Rachael Maddux

Early this afternoon Joe and I drove over to The Beer Growler in Avondale Estates and waited in line with about forty other people and then after the clock hit 12:30 p.m. (there was even a countdown!) we became among the first people to buy alcohol to-go in the history of DeKalb County, Georgia. And by “we became among the first” I mean, we stood in line for about an hour before we got up to the counter and ordered our two 32 oz growlers (Monday Night Brewing’s Drafty Kilt scotch ale for me, Allagash’s Curieux for Joe). But it didn’t feel like an hour! We made pals with the guy in line in front of us and talked about beer with strangers and saw folks I used to work with and their kids who are growing up super fast and we gawked at the huge menu of beer options and reminisced about the times we’d drank some of them and where we were and who we were with and we giggled about the huge Snoop Dogg Colt 45 ad and impulse-bought a Stone t-shirt. Around us, neighbors were greeting each other and asking about knee surgeries and Thanksgiving plans.
Now the growlers are back at home with us, sitting awkwardly in our undersized fridge alongside the booze that we totally already had on hand (which we bought some other non-Sunday day, which of course we could have always drank today) and we are thinking about going to Brick Store for lunch (where, as long as it’s after 12:30 p.m., on any other Sunday we could have definitely ordered and drank beer). In a way, today was a lot of fuss about nothing. We could always drink on Sunday; we just couldn’t buy anything to drink. There would be these big sad semi-apologetic signs up in grocery store beer asiles about it and I always imagined the stock boys sighing in resignation when they hung them up after close on Saturday night. We said it was such a hassle, but sometimes I wondered if it really was; was the quality of my life less because sometimes Joe had to make other plans for dinner because some sauce he wanted to make needed white wine and we were out, or because I really wanted to make martinis one Sunday night but didn’t have vermouth? Did we even need Sunday Sales? Maybe not, maybe it wouldn’t be worth the fuss, we were doing fine without it, etc. But then I would always remember that every single reason against the sale of alcohol in stores on Sundays was arcane, puritanical, evangelical even. Anyway. Point is, we came around, DeKalb county came around, most of Georgia came around. Now we get to buy alcohol on Sundays! And this is fantastic and right and, for now, totally gloriously novel.
But the point now almost isn’t what we can finally do, it’s what the doing leads to—community and camaraderie, fueled (today, for us, at least) by a love of craft beer, and all the chemical feelings that come from that love (via brains and livers). And also, in the midst of a really tough week for Americans trying to do what they’re supposed to be able to do, there’s the shivering flame of Democracy shining forth somewhere in there. Celebrating this feeble civic victory this week in particular does feel a bit like throwing a party for a kid for not shitting his pants at school today, and I recognize that, and I know there are so many more important things to do and be worried about, also bigger things to be proud of, but I think as long as one eye (one slice of your heart, too) is kept on those bigger things, it’s fine—healthy, needed—to stop and celebrate the smaller ones. (Although, whatever, if you want to limit your political consciousness exclusively to local blue laws, it’s America, you get to do that and not feel bad about it, don’t mind me, I’m just a well-oiled guilt machine, chug chug chuggin’ along.) And anyway if you’ve been following the news at all this week, you fucking need a beer right about now, and you might as well be able to go down the street and buy one, no matter where you live or what day of the week it is. And soon I am going to have one. And it will be great.

Zoom Info

Early this afternoon Joe and I drove over to The Beer Growler in Avondale Estates and waited in line with about forty other people and then after the clock hit 12:30 p.m. (there was even a countdown!) we became among the first people to buy alcohol to-go in the history of DeKalb County, Georgia. And by “we became among the first” I mean, we stood in line for about an hour before we got up to the counter and ordered our two 32 oz growlers (Monday Night Brewing’s Drafty Kilt scotch ale for me, Allagash’s Curieux for Joe). But it didn’t feel like an hour! We made pals with the guy in line in front of us and talked about beer with strangers and saw folks I used to work with and their kids who are growing up super fast and we gawked at the huge menu of beer options and reminisced about the times we’d drank some of them and where we were and who we were with and we giggled about the huge Snoop Dogg Colt 45 ad and impulse-bought a Stone t-shirt. Around us, neighbors were greeting each other and asking about knee surgeries and Thanksgiving plans.

Now the growlers are back at home with us, sitting awkwardly in our undersized fridge alongside the booze that we totally already had on hand (which we bought some other non-Sunday day, which of course we could have always drank today) and we are thinking about going to Brick Store for lunch (where, as long as it’s after 12:30 p.m., on any other Sunday we could have definitely ordered and drank beer). In a way, today was a lot of fuss about nothing. We could always drink on Sunday; we just couldn’t buy anything to drink. There would be these big sad semi-apologetic signs up in grocery store beer asiles about it and I always imagined the stock boys sighing in resignation when they hung them up after close on Saturday night. We said it was such a hassle, but sometimes I wondered if it really was; was the quality of my life less because sometimes Joe had to make other plans for dinner because some sauce he wanted to make needed white wine and we were out, or because I really wanted to make martinis one Sunday night but didn’t have vermouth? Did we even need Sunday Sales? Maybe not, maybe it wouldn’t be worth the fuss, we were doing fine without it, etc. But then I would always remember that every single reason against the sale of alcohol in stores on Sundays was arcane, puritanical, evangelical even. Anyway. Point is, we came around, DeKalb county came around, most of Georgia came around. Now we get