Beer Money: A Memoir of Privilege and Loss Read Online Free PDF Page A

watching nickel Laurel and Hardy movies at the Punch and Judy Theatre, then go home to shower and change into a coat and tie for dinner. When he arrived, his much older brothers, Gari and Peter, would be sitting in the living room with their mother as she sipped her cocktail, awaiting their father’s arrival from the brewery, while the cook prepared the usual four-course dinner in the kitchen. No one ever took much notice of my father as he came into the room, save for when the Brylcreem he used in his hair rubbed off on the sofa upholstery, and his mother would shout, “Get off that sofa, you little pest!”
    His father, Gari Stroh, who ran the brewery, was forever preoccupied with problems at work, particularly during World War II, when hops and wheat were being rationed. He refused to water down the family beer, thereby sacrificing quality of taste, as the other U.S. brewers had done to keep volumes up. A man of principle, he also had a fierce temper, and my father rarely talked about him. “I was intimidated by my father,” he once told me, “and avoided him as best I could.”
    My grandfather’s sternness may have stemmed in part from his guilt over a terrible injury he’d caused his younger brother, John, when they were children. One July afternoon the two boys played in the garden of their Italianate mansionon the Detroit River, taking turns at target practice with a new archery set, while their nannies took tea in the shade of the terrace. Julius, their father, was holding court at a brewery board meeting; Hettie, their mother, was taking a nap before dinner. My grandfather loaded the bow, testing its flexibility, while eight-year-old Uncle John disappeared behind the tree to fetch the stray arrows. Gari aimed at the target, but his finger slipped and the arrow shot sideways, bouncing off a tree’s trunk and piercing young John’s right eye. The bloody scene that followed, combined with the wrath of Julius, became as legendary as it had been traumatic. For the remainder of his life, John wore a glass eye in his right socket, while Gari wore a sheath of self-recrimination.
    M y father mostly went unnoticed as a child. When he wasn’t alone at the movies, he spent his time with a nanny while his mother and her sister, Louise, enjoyed martini lunches at the country club. His parents, however, still tried to exert control over his activities. My father loved country and bluegrass music, for instance, but was forbidden by his parents to listen to “hillbilly music” at home. At least the driver who brought him to school allowed my father to play country music in the car.
    Photography, my father’s second great passion, was discouraged as well. After being accepted to the Rhode Island School of Design at age eighteen, my father sought his mother’s advice.
    “If you go there,” she told him, “I’ll always feel ashamed. Can’t you find another college?”
    Susie—she insisted her grandchildren call her “Susie,” so as not to feel old—had never overcome the embarrassment she felt growing up in the midst of Philadelphia society as the daughter of an artist. Her father, my great-grandfather Nunk, a kind-natured antique dealer and hobbyist sketch artist, often painted the furniture in his shop with early American floral motifs. Susie had always aspired to more—to wealth, glamour, social position.
    In spite of the shame she felt over her father’s vocation, Susie was Nunk’s favorite daughter, not to mention his most beautiful. With her chiseled features and slim figure, she was the daughter for whom he waited up at night with sandwiches and hot chocolate when she arrived home from parties. When the family could afford only one new dress, the other daughters, Louise and Betty, were inevitably passed over in favor of Susie.
    One weekend at a friend’s country house, Susie met the somber and serious Gari Stroh, son of the renowned brewer Julius. Susie’s liveliness and beauty captured Gari’s