––––––––
‘It’s been six months since my grandpa, Walter J. Montgomery, passed away. He died in his sleep at ninety-two, in the spare bedroom of my home, where he had been living for the past five years. I am just now in his old house, packing things up, making this process of his finale complete. Well, I’m not really in his house, actually. I’m sitting on the rocking chair right outside, on the front porch, taking a much-needed break.
I’ve got two items in my hands on this break of mine. A soon-to-be-opened bottle of Steelhead Ale that I’ve brought with me all the way from my home, in Humboldt County; and one simple photograph that I’ve just found in a drawer. The ale has a distinct flavor to it, and for anyone who knows beer the way I do, they’ll tell you that within this flavor is a s
