Saturday, January 10, 2026 – Day 515

Saturday, January 10, 2026

Good morning, everyone.

So far, so good—I’ve managed to avoid the worst of the season’s cold and flu. At most, I’ve had some early-morning sniffles that disappear by 7:00 a.m. Whatever causes them, they don’t linger, so I’m not giving them much thought.

Thank you to everyone who had plans to stop by but chose to back off to avoid risking my health. I don’t love being risk-averse, but in this case it’s the smart move, and I truly appreciate the thoughtfulness.

We’re still working through the logistics of getting the correct supplies for my feeding tube. Jerry-rigging the feedings works—until it doesn’t—and when it fails, it usually involves formula on the floor. I never want to wake Cindy in the middle of the night and say, “We’re going to need a mop in the bedside aisle.”

From the photo box, I pulled a few memories from the late ’70s and early ’80s.

We were broke back then—barely enough money for gas. Fuel was around 40 cents a gallon in the early ’70s and climbed past a dollar by the end of the decade after the Iranian Revolution. That was a real hit when you were living on minimum wage.

Still, we were resourceful. We always found a way to have fun—and fun usually involved beer.

Over a couple winter breaks, we’d pile into a couple cars and head to Milwaukee—Brew City. We brought snacks so we weren’t drinking on empty stomachs and started the day at either Miller or Pabst. I preferred Pabst, mostly because the reward at the end was worth it: a great brew pub.

The catch was the hour-long brewery tour. You listened to the brewing process in detail…interesting enough, but really just the toll you paid to reach the beer.

Once you made it to the pub, they handed you full-size glasses, and refills were never hard to come by. If we paid for any of it, it must’ve been cheap—I honestly don’t remember.

Eventually, the waitress would cut us off, and that was our cue to head to brewery number two. The second tour was always tougher after an hour of “sampling” at the first stop. Miller had plenty of beer and we weren’t working with discerning palates, but it never matched the charm of the old Pabst pub.

Looking back, it feels right that Pabst was our favorite. It was my dad’s beer—and it was the first beer I ever drank, around age 16. With Wisconsin’s drinking age at 18 back then, 16 was close enough that people mostly looked the other way.

Keep in mind, you can bring your underage child to a Wisconsin bar, set them on a barstool next to you, and they may drink along side of you. Crazy, right?

You can spot my brother Nick in a few of the photos—red coat, black hair. He was three years younger than most of us, tagging along with the older crowd.

Different times. Cheap beer, loose rules, and not much to worry about beyond the next refill.

Have a great Saturday. GO BEARS! 🐻

Love you guys!❤️