I've been drinking a dead man's beer this week.
My niece's dad died a couple weeks ago. 45 years old, died from a heart attack. He was from little Hucky's side of the family, so I didn't know him too well. He was divorced from the Mom, so I only saw him at drop-offs and pick-ups of the niece. He seemed like a good guy. A good Dad. A little goofy, a little ineffectual. A little baffled by the modern American landscape. I can relate.
He loved his daughter, certainly.
So it goes.
Hux went to the memorial, I stayed home with the girls, and when she got home she had 6 cases of beer in the car with her. The guy was a truck driver for a beer distributor, and got free cases of beer as a perk. Lots of it, apparently. During the memorial someone noticed the 20 or so cases of beer stacked behind the house, and they got divvied up among the relatives after things were said and done. All sorts of beers: honey browns, Red Stripes, amber lagers, pale bocks. Guinnesses, which we are saving for a certain blogger's husband. Chile beer, a vile undrinkable substance that I wouldn't feed to the cats.
The cases are sitting out on our front porch, no doubt drawing disapproving stares from the trio of well kept lawns across the street (Hux finally threw a tarp over them a few days ago, for the sake of decorum). Most evenings for the last couple weeks, Hucky and I will snag one or two promising flavors from the cases after work (I'm partial to the honey brown), stick em in the fridge, and enjoy them after supper. I try to throw out a silent nod of thanks upon my first sip, to the dead man who gave it to us. I don't always remember. Sometimes I do.
So, one more time, thanks for the beer.
Got an award from the ever ebullient Scarlett Wanderlust yesterday. It's over there on the sidebar, or will be when I get around to it. Thanks, Scarlett! Wander over and check out her site. She has a pet lion named Viaggiatore. He lives there too.