It’s a couple day after Christmas and my son Peter comes downstairs at 8:30 in the morning asking if I want to go to the Tree House.

The what?

“The Tree House – it’s a brewery. My friend Todd and his dad are going out there today and we’re invited.”

“To a brewery? At 8:30 in the morning?”

“You gotta get there early to get in line. It opens at noon.”

“Say WHAT? Stand in LINE? From 8:30 til NOON? For BEER?”

Not to mention that it’s 30-degrees out and spitting snow.

“It’s really good, dad. People wait in line for hours to get it.”

Not my idea of a good time.

But an hour later there we are, standing in line at the Tree House. Freezing.

From L-R: Tom and Todd Snopkowski, Pete Singley

And we’re not alone. Almost as far as the eye can see, desperate beer-loving dudes and dudettes stand in line, patiently waiting for the Tree House doors to open. There must be a gazillion people lined up although it’s so freakin’ cold my fingers don’t work well enough to count accurately.

I’m starting to think this ain’t such a great idea. Not that I don’t like the company. Tom, Todd and Pete are great to hang around with. In fact, Tom lives in Las Vegas, my home-away-from-home. We had a great conversation about how Vegas was so much better back when the Mob ran things. And he’s a retired cop! Gotta look up Tom next trip out there. But, I digress.

Since moving South twenty years ago my blood has obviously thinned out and I’m having a hard time dealing with the freezing temperature. I think I’m going into hypothermic shock. I’m not even shivering anymore, a sure sign of imminent death. My vision is narrowing, peripheral vision blacking out, leaving just a small circle of bright light. I am going to the Light.

“Hey Dumbass!” a voice shouts from heaven. I look up, through the luminous circle of light toward which I am floating. In the brightness I make out a form – a face…

God? Is that YOU?

“No, Dumbass, it’s me, Martin Luther.”

“Martin LUTHER?”

“Yeah, pretty cool, huh? I bet you never in your life thought you’d run into me today, huh?”

“Well that’s for sure. Martin Luther. I’ll be damned. The Father of the Protestant Reformation. The namesake of the Lutheran Church. The Composer of “A Mighty Fortress is our God”. Martin Luther!”

“Yeah, I did all those things. But they were not my best achievement. Not by a long shot.”

“Seriously? You did something bigger than the Reformation?”

“I made beer.”

“You…WHAT?”

“I made beer. Me and the wife. And it was good beer. We Germans are good at beer. Not so good at war, but beer…no one beats us at beer except …”

“Except??”

“Tree House. They make really good beer. I have to admit I get a pretty good buzz off some of their IPA’s.”

“Seriously?”

“Marty, would I kid you? Whoever drinks beer, he is quick to sleep; whoever sleeps long, does not sin; whoever does not sin, enters Heaven! Thus, let us drink beer! And you can quote me on that!”

I feel a smack on my head. “Dad, stop daydreaming. They just opened the doors.”

I am suddenly back on earth, moving in stiff lockstep with that long line of frozen beer-loving humanity toward the entryway of the Tree House Brewery. Inside it smells of beer being made. They say today we are limited to ten cans each. Half of them “Alter Ego,” the other half, “SAP.” Pete and I buy twenty between us. Todd and Tom do the same.

The ride home is quiet, like that time before the church service when the organ prelude is played and silent prayers are made. There is something almost spiritual to it. Although it could be frostbite too.

Once home Pete and I crack a can, toast the beer, and take a long draught.

It’s good.

VERY good.

I lift my glass toward the heavens with gratitude.

“Here’s to you, Martin Luther.”

And from the heights of heaven, I think I heard a voice reply, “Right back atcha, Dumbass!”