beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy

I'm temporarily skipping ahead to the present day. By way of another century.

People who know me well know that I have a lifelong love affair with beer. It started when I was four and an older cousin, as a joke, let me have a taste. Minutes later I was finishing off unclaimed beers at the family crab feast (we're all Marylanders on my dad's side). I don't think anyone realized this occurred until the ride home when my parents looked in the back seat and asked themselves "What's wrong with the boy?" My happiness was cut short by bewildered scolding and my many demands that we pull off the road so I could pee.

A few years ago, I began brewing my own, with good results. On a visit to my paternal ancestral town of Biedenkopf, Germany, I let slip over some Bosch that I was a brewer and was politely asked to restore the family presence there since the small town, which once boasted four breweries (like the one in the picture), was now utterly deprived. If someday there is a such a thing as a President Palin or President Cheney (what's Liz up to?), I'm going to have to keep that offer in mind.

I digress. This year, I obtained permission to plow up some land adjoining my trailer home at Ravenna to grow barley and hops. The do-it-yourselfer persona is excited with anticipation. OK, so I don't know how to actually malt barley ... yet. I've got a few months to figure that one out. But my first attempt to "grow my own beer" will serve as more blog fodder as the year progresses. I've already got the barley seed from Seeds of Change and I'm going to order the hop rhizomes today.