Nobody Reads This Page – 'Beer Signs'

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-23)

 

 

A particular fascination for this writer during childhood years was the ubiquity of illuminated signs used for advertising purposes. They seemed to be everywhere when we traveled. But these crafty, creative displays were most striking in my home setting. We lived in small communities across Ohio and Kentucky. Places that were proudly unsophisticated and rural in character. So quite often, these glowing beacons served as the only points of light I would see, when riding home on my Schwinn bicycle just before sunset. Especially when residing at a distant spot on the map outside of Zanesville, the beckoning brightness of a soft drink logo or notice of farm implements being vended was my only guidepost. I appreciated each of them as a navigational tool. But also, as I developed intellectually, for their artistic flair.

 

By the time we moved to Virginia in 1970, I attempted to create a sign of my own. A cardboard box formed its outer shell, and I cut out a window in the front. A piece of notebook paper, illustrated with magic markers, carried an improvised design in that space. I secured it with masking tape around the perimeter. Finally, I used a low-wattage bulb in the back, to make my crude creation functional. The faux promotion hung over my bed, like a trophy. It must have looked oddly patched together, to my parents. Yet they did not criticize, or complain.

 

During teenage years spent in New York, I met a hippie fellow named Paul who was a graduate of Cornell University. His counterculture hovel, outside of Corning, boasted fascinating things that were already in my orbit. Like books, vinyl records, musical instruments, and anachronistic collectibles. But also prevalent in his home museum were many signs that related to a beverage I never saw firsthand in my own household – beer.

 

Being the son of a Christian pastor, I was raised to believe that alcohol represented devilish temptation in liquid form. Consuming any such drink was forbidden as a sin with woeful consequences. When in the company of those from our conservative brood, it remained easy to obey. I followed their admonitions with diligence. Yet something called out from those electric banners, hanging here and there in thrift stores and at yard sales where I perused vintage recordings. Perhaps my German and Scots-Irish ancestry, filtered through Appalachia, was asserting its genetic dominance? For whatever reason, relishing the taste of a good brew with friends liberated a different sort of passion for the culture, even when I was not lifting a glass.

 

Following my cohort from the Finger Lakes, I began to collect signs in earnest.

 

This strange habit blossomed greatly in the 1980’s, when I rented a two-story abode with my brother and sister. I brought home an unpredictable assortment of items that shouted names like ‘Cinci Lager’ from Canada. Or ‘Heilemans Old Style’ and ‘Pabst Blue Ribbon.’ At that point in history, the Midwest was ripe with castoff relics of brewerania. Promotional merchandise could be had for a pittance. I rarely spent more than a 10-spot on anything. Many of these treasures were acquired for five dollars, or less. I emptied my wallet freely. Though in deference to familial traditions, everything stayed in my room. Or, under wraps for a bigger space when it became available.

 

During my first marriage, this zeal for collecting grew more intense. There seemed to be signs available almost everywhere. Incredibly, some were even given away for free. A friend at the supermarket where I worked had a direct connection to company reps who serviced our business. So he doled out beer and cigarette tchotchkes as rewards for faithful employees. I tried hard to stay in his good graces. The benefit swelled my take.

 

When we bought a brick house in Painesville, a decade later, my wife urged some sense of restraint. She hoped to make our dwelling a showplace to behold. One that would glisten and gleam for everyone in our shared lineage to appreciate. There simply would not be enough room for everything I had bought, on the ground floor. Her decree was that my man-cave menagerie would remain in the basement, along with records, guitars, and other trinkets that I had amassed. So with regret, I agreed to thin the herd as a nod to practicality. By then, there were so many signs hanging everywhere that it barely mattered, numerically. I offloaded a hundred, at least. And still kept a substantial roster of goodies, for myself.

 

I reckoned that if nothing else, I could search for a better crop in future days. 

 

The advancement of internet technology upended my happy routine, however. As online marketplaces like eBay or Etsy attracted consumer interest, I saw local sellers slim their wares, and raise prices precipitously. Posting items for sale on the worldwide web could bring much greater rewards. Listings also provided a benchmark of sorts for owners of local shops. Or even, retirees sitting at folding tables in their driveway.

A Genesee display that might have tempted me out of a few dollars could suddenly fetch many times more, when zapped into cyberspace. The potential reach for new customers was staggering. Though sadly, anonymous compared to the hands-on approach of using newspaper print to follow weekend sales in neighborhoods around the region. Or scanning telephone poles for handmade blurbs.

 

I gave up collecting as my income settled into the doldrums of disability and retirement. Yet I started to scan auction websites to locate beer ads from my past, for entertainment purposes. Too soon, I felt my stomach twisting into knots. The listed bids could sometimes be astounding to read. One Hudepohl advert that I snagged in yonder times for about $20.00, sold for a modern price over ten times that amount. Many familiar artifacts were valued at breathtaking sums. I realized with regret that it would have been better to keep my stash intact, until now. Choosing to jettison so many of those prizes before computers became common was a blunder I couldn’t see coming. An act I committed for the sake of domestic peace, and convenience.

 

Still, it does not matter too much now. I have the memory of each conquest, intact. And stories to tell about those adventures, over a cold mug shared with my neighbors.