The Impact of Dads, Beers, and Dad Beers.

By Ian Guevara

It's Father’s Day as I’m writing this in a small mountain town restaurant surrounded by 80’s arcades and the smell of burgers and beer.  It’s a fitting place to think about dads.

I’ve had a lot of dads in my life.  Like seven for sure: my dad, my step-pepper Paul, Pa-Pa (Mr. Groome), Abuelo, Opa, and my uncles Mike and Dennis.

More than half of them have passed away, but what they left behind still remains a part of me.  Each one of these father figures has taught me important lessons.  All of them are responsible, whether they like it or not, for the man who sits behind this keyboard.  Risk taking and rewards, curiosity and discovery, independence, open mindedness, and a strong work ethic.

Jesus… now I know how to answer that stupid question you’re asked in every interview, “How would you describe yourself”.

Eddie Guevara, my father, died collapsing from a heart attack just days after his 40th birthday in 2007.  He was a gregarious enigma of a man.  Bohemian, tattooed, smoked the reefer… but would have followed the corpse of Ronald Regan into the maw of capitalist hell and back.  Dad loved to live life.  He loved art, music, and cigars.  As I got older and more interesting as a human being, dad and I started to have more in-depth and greater conversations about life.  The importance of Nathan’s Coney Island Franks and why they must be boiled then pan fried was the first value he taught me.  The other was the value of risk and reward.

Eddie Guevara

After Katrina, dad moved my stepmother, Carrie, and two sisters, Caitlin and Sophia to some town at the ass-end of Georgian earth called St. Mary’s.  There he followed his passion and took the biggest risk of his life: he opened a cigar shop (on Weed St… only pops).  It was wildly successful and I’m happy that in the final year of his life he was happy.  Dad took a risk, reached for his passion, and was rewarded by success.  You could say that writing this now is me following in his footsteps.

Mr. Goome was, in my mind and in the mind of many, a figure larger than life… mainly due to his tall tales and storytelling ability.  But he had a sense of humor and streak of irreverence that I possess as well.  I had to be close to twelve or thirteen and possessed a cassette of Richard Pryor’s stand-up special Richard Pryor: Live in Concert.  We were heading to camp in a teal blue Ford Windstar van full of other twelve and thirteen year olds.  He played the tape without cajole or question.  The whole tape.  From beginning to end.

My summers with Mr. Groome are my most cherished memories of my childhood.  Summers spent exploring the Appalachians, whitewater rafting, and Richard Pryor tapes.  Pa-Pa (I will switch between Pa-Pa and Mr. Groome, deal with it) was a retired pharmaceutical salesman… among the many other professions that he wove tall tales about.  Yet his love of science and history made indelible impressions on me.  We would talk for hours about historical events, their causes and effects, and the potentiality of how history would change if one thing would be moved from its place.  The chaos effect.  We would watch episodes of Quantum Leap and Star Trek, when I was a child.  And even though it was left unsaid, I’m more than sure that he was doing the same thing I was, imagining ourselves in the same situations as Sam Beckett and how our actions could affect history.  I guess that’s why I studied history in college and teach it now.

Eduardo Guevara was the embodiment of Cuban machismo, charm, and daring.  Like Mr. Groome, he passed away in 2017 as well, but his lessons live too with me.  How I learned to talk to women WAY out of my league? Abuelo.  How I learned to get into places I have no place being?  Abuelo.  He was a fascinating, old-school Cuban immigrant who made and lost his fortune in America despite the pitfalls of a white supremacist society, especially its amplified version in the 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s.

Abuelo taught me independence above all else.  We went on trips all over the country when I was a lad of eight to thirteen, before the ravages of time affected his 1922 born body.  He taught me that traveling was a gentleman’s art.  One must be dressed well, pack light, and always be prepared with a charming line to the flight attendant.  The man made hitting on women an artform.  His greatest lesson was independence.  

On a trip to New York City he grew fatigued and wanted to nap in the hotel.  I wanted to explore.  Go explore, he said… I was twelve.  He let a twelve year old boy run the streets of New York.  And it was glorious.  I navigated the subways, made conversation with randos between stops, and perused the museums that surrounded Central Park.  I never feel uneasy wherever I go now, that sense of independence and freedom still looms in my soul.

