The Brew (April 11, 2025)
The barn’s floor gleamed under the bare bulb—large, red Timișoara bricks, heavy with 1989’s Revolution, salvaged from a factory where Communism cracked. Bricklayer Mircea had hand-picked each one, dog paws imprinted near the door—herringbone sprawling out, a pathway pattern slicing the center, sloped for water to drain spills or wash. Brick sinks and counter bases hugged black marble tops, gleaming, easy to clean—built like the rest of Somartin’s Earthway, to last seven generations with care. Malt and earth thickened the summer dusk as Antonio hunched over the Speidel Braumeister, stainless steel humming, computer churning barley and hops into ale. Beside it, the Alembic copper still glowed, hand-hammered, distilling corn whiskey, palinca—plum brandy, 50%, oak-aged for balance—and a quick batch of gin, sharp and trade-ready. Steel met copper, modern and old wove self-reliance into every bubble. The crew sprawled across the bricks—Lukas sketching the still’s curve, Iris cradling raspberry juice, braids swinging as she dodged Maria’s son splashing mash puddles. Corey leaned against the tile masonry oven, its heat seeping into his spine, stew simmering—carrots, thyme, a day’s labor feeding them all.
“Beer’s honest,” Antonio grunted, tapping the keg and sliding a pint to Corey. His hands, gnarled as orchard roots, moved with grace—years coaxing life from grain etched deep. “No lies in the fizz.” Corey caught the mug, foam brushing his lips, and a memory stirred—soft, a ghost calling. Anchorage, his base—cockpit steady, engines purring over Japan’s patchwork, China’s haze, Philippines’ sprawl, Singapore’s gleam. Calm, cool, relaxed, he’d flown, hands loose, chasing nothing but the next sky. Yet something pulled—a whisper on his being’s edge, nature, mud, something new, out of reach. How do you know what you don’t know? Earth Misery crept in—a 5-legged mind blind to the call, a dwarf of himself, chasing power over life, the ultimate lie, McGilchrist said. Until mud answered.
Iris giggled, tossing a raspberry at Lukas. “You’re brooding, Corey. Juice up—play a little.” At 14, she was wiry, bright—joy humming under the barn’s clamor. Juice stained her fingers, summer’s harvest from her patch—too young for ale, rooted in dirt. Corey smirked, the GW-54 sense of play rippling through her tease, the crew’s mess—muddy boots, spilled hops, the kid’s shrieks as Maria swatted air. It defied his drift, that left-hemisphere cage. “Truth’s in the fizz,” he said, raising his mug. Antonio nodded, pouring—half for Somartin, half for Bruiu’s bakers tomorrow, Fair Share in the foam.
The oven’s heat pressed Corey’s back, grounding him as stew tangled with malt. Antonio’s voice cut low. “Lost my brother to Bucharest vodka—cheap burn, gone fast.” Pain flickered, a scar under his gaze. “Palinca’s different—plum, apple, pear, oak-kissed, not to drown but taste. Whiskey too—golden embers, slow-aged, spirit’s share lost to the cask. Gin’s quick—sell it, trade it, keep us moving.” Corey nodded—50% fire balanced, not stupor; oak smoothing palinca and whiskey for fireside kin; gin sharp for the now. McGilchrist’s whisper—the sacred is relational—met the GW-54 sense of community. Power didn’t brew this; hands did.
Outside, the crew drifted to the veranda’s edge, Carpathian stone cool underfoot—quarried across the ridgeline, Romanian-born, steady as the night deepened, stars pricking the sky. Maria sang, “Cine iubește și lasă” (“Whoever loves and leaves”), voice rough as the stone, warm as the fire pit spitting embers. Lukas mangled it—“Cheeny loo-beshtay”—laughter drowning his try. Iris perched on a crate, sipping juice, eyes on the sky. “Dad says stars talk,” she murmured, Sage’s wonder in her veins. Corey watched—quiet joy, a thread from his muddy tales. The ale grounded him—Somartin’s glue, stronger than reckoned. In Anchorage, he’d been a ghost above the Orient, no panic, just a call he couldn’t name—nature tugging through the glass. Here, the mess—sticky bricks, shared mugs, the kid’s handprints—wove a web alive.
“Ever think we’re enough?” Corey asked, voice lost in the fire’s crackle. Antonio wiped foam from his beard. “Enough’s the lie. This—” he tapped the keg, the still—“this is plenty.” Corey grinned, the ghost’s echo faint—Tracker School, 1992, a week in the wild cracking his fog; Taipei, 1999, a slip, sacrum snapped, doctors baffled, prayer answered, cost paid. Plenty wasn’t power; it was Maria’s song, Iris’s sticky smile, Lukas’s smudged sleeve. He’d flown calm, a pilot’s steady hand, but the call grew—Jersey Turnpike a blur, Stormy Ridge’s lake lapping, dream to nightmare—top marks, “best check ride,” nature won.
The fire flared as Maria tossed a log, sparks spiraling. “Tata’s palinca burned your throat, warmed your bones,” she said, softening. “This ale’s gentler, gin’s sharper—home either way.” Her joy was weathered—hauling water, raising kids—but glowed, shared. Corey felt the oven’s pulse, stew simmering—Somartin grew. Ale, gin, whiskey, palinca swapped with Bruiu’s bread, Gherdeal’s cheese—earth care, people care, fair share—a small truth outweighing the world, McGilchrist’s one-word weight. He tipped his mug, bitter-bright, laughter filling the hollow where the ghost called.
Iris slid off her crate, barefoot on the stone, handing Corey more juice. “You’re us now,” she said, grin half-hidden. He took it, sweet cutting ale’s bite. The barn pulsed—Antonio tweaking the Braumeister, Grok chiming from the still, “Mash temp’s steady, gin’s done, palinca’s next.” Steel, copper, muddy hands wove it—self-reliance, shared. Corey’s chest loosened, the ghost a whisper. Truth wasn’t aloft; it was here—fizz, juice, song, embers.
In Harmony,
Kevin
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