I grew up in your typical middle class family. Two lovely parents, David and Marie, my older sister, Angie, and a Dog, Buddy. There were two cars in the driveway of a nice home on a fairly quiet street in a nice neighbourhood. No one ever locked their doors.
My Father was an accountant and a good business man. Had various businesses throughout his day before and after he worked for his Father's business, B.W. Bartle Ltd. a steel, metal, copper fabricator. Eventually he settled down with a Government job until he retired. However, once upon a time he used to co-own and manage local bar or pub. Interesting, considering he was never much of a drinker as long I've known him and as of a few years ago he hasn't had a beer touch his lips since.
My Mother, a social worker. Man, did she ever dig through the trenches of Newfoundland. Even this Christmas I continue to hear her stories of her working for child services. For example, one day she was sent out into some small community to inquire about someone's child. The man slides a gun through a hole in the door directed at Ms. Murphy. Well, luckily she was only with child services and not the Gaming Commission. Small towns. I'll never understand. She later moved on to work in a "retirement" home. Tough as nails, and a heart of gold. Not much of a drinker. It's always been the same for as long as I've known her. Once, maybe twice a month she'd drink a bottle of Donnini Merlot, generally two years old. Granted when she said she'd just want a glass, the bottle would be damn near finished by the end of the night. She held it well. Still wouldn't consider her a drinker. Especially not beer.
My Sister, an electrical engineer technologist (sounds fancy...it's pretty fancy). As a kid she was an athlete, a star of both the basketball team and baseball team. She was a straight "A" student, taking advanced courses, and seemed to be fairly popular (in my eyes). She was a musician. I could never understand why she didn't take her sax playing further than she did. A drinker, no more than any other weekend warrior. To that extent not even that much. Like many people these days, alcohol, gluten, etc affects her stomach in ways that would ring bells in anyone's head not to drink regularly.
The dog, was a dog. What a life. It was a mutt but predominantly a husky and lived to be 18 years old. From day one it would just run laps around the back yard, full tilt until it got hungry. It'd have a bowl of Dog Chow, a few laps of water, take a nap in the dog house, then with a shake to brush off some extra fur, KA-POW... back to running laps. This happened until the dog died. Literally woke up form a nap, started running, slipped on ice, had a stroke. Poor thing. The damn thing sure had some sort of Bartle genes, "too stubborn to die." Drinker, nahhh; it was a dog.
Me, well... How does one describe themselves in a brief paragraph? I'll battle that later.
I lived in that house from birth until the age of 16 years old. Big yellow house on Goodyear Ave. The house across the street had the same number (mail was a nightmare). Giant tree in the front yard, eventually cut down due to grub worms. Oddly enough there was always liquor in the cabinet. Generally some Five Star, London Dry Gin, various Irish Whiskeys, and always a bottle of Old Sam.
My grandfather, Bernard W. Bartle, a man I consider my hero in ways most children think Spiderman or The Hulk (no one liked Superman...), drank Old Sam. He once visited his Daughter , my Aunt, in British Columbia and had one of the local liquor stores order in a case of Old Sam. He was going to be there a month, and he liked what he liked. Still didn't drink that much. Just a "nip" here and there. Go figure.
So where did I get my beer appreciation? How did I ever figure beer was a substance worth drinking, let alone brewing, tasting, critiquing, judging, and enjoying?
My Father was an accountant and a good business man. Had various businesses throughout his day before and after he worked for his Father's business, B.W. Bartle Ltd. a steel, metal, copper fabricator. Eventually he settled down with a Government job until he retired. However, once upon a time he used to co-own and manage local bar or pub. Interesting, considering he was never much of a drinker as long I've known him and as of a few years ago he hasn't had a beer touch his lips since.
My Mother, a social worker. Man, did she ever dig through the trenches of Newfoundland. Even this Christmas I continue to hear her stories of her working for child services. For example, one day she was sent out into some small community to inquire about someone's child. The man slides a gun through a hole in the door directed at Ms. Murphy. Well, luckily she was only with child services and not the Gaming Commission. Small towns. I'll never understand. She later moved on to work in a "retirement" home. Tough as nails, and a heart of gold. Not much of a drinker. It's always been the same for as long as I've known her. Once, maybe twice a month she'd drink a bottle of Donnini Merlot, generally two years old. Granted when she said she'd just want a glass, the bottle would be damn near finished by the end of the night. She held it well. Still wouldn't consider her a drinker. Especially not beer.
My Sister, an electrical engineer technologist (sounds fancy...it's pretty fancy). As a kid she was an athlete, a star of both the basketball team and baseball team. She was a straight "A" student, taking advanced courses, and seemed to be fairly popular (in my eyes). She was a musician. I could never understand why she didn't take her sax playing further than she did. A drinker, no more than any other weekend warrior. To that extent not even that much. Like many people these days, alcohol, gluten, etc affects her stomach in ways that would ring bells in anyone's head not to drink regularly.
The dog, was a dog. What a life. It was a mutt but predominantly a husky and lived to be 18 years old. From day one it would just run laps around the back yard, full tilt until it got hungry. It'd have a bowl of Dog Chow, a few laps of water, take a nap in the dog house, then with a shake to brush off some extra fur, KA-POW... back to running laps. This happened until the dog died. Literally woke up form a nap, started running, slipped on ice, had a stroke. Poor thing. The damn thing sure had some sort of Bartle genes, "too stubborn to die." Drinker, nahhh; it was a dog.
Me, well... How does one describe themselves in a brief paragraph? I'll battle that later.
I lived in that house from birth until the age of 16 years old. Big yellow house on Goodyear Ave. The house across the street had the same number (mail was a nightmare). Giant tree in the front yard, eventually cut down due to grub worms. Oddly enough there was always liquor in the cabinet. Generally some Five Star, London Dry Gin, various Irish Whiskeys, and always a bottle of Old Sam.
My grandfather, Bernard W. Bartle, a man I consider my hero in ways most children think Spiderman or The Hulk (no one liked Superman...), drank Old Sam. He once visited his Daughter , my Aunt, in British Columbia and had one of the local liquor stores order in a case of Old Sam. He was going to be there a month, and he liked what he liked. Still didn't drink that much. Just a "nip" here and there. Go figure.
So where did I get my beer appreciation? How did I ever figure beer was a substance worth drinking, let alone brewing, tasting, critiquing, judging, and enjoying?
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