They say with time it gets easier, and I suppose I have to trust.
But this week has been damn hard.
My first big injury without my father and my first bit of car trouble without my father.
Both times when I used to turn to my father.
I tried to reach out to my mother, but there’s just something about that relationship that always goes sideways. And I whatever I try to do to fix it fails.
I shared a poem I wrote about grief to Nancy, my blind friend, when I saw her today. And I think she’s anxious to see where I can go with it.
And first thing this morning— I saw this post from a very clean and well curated antique shop in downtown Easton, advertising its fresh wares.
Now I am not an antiques person, but V. Murray Mercantile puts a lot of effort into curating and presenting their merchandise. And this post featured a vintage Schmidt’s Beer lamp, which was my father’s preferred beer.
And I just wanted it. I wanted the beer lamp. I wanted it so I could think of my dad and the light he gave my life. And he could still give that light. And at the same time, it could poke a little fun at his struggles with alcoholism, because he knew his flaws.
Stroh’s Brewing produced Schmidt’s and closed in 1999, selling its business to Pabst, according to some quick, unverified internet research. That was the same year I got married. Apparently, they revived a beer called Schmidt’s in 2019, which ironically was the year my husband and I amicably separated.
I discovered this website which appears to be from the beer’s 100th anniversary merch shop, and feels like the internet version of a ghost sign: Schmidt’s Of Philly, but has a 2019 copyright and seems to be legit even though the history stops fifty years ago.
I signed up for the mailing list.
So the teenager and I went downtown at 1 p.m., fighting construction.
The store is only open 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., and the lamp sold first thing.
I am crushed, but I know realistically it is my grief I am feeling and has nothing to do with a vintage lamp.
It’s about the little girl, who used to run from the house to her dad’s workshop with little brown bottles of beer whenever her dad asked for a cold one. He was usually tinkering with his Harley. Sometimes the lawn mower.
Either way, he usually had a Schmidt’s.
Angel Ackerman 