Written January 4, 2012
Yesterday I met a man whose name is Earl Heinshon. Even though my last name is very German (as is his), I’m not exactly how you pronounce “Heinshon.” I spent New Year’s Eve in San Antonio with my good friend Lauren. It was fabulous. Then, I decided to spend a few more days with her in San Marcos where she lives. New Year’s Eve was Saturday night. Now it is Tuesday and we feel like we are out of things to do. It’s mid-morning and we’re each sipping our umpteenth cup of coffee, sitting on the couch, periodically tossing out lame activity ideas. Then one of us suggests driving the hour and twenty minutes to Shiner, Texas.
Shiner is one of my favorite beers. It’s oh-so-Texan and oh-so-delicious. I love Shiner Bock, I love Shiner Blonde, I love Shiner’s Christmas Cheer. Heck, even the 99 Calorie Shiner Blonde Light doesn’t taste like – as my dad refers to really gross light beer – coyote piss. So Lauren and I drive and find the Spoetzl Brewery in Shiner, Texas (where by now you have figured out, Shiner beer is produced). We haven’t really eaten this morning and the tour is at 1.30. We have our first free sample before the tour starts, and we feel good. We go on the tour. We have the final three of our four free samples, and since we’re still running on empty stomachs, spend too much money at the gift shop. The koozies are awesome.
Then we wander. The town is a pretty lean one – not so much to see. But we find Friday’s Chicken; nothing like a brewery tour and fried livers and gizzards to wash your beer down.
We wander some more, but most of the little stores are closed. We find one, though, with a large sign out front that says, “DRINK AND SHOP.” It’s a done deal.
We walk into the overstuffed, overpriced antique shop, and the waitress offers us any of the 150 beers the place serves. I see Shiner Cheer – it’s out of production for the year, and this might be the last one I’ll have for a good long while. (I live in Pittsburgh now, so sadly I was only able to get one six pack when I got back to Texas just before Christmas.) We order beers, the first sip is good. I swivel around on my stool and decide I want a picture; this place has character. Lauren stays sitting at the bar with a few other people, and I point the camera.
Suddenly, there is movement, and an older man dressed from head to toe in denim (well, leather boots, too) stands up quickly. “Oh no you don’t, I’ve been blackmailed before,” he jokes. “I’ve been blackmailed before.”
Lauren and I savor the last Cheer of the year and start up a conversation with the waitress. She was born and raised in Pittsburgh. Wow, what a small world. We talk about Primanti’s (infamous Pittsburgh sandwich), Yuengling (cheap beer everyone drinks in Pittsburgh), and all the bridges and whatnot. Then a lady with a little girl walks into the place.
“I’m looking for my dad,” she says. “He usually plays dominoes here and is the guy who always drinks warm Budweiser.”
“He walked out a few minutes ago,” the waitress replies. “Domino game is over for the day. But he’ll probably be back.”
The man’s daughter pokes around the store for a bit. Lauren, whose family is from Pennsylvania, continues the conversation with the waitress. It turns out that both their families vacationed at the same lake in Pennsylvania. They’ve both swum in the same, they agree, very dirty water.
The man comes back in and sits on the same corner barstool he previously inconspicuously inhabited. The waitress hands him another warm Budweiser. Somehow, we all start to talk.
The older man starts telling stories – he’s got a lot of them. He once delivered shrimp to some place in Pittsburgh, and his experience was so bad that he swore he would never cross the Mississippi River again. He tells us about how his mother had to sign his marriage license because he was too young and we all have a good laugh; he goes on and on with lots of good stories. We all share different things about ourselves, but he is definitely the person in the room with the most character. He explains that.
“When I was younger,” he says, “I used to sit around and listen to people talk and want to be one of those people with lots of things to say. You have to have done alotta things and had alotta years. I’ve got those now.”
By this point, we’re all very comfortable with one another. The man’s daughter has ordered a beer and his granddaughter is munching on a bag of Cheetos. It’s early in the evening and the waitress isn’t getting any more customers for the day, so she’s pulled up a stool.
We talk and talk and talk. It turns out that the man has a hunting lease in the town over from Uvalde – me and Lauren’s home town.
“You probably don’t know the guy who owns the land,” our new friend says. “His name is Ricky Gembler.”
I have to laugh. Ricky Gembler once bought one of my family’s horses. We used to buy hay for our horses from him. It’s such a small world.
I am eating this experience up. I guess I had forgotten how awesome this type of thing is.
I finally look at my watch and glance out the window. It’s going to be long after dark when we get back to San Marcos and frankly, Lauren looks like she’s fading. Beer and a belly full of fried chicken will do that to you. I start to hint that we should go. That just leads to more sitting and talking. Finally, I stand up. We’re really going to leave this time.
“I just have a favor to ask before you go,” the waitress says.
Ok… What could she possibly want from me?
“Drink a Yuengling for me when you get back.” It’s another done deal.
Then the older man looks at me and asks rhetorically, “So you really left Texas?”
“I think that’s what happened.”
“Well, life can be cruel,” he says in all seriousness.
I don’t really have a response, but I chuckle and just say maybe I’ll be back someday.
Finally, we’re walking out the door, and now, I just have to know that man’s name. I go back to ask. He tells me and we figure out we both have German names. More talking. We’re finally out the door and in the car. We’re heading home and couldn’t have asked for a better day. Lauren dozes and I turn on the country music radio station. “You got your hands up, you’re rockin’ in my truck…I don’t want this night to end,” croons some singer. How very cliché. I have no shame in being a little cheesy – I’m savoring this stuff in my short Texas time.
Something about meeting good people is refreshing. Something about knowing the world really is so small is reassuring. Something about the combination of old friends and new acquaintances and Earl’s stories was just really grand. Cheers.
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