest, but I believe he was in pretty rough shape for at least a year or two before he left us. Now, I ain't no anthropologist, but I'm going to date this beer at about fifteen years, give or take two. My daddy passed it on to me, and I hope to someday pass it on to my chitlins.

Old Style, indeed.