Last beer with mom

Of all of my beer accomplices, I never tried to convert mom to craft beer, although I'd waged war with countless others on the same subject. But she always took inordinate interest in my musings about interesting beers I'd discover, or rather, she'd discover for me in the little-yet-big world of Denver, Colorado that surrounded her. Denver is one of the defining beer communities in the world, after all, and she felt that it was important to share and forever bait me closer.

The last time I visited, I awoke one morning to a Rocky Mountain News clipping on the breakfast table. A new liquor store had opened in the area and according to the Guinness Book of World Records, it was the biggest in the world. She told me how to get there.

When Hunter S. Thompson passed, she pointed out that Flying Dog Brewing Company, an indigenous Denver brewery, celebrated his passing with four-packs of Gonzo Imperial Porter. She was the first to point it out. And she reminded me that I'd tucked away some 22 ounce bombers in her basement over a decade ago when another local brewery celebrated his literary successes by brewing a beer in his honor. Again, I don't remember the beer, but I guess when I go down to help bury her, I'll rediscover the moment when I paw through her past and re-ignite shared moments in beer. \

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