A Meeting of the Brewer’s Guild

We are a small guild, tightly knit together, bound together by blood, barley, and hops. We try to meet at least once a month, preferably twice to steep, stir, pitch yeast, and sample. Lots of sampling going on amid much conversation, and the greatest gift, laughter. There is always room at our table for those who want to join us in exploring the world of fermentation. We profess no great knowledge of brewing, but boy have we learned enough to create some mighty fine brews. Sometimes they are over frothy, sometimes they could stand a bit more froth, but out of the thirty three beers we have brewed in the past 22 months, most have been terrific, a few even spectacular.

Our guild meeting this past Saturday was bittersweet, thirty nine years ago on May 24, our father died of a massive coronary at home, around 8:30 am, he was only 54. He had experienced a quadruple bypass hearty surgery in 1970, the very early days of bypass surgery, was in Johns Hopkins Hospital for 31 days after his surgery. He had gone into cardiac arrest right after surgery and had awakened to having someone sitting on his chest pounding his already split rib cage. My parents did not speak of it often, but you can’t help hearing some things, especially if you are small and quiet. Dad was in and out of the hospital after that, mom said they were the Camelot years, they knew they were on borrowed time. Our dad lived to work at Westinghouse, mom teased that Westinghouse blue ran through his veins. He loved baseball, cats, and beer. Dad loved his beer. He was an Irishman through and through, wicked sense of humor, do anything for a friend. He was devoted to my mother, even though they fought like cats and dogs at times, they could often be found smooching in the kitchen.

I was so glad that the guild could meet and remember our dad. I think it would delight he and mom to no end that their kids get together and brew beer, that we seek each others’ company and companionship. We may not speak directly of those who no longer sit at our table – mom, dad, our brother Vincent, our son Justin, but I think we each quietly remember them. I know I cannot give voice to a toast, tears run too close to the surface, but we silently clink glasses, and we remember. And we laugh, sometimes we all talk at once, going off in a million different directions and forget that we are brewing.  Beer is pretty forgiving, and brewing lends itself to table time, while the wort is happily bubbling on the stove, we sit and sample, we set timers so that we don’t forget what we are supposed to be doing. We pull out the calendar and set up the next brew and bottle dates, we shake our heads at how fast time passes, and we open another brew to sample. One bottle goes around the table, notes are taken, opinions shared.

It isn’t about the drinking, it is about creating something together, everyone brings a different strength to the brew pot, and their absence felt when not present. Peace is woven, bonds strengthened, the house is redolent with the scent of toasted grain and hops. And there is a gentle close to the end of a brew day, the fresh beer is safely tucked in its fermenting bucket, glasses are gathered in the sink, aged brews are sent home to share and refresh tired spirits at the end of a day.

Life is hard, life is short. There are no guarantees of long life or good health, we truly only have this moment. We have the hope of being together again, but we may not, life changes in an instant. So we learn to slow down, brewing makes you slow down and savor the moment, sharing a brew gives you time to meet eyes and say a thousand things you can’t voice.

Slainte!