Tuesday, August 26, 2003

Dear Beer,

You and I have had a long, wonderful relationship on the river. Whether it was the Guadalupe or the Comal, you carried me through the slow times, and you carried me through the slightly bumpy times. You never abandoned me, and I never took you for granted. One time, after a particularly choppy patch, I thought I lost you. Your cooler tipped and you scattered through the murky water like dandelion petals dancing in a breeze. But beer, I recovered you. And we continued on together. On down the river. Like we always did. And I thought we always would.

But Beer, things are changing in this world. Sometimes it seems like things are moving so fast, I can't hold on to them. I've left the murky waters of the Comal and the Guadalupe, for the lustrous currents of the Shenandoah. Oh, beer, you should see her bends and dips! You would love her lush, graceful hills sloping to the bank! But you never shall. For the Shenandoah does not want you on her waters. She does not know you as I know you, and her waters are stronger, and less predictable than the sluggish nudges of those rivers back home. She has no mercy on drunkards, you see, and no Lone Star, nor Natty Light, nor Miller High Life shall course through the veins of those that would course through hers.

I must choose between the river and you, oh beer, and the pull is so strong to you both! Sometimes I think the rubbery hug of the tube would only send my thoughts wandering to you. Other times, I think the rush of the current over me might likewise wash away my memory of you. What do I do? How can I go on? Must I choose?

Love, always,


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