Paul Odenwald Sr. was a lawyer with a fierce sense of cultural identity to his German heritage, which is why we called him Opa.  He was incredibly intelligent, generous, and kind beyond the normalcy of human ability.  He passed away in the summer of 2009, never getting to see his beloved Saints win the Superbowl.  Opa loved his grandchildren above all else and spoiled us rotten.  Moreover, he was always ready to listen, learn, and teach.

Opa was old, white, and from the South therefore by conventional standards he was extremely conservative.  But, unlike the current crop of degenerates who call themselves conservative today, he was open minded and wanted to hear other views, and even amused in those views.  We would watch the Daily Show with Jon Stewart together almost every afternoon.  Despite the clear ideological difference between him and Jon Stewart, Opa would agree with points, ponder others, disagree with most, but would never be afraid to laugh at the jokes.  He approached it with an open mind, a trait I carry everyday in my travels.

My Uncles, Mike and Dennis, are two of the most hardworking men to exist.  Both of them, I’m convinced, could build a house with only a handful of nails and a freshly felled tree.  Their hands are calloused as one would expect from blue collar men.  

One Easter Sunday I bought a hundred pounds of raw oysters.  I was proud to display my skill of shucking oysters like a master to my Uncles.  I made a terrible error.  I asked for gloves.

“You hear that Dennis?” Uncle Mike chuckled, “He asked for gloves.”

“He’s got those ‘teacher’s hands’,” responded Uncle Dennis.

Gloved, Soft Handed, Shucked Oysters

My life was shook.  Regardless of their barbs, they both taught me the value of hardwork.  Growing up I would shadow them in their jobs fixing houses or laboring in the backyard.  They taught me attention to detail, pride in one’s work, and bust the balls of soft handed dudes.

Above all else is my stepdad Paul.  Paul is my dad.  His impact on my life and my personality and who I am is immeasurable and only equaled to that of Mr. Groome.  My love of science fiction?  Paul.  My love of comics and mythology?  Paul.  My love of reading?  Paul.  Who taught me to throw and poorly hit a baseball?  Paul.  Who taught me valued techniques as an offensive lineman?  Paul.  Who curated my writing abilities?  Paul.  Who taught me how to defeat an opponent with a broadsword who’s showing a “head” position?  Paul.

Paul’s creativity is infectious as is his love of beer.  Every trip into the mountains to visit breweries I always make sure to bring Paul back a strong stout or porter.  It's a beer only fit for six and a half foot giants.  Furthermore, he patiently sits and listens to my tales, laughs, cries, and shares with me.  He’s a rock, a steady presence in my life, and I can't imagine, or want, anyone else to be my dad.

There are so many more stories to tell about the impact these men have had on my life.  There are also so many other father figures to exemplify.  Teachers such as Mike Meads and his husband Charles.  Scoutmasters like Mr. Vic Viosca and Marvin Hawley.

Hold onto your fathers, grandfathers, and father figures.  They’re the ones who guide you through life.  They don't last forever.  As you age they morph from heroic gods to humans.  But somehow they never leave you without a lesson even if they’ve passed.  Life is funny and challenging.  Morality is our biggest enemy.  It takes those we love most from us, often at inopportune times.  But it’s that short time with those figures that makes our collective mortality so special and unique.  If we lived forever, then none of this would matter.  To quote Captain Kirk (thanks Paul…), “How we face death is at least as important as how we face life.”

So to a lighter note!

A quick note on the “Dad Beer”.  The Dad Beer is your lagers, pilsners, ales, and ambers that you see at the side of every dad in the existence of beer. Sumerian dads six thousands years ago turned their goats on spits over open fires sipping on dad beer.  

It's ingrained in every dad’s DNA to eschew the fancy: the sour, the dark, and the hazy.  These beers are too risky.  Nay, the dad doesn't take risks.  That would be wasted precious sips on a beer that he may not like.  The dad will stick to what he knows, and that’s the beer his dad drank before him all the way down to the beginning of civilization where the dawn of humanity was spawned by that one dad who realized that by fermenting weeds he can relax and stick his hand into his pants like Al Bundy for a few precious minutes.

Ode to the “Dad Beer”

You may be brown, or gold, yellow, or rose

You may be crispy, clear, and light

But your flavors never impose

Your taste is consistent even in flights.

You are drunk all day and never cause a nap

You may be found in every inch of the map.

Parks and patios and ballgames

Behind the grill or lawnmower

Your consistency brings you fame

In coozies you exude power.

You never disappoint or leave yearning

You always keep the dads ever churning.