I feel the warm winds of Spring blowing this morning. It was still in the low 50s when I took Cathy to the airport early today, but it was 65 by the time I got home, and warmer breezes were blowing as I trundled the repaired lawn mower out to the shed. 'I'll be firing you up soon, old son,' I thought to myself as the dogs joyfully escorted me across the shaggy, still-dull backyard.
When I took the garbage out to the curb for morning pickup, another thought hit me: it's the end of the walk-in beer storage season. Since October, the garage has been my beer fridge, keeping cases at a time cool-cold-toodamnedcold-cool and at hand. I'm okay today, the concrete slab will hold enough cold to keep the temperature down despite the highs in the 80s we're supposed to get, but I'm going to have to do the annual beer pilgrimage this week, lugging all the beer down to the basement's steady 65°.
The change of seasons is part of the beer year. More than just the vaunted "seasonals" that people are suddenly mad for, more than the coming maibock and hefeweizens, the beer year turns on how we keep our beer, how we serve it, where we drink it. I know I'll be joining Brian O'Reilly for a tall glass of Royal Weiss on the patio some day soon; we'll be packing ice and beers in the coolers for picnic drinking; and eventually it's going to be Yuengling and 'Gansett season again by the grill.
I feel the warm winds of Spring blowing this morning, and I hear the slow, well-lubricated gearings of the Beer Clock turning on.