Dead Man's Brew
Among the things I found after John died were 24 cans of Rainier beer in an outside pocket of his hockey bag. Yes, it was a massive bag – a goalie bag, though John didn’t play goal. I got rid of most of his stuff pretty efficiently when he died, some of it with unabashed glee. The boxes of old magazines he carted through each move, fraying 1986 copies of Mother Jones and Utne Reader he was always going to get to. I brought 17 boxes to paper recycling. I doled skis and jackets to friends and family. I gave away his skates. But something stopped me from giving away the hockey bag, and I’m pretty sure it was the beer. It’s a bit ironic given that I don’t even drink beer. I think I realized that case of beer stuffed in his hockey bag and smuggled into the rink was quintessential John. He was never one to travel light, a habit that continually irked me. But who was the hero at Happy Camp, three days into a Chilkoot Trail backpack trip, when he pulled out a complete copy of the Sunday New