Dads

When I think of Father's Day, I see returning WWII vets running down the gangplanks, hugging wives and children that they had not seen in years. Or the navy guys grabbing female strangers in Times Square, planting kisses on painted lips and celebrating till the wee hours of V.E. Day. I am a part of the baby-boomer generation. Though I didn't arrive on the earthly plain until 1957, I still identify with these men because I was raised by one of them. A man born before the great depression, wracked with polio shortly after birth, a man who lost his father at age 4 and had to somehow become a man himself at a young age, quitting school to work in the fields, the mills, and wherever else he might earn a nickel toward the support of his family.
Charles Hazel (Pete) Reid was this man. While my grandmother eventually remarried, my dad was still the man of the house, meting out the punishment to his younger step-siblings as his mom required. Even then, my aunts and uncle still refer to him as a loving and good man. I agree with them on this point.

He was a man who, although his disability wouldn't allow him an active wartime role in the military, hopped a train and 'hoboed' from Greenville, South Carolina to San Diego California, living on 'pecans and toothpaste' while helping to rebuild ships torn apart by those dreaded kamikaze attacks. He had to do his part for the war effort. My dad.
Growing up during this turbulent time in American history, as so many brave men did, his value system was worlds apart from the values we hold to today. Their main purpose was not only survival for their families, but survival for the very nation that provided them freedom and security. Many fought and died for these principals and we are still a nation today because of them.
Pete had many stories from those days, and for the days leading up to the births of moi and my brothers and sister. A favorite of mine was the time he drove a taxi in Greenville. Stopping at the train station on Washington Street, hoping to pick up a recent arrival as a fare, he parked in front and waited. Soon, another taxi pulled between him and the station and, lo and behold, the first person to exit the station went to the first waiting cab. My dad was livid! This upstart cabbie had stolen his fare! Later that afternoon, a cabbie was found murdered and robbed in another part of town. Yeah, it was the guy who stole dad's fare, saving dad's life.
Fate is a funny thing.
Another story involves my dad and a coworker at the shipyard in San Diego.
One of the jobs on board these ships was to clean and sand and weld inside the diesel tanks of these monsters. Sometimes fumes still permeated the air in these tanks. A black co-worker had been assigned duty with another man to do the initial cleaning on this particular tank. My dad, a smoker like most in those days, asked his black friend to join him for a smoke before they went back to work. While they were having a cigarette, the other man in the tank created a spark while sanding and caused an explosion, killing the man. Had dad not asked his coworker to join him for a smoke, the black coworker would have perished as well. This decision served my dad well. Later on, while out drinking with another coworker from the same yard, they ended up missing the bus back to the base and were forced to walk (stagger) back. They ended up in a large, predominantly black neighborhood where, especially in those segregated days, a white man shouldn't venture. His white coworker, emboldened perhaps by his inebriated state, or the fact that he was a white man, started mouthing off to a few of the neighborhood residents. Before long, a large crowd had encircled them and were about to tear them apart when a large black arm reached through the crowd, grabbed my dad by the shoulder and announced "I got this one". Dad was dragged to an apartment, where he half expected to see his last sunrise when he suddenly realized that this was the man whose life had been spared by an unexpected smoke break (odd, isn't it). "I don't know why you're in this neighborhood but you gotta get outta here now", said his black friend, who proceeded to smuggle him back to the base.
One good deed deserves another. Dad also mentioned that he never saw this particular white coworker again.
When I think of the circumstances that led up to my birth, I feel very, very fortunate to be here at all!
I identify with that generation, the one Tom Brokaw termed "The Greatest Generation", not because I was an immediate post war baby; after all, I didn't come along until the late fifties; but because I choose to. These men, the men I grew up with, and was influenced by, were my compass point. They projected onto me and my peers an attitude of toughness, of unmistakable grit and determination that I carry with me to this day.
Dad also taught us that a man was a man; not black or white, not christian or muslim, but a man. That he was worthy of respect until proven otherwise. Or in the words of Pete: "Not black or white, but is he an asshole or not an asshole-they come in all colors, ya know".
My friend's fathers were cut from the same cloth; textile workers mostly, they knew even then that it takes a mill village to properly raise a 'youngun'. We dared not get caught doing anything that we weren't supposed to be doing by any of the neighborhood dads, as we knew that their belts stung just as much as our own dads'. And, unlike today, our dad would always thank the other dad for 'taking care of this' and then proceed to beat your ass when you got home.
When I say 'beat your ass', I don't mean in an abusive fashion. It was purely a 'spare the rod spoil the child' mentality, where most whippings were followed by a frank and heartfelt talk. They, in their own way, reminded us that punishment was doled out with love and was always in our best interest. I believe that to this day.
I remember hearing war stories from Doug Norwood's dad about fighting the Japanese. I remember Larry Durham's dad's stories of old baseball games and various sports legends. Or the time David Baker's dad had my ass for throwing rocks at cars near his house (David's dad could just give you a look and a mild scolding, but you felt as though he had your ass).

So, on this Father's Day 2011, a day in which my sister reminded me that this will be our thirtieth Father's Day without him, I raise a glass (or a cup of coffee) to my father, Charles "Pete" Reid, and all the dads of that generation for being who they were: always brave, sometimes lucky, ever present dads waiting with a belt or an encouraging word, depending on the circumstance.

MASS-achusettes

MASS-achusettes!

Like most great road trips, this one began as an afterthought.
Late May in South Carolina and the heat had already settled in, spring having pretty much run it's course. Memorial Day week was upon us and Laura had planned on camping with Mom and Jim in North Carolina for the week. I had plans to visit the family in Greenville for a couple of days and then back home for the duration of the holiday. This was not to be.
BFF Pamela, of Greenfield, Mass., is a motorcycle rider, a trait that comes a naturally to her as her culinary skills. Straddling a 600cc bike, Adams leans into curves like she designed each one, making slight adjustments as she anticipates the next. Of course, she knows these roads pretty freakin' well having lived in western Massachusettes for ten years. She began riding as a kid in Haiti. She was a dirt biker, navigating the sandy trails of the southern part of Haiti, jumping the dunes and more or less being the tomboy that she is. Now she rides the roads of western Mass. through hail and snow.
So, I'm on the phone with Pamela and she tells me how her partner Liz had just bought a Honda 650 and it needed breaking in. "It's spring here Reid", she says with that hint of a smile in her voice. Hmmm....spring, riding the Berkshires, historical sites, me and Adams together again looking for trouble. How could I resist?
So with a quick right turn I pointed the Jetta northwards for the 15 hour drive.
I made pretty good time, hitting Greenfield early the next morning. Adams had made arrangements for me to grab some shuteye while she worked and I took great advantage of it. Good thing. When I was awakened at 1pm by Adams, she was ready to get my visit officially started. Oh, did I mention that when I walked into my room, a fine bottle of scotch awaited on my pillow? Oh yes! This visit will be a good one! We fired up the bikes and headed out across the farmlands and small mountains of Greenfield. Since I hadn't been on a bike since I sold my KZ1000 in the late 90's, I was concerned that I'd lost my skills, but it came back to me within a mile of departure.

Anyone who hasn't visited this part of the country is missing a real treat, especially if you're into the early history of America. Hardly a curve goes by until you come upon a farm that has been worked for centuries, sometimes by the same family. Or top a hill and there's another house built in the 18th century. Historical markers abound, some describing indian massacres, revolutionary-era skirmishes or the exploits of former colonists. Pay your respects to revolutionary war soldiers at almost any cemetery you come across while riding the valleys near the Mohawk Trail. Or see the headstones of entire families wiped out by cholera or smallpox.
If shopping is your thing, Yankee Candle has a large store just outside of Greenfield,
or stop at one of the centuries-old apple orchards that dot the valleys. I had a taste of an apple that was picked from one of the first apple orchards in the country (it was pretty bitter).
During our ride, Liz's bike developed a carburetor issue so we took it back home and called it a day. Next morning, I jumped in the Jetta and headed up to Vermont to catch some early morning pictures of the countryside. Back to the house by 11am, Adams arrived home from work and announced another trip: "we're heading over to New Hampshire". And away we went!

There's much more to this journey, like the sojourn up Mt. Sugarloaf,
or the fine dinner at "The Ho" with local beer to wash it down, or meeting a couple of new friends down near Holyoke, and the candlestick bowling fiasco (she wiped the floor with me) but I'll leave these tales to memory.

SFA Segment.avi

The 2011 World Beer Festival

The Setup

Three years ago we decided to shoot our 'On The Street' show at the inaugural World Beer Festival in Columbia, SC. After all, what better venue could provide the comic relief that was the hallmark of that show, a question and answer format. We also decided (and we still question our good judgment on this one) to tape both the afternoon and the evening sessions – each lasting 4 hours.
While all this footage provided us with an interesting and funny show, we noticed that the attendees for the evening session were less the beer aficionados as their afternoon brethren, and more like the college-age frat boy beer lovers. This was brought home to me as I decided to volunteer for this year's festival.
At the volunteer meeting, held a few days prior to the event, it was brought up that the afternoon and evening sessions were as different as night and day, and our observation of the past audiences were spot on. It was with this knowledge that I walked into the Convention Center in Columbia on that cold, January morning.
My original plan was to be a captain of a group of volunteers, which would put me in charge of a row of booths, a support position at which I thought I might excel. Alas, all the captain positions were filled when I submitted the volunteer application, so I decided to leave my fate in the hands of the fine folks at the Columbia Opportunity Resource (COR) who were helping to provide volunteers for the event. When I stepped up to the table to get my assignment for the day I asked for anything in the VIP area. I thought that the area curtained off for the VIP attendees would be a quieter, more civil atmosphere for this young grandfather. Informed that all the VIP assignments had been handed out, I threw my fate to the wind and said to Kathryn (COR representative) “then just assign me anywhere”. Kathryn looked me up and down, scanned her assignment sheets and said “then I'm putting you in booth 143 as a pourer”. Assignment and T-shirt in hand, I made my way to the convention hall to find booth 143.
When I arrived at the booth, the first thing that I noticed was the sign which hung above the booth - “B. Necktar Meadery”.

I also saw below that a list of flavors – Orange blossom, Vanilla Cinnamon, Wildberry Pyment, Margarita-Style Melomel, Pineapple Coconut Melomel, Backwoods Cyser and Barrel Aged Dry Cyser. I was soon met at the booth by Ian, the young rep of the meadery.

We set up our booth by lining up bottles of the precious nectar along each side of the table, arranging the literature across the front and placing our large pan of ice at the back. We then hung the “B Nektar” t-shirts (yes, they also sold shirts) and women's tank tops across the back of the booth. Ian now gave me a brief history lesson on mead, his company's take on the product, and the wild success that this beverage is attaining in this new century.





What is Mead?

The wikipedia definition of mead follows:
Mead (pronounced /ˈmiːd/ meed) (also called honey wine) is an alcoholic beverage that is produced by fermenting a solution of honey and water. It may also be produced by fermenting a solution of water and honey with grain mash; the mash is strained off immediately after fermentation.
Depending on local traditions and specific recipes, it may be flavored with spices, fruit, or hops (which produce a bitter, beer-like flavor).
The alcoholic content of mead may range from about 8% ABV[4] to 18%. It may be still, carbonated, or sparkling, and it may be dry, semi-sweet or sweet.
Mead is known from many sources of ancient history throughout Europe, Africa, and Asia, although archaeological evidence of it is ambiguous. Its origins are lost in prehistory. "It can be regarded as the ancestor of all fermented drinks," Maguelonne Toussaint-Samat has observed, "antedating the cultivation of the soil."

Armed with this knowledge, and cases upon cases of corked bottles, we faced the morning crowd.
And so it begins.
The announcement of the opening of the doors was called out immediately after the ceremonial tapping of the keg, the official opening of the festival. It was only a couple of minutes later that we were swamped with people wanting to taste their 2 ounces of mead. Four lines soon formed and Ian and I were pouring and pouring and pouring into cup after cup after cup. After 3 hours of solid un-corking and pouring, we ran out of the morning session's allotment. The obvious disappointment of the remainder of the tasters was evident as we were chided for not bringing enough to satisfy all the attendees. Truth is-most of the tasters were rounding to the back of the line for another sip of a different variety. Some were even bold enough to hold up the line while they tried all the flavors.
The reviews were outstanding. A friend of mine dropped by for a sip and reported to me that the mead booth was the hit of the session. Our lines were longer and steadier than any on the convention floor. I could believe that as my arm was sore from pouring. I might also mention that, at about the halfway point of the session, Ian told me to start pouring one-ounce samples instead of the customary two-ounce shot. He thought that this move would help us to survive the entire session with our stock intact, but too little too late.

The Evening Madness


Let me first post the mission of the beer festival, taken directly from their website:
Our mission is to educate the public in beer appreciation and beer quality, and to build the local beer community. Every aspect of the World Beer Festival focuses on promoting the positive attributes of the growing beer culture.

Mission stated, the doors of the evening session opened and in they came- a motley crowd of 20 and 30-somethings, cute beer sayings on faded t-shirts, the obligatory torn jeans, cell phones glued to ears, smirking and pushing their way to the front of the lines. This is what I had observed three years ago when we were taping On the Street and I certainly wasn't looking forward to this crowd.
The line forms at the table and we begin again.
Ian and I had grabbed a separate break after the first session, Ian struggling with a far-away issue by phone. His wife had called from Michigan where she and their 2-year old had just been involved in an accident. Seems a guy had run
a light and rammed into their car, slightly injuring her but had thankfully left the child unharmed. I went to my car to sit and rest, listen to NPR and recover from the madness of the morning, When the second session began, I was a bit more confident of my pouring and presenting abilities and Ian, although obviously still rattled, had gotten the home situation in hand. We had opened several bottles to get ahead of the crowd and were now staring at our first customers. Let the fray begin!
Guess what?
These 20 and 30-somethings were polite, patient, cheerful and downright fun!
They were interested in anything Ian had to say about Mead, asking relevant questions and listening intently at his every answer, even amidst all the noise and madness. Color me pleasantly surprised and I dove into my duties with a renewed vigor. I had also been listening to Ian and was able to field a few of the simple questions myself, such as “what is mead?” or “which is your favorite?” (I choose the Orange Blossom (check out the description; Our orange blossom mead is made from the honey of orange and other citrus trees, and is aged on American oak. The flavor and bouquet will transport you to warm climates, where citrus groves stretch on for miles and miles. This mead will continue to mature wonderfully in your cellar.))
I had learned from Ian that they buy honey from Florida citrus-area beekeepers
for use as their honey base for Orange Blossom, which struck me as cool.
The second session was a carbon copy of the first – long, constant lines, inquisitive patrons, those who loved it and those who hated it. And, like the first session, we ran out; except this time a full hour and a half before the closing bell.
We only ran into a few assholes, one in particular who kept coming by to remind us that he had “to drive three states to be here, and by-God we shoulda brought more cause now he's not getting his money's worth!” After about the third time coming by, Ian pulled out a special bottle of B. Nektar that he had stuck back for a later purpose. After giving the obnoxious slob a full shot, the guy actually had the nerve to talk about how bad it sucked. I thought this funny. After taking care of so many people for so many hours, we finally had to endure this fucker-the one that we had waited for all day. Thankfully he waited till the very end to show!
After hanging around for another hour, I shook Ian's hand and wished him well-especially thankful for his home situation outcome, and headed for the door.
I must say that although I initially thought that volunteering for both sessions might be a bit of a stretch for this old man, I was feeling sort of elated from the day's events. I had met many new people, received an education about one of the oldest alcoholic drinks known to man, had my faith in 'today's youth' restored, been reminded that there will always be at least one asshole at any large event, and, best of all, I had survived it with a cheesy-assed grin plastered on my face as I drove back to Fort Reid!