The other day I got a comment on this site from Emily who maintains her own blog at emlocke.com. So I went to check out her site, and she had this post about her earliest memories, and it got me thinking about my earliest memories. So here is the story of my earliest memory (I’m serious too, this is the absolute truth). It’s amazing how well my first memory fits in with the overriding concept for this blog.
I was between 3-4 years old at the time and it was a night like any other night: my mom was keeping dinner warm on the stove whilst we waited for my dad to get home from work so that we could eat together as a family. It was dark outside so it was fairly late, and my brother and I were running around the house wreaking havoc. I’m sure my brother, five years my senior, was probably torturing me. He loved messing with me as a kid, that is until I grew into my strength and shifted the balance of power between us.
Anyways my dad finally burst through the door, after a long day of work, and my brother and I ran over to say hello. I grabbed onto my dad’s knee and he plopped a kiss on my head and tussled my hair on the way over to the fridge. When he got to the fridge he pulled out a beer–either MGD or a German beer–and then pulled a mug out of the freezer. He then executed the most perfect pour ever. This pour is seriously burned into my brain. He emptied out the complete bottle of beer and I watched with anticipation as it filled the mug. The head on the beer rose and mushroomed slightly over the rim of the mug, without any spillage, and then stopped. It was a legendary pour. At that moment before he had a chance to take a triumphant swig the phone rang.
My dad placed the mug on the counter, and my eyes never left the mug, and walked over to answer the phone. It was something work related, because he started to walk back into his room for some paperwork. Mind you this was back in the day before cordless phones so we had one of those 100ft cables attached to the phone. So as he was untangling the cord and working his way to the back of the house I began to implement my plan. I walked into the bathroom and grabbed the stool that I used to brush my teeth and carried in into the kitchen. I can still remember how I struggled to carry the stool down the hallway into the kitchen. It was an indication of the herculean strength I would end up developing. My brother quickly figured out what I was doing and started to tell me no, and my mom was finishing up setting the table and also checking out the news on TV, so she never noticed what I was doing. I, meanwhile, placed the stool underneath the beer and began to climb up it. By this time my brother was hysterically laughing and trying to tell me no at the same time. It didn’t work as his laughing only encouraged me to continue.
As I reached the top of the stool I teetered, steadied myself, and then grabbed my prize (a bit reminiscent of Indy in the beginning of Raiders). I was careful not to spill it and proceeded to slowly climb down my stool sans the use of my hands. When I got to the bottom my brother was beside himself and was anxiously waiting to see how this would turn out. I remember taking that humongous mug and bringing it up to my mouth and drinking the whole entire mug in one shot. This, once again, presaged my later abilities to drink mass quantities of beer quickly. When I finished I stumbled over to the kitchen table and put the mug on the corner of the table.
My brother by this time was rolling on the ground laughing, and I ran into the living room and promptly fell down. I got up and ran around in circles, but I think I was trying to run in a straight line. After getting up and falling down a few more times I decided to stay on the ground. My dad came back and started to inquire where the hell his beer was. My brother was more than willing to turn state’s evidence and, in between laughing fits, he pointed to the empty mug on the kitchen table. My dad quickly realized what happened–it wasn’t hard I mean I was rolling around on the ground making noises (much like I do now when I get drunk)–and shook his head in disbelief. He poured himself a new beer, and then went over to the living room to help me up to the kitchen to eat dinner. I don’t believe I was ever punished for this, I guess my dad figured that my hangover would be punishment enough, and to this day they still are.
Well there you have it, that is my earliest memory. Stealing a beer from my dad at the tender age of 3. Since that day I have embarked on a life long love affair with beer. There have been many ups, and quite a few downs, but overall me and beer have made a good team. We have created plenty of great memories, and along the way we have lost even more. Thankfully my first memory of beer remains as intact today as it did when I was a kid.