I am loyal to Miller High Life. I have had dozens of beers, on three continents, across three decades. I have had beer in the sun, in the snow, on the ocean, looking down from a mountain, alone, with a friend, with a lover, cuddling a child, petting a dog. I have had beers rocking in a boat, in the midst of backbreaking labor, in celebration, in despair. I love beer in all its varieties. Dark, light, bitter, sweet, as a chaser, as an appetizer, as a reward, as self-inflicted punishment. Goddammit, beer, you're the fucking best.

But I tell you what. There is not a beer in the world that compares to Miller High Life. I appreciate the work and love every brewer puts into their baby. I like the aroma you only get at a certain temperature at a certain altitude, sure. You got it, those organic hops make a big difference.

Miller High Life. That was my dad's beer. I see his grin, I see a Miller High Life tipping up to greet it. I hear a fish splash in a pond, I see the first bullhead I ever caught splashing when I pulled it out of the water and I feel my dad's hand, warm and firm, on my shoulder. I tip back that beer, and I look at my children laughing, and I know just for a second the love he felt for me and tried so hard to express without words.

It's his birthday in a couple of weeks. I'm going out to the lake with a Miller High Life, the lake where we scattered his ashes. He loved to sit by the water, and watch the hawks circle, and dream about a life where he'd taken the risks he'd weighed so carefully before declining, and qualified as a chopper pilot instead of a radio mechanic when he joined the Air Force. He dreamed of a life flying, free, above the glimmering water that he's a part of today.

I'll stand in that lake, and think about my father's dreams, and my dreams as a father, and he and I, we'll split that bottle half and half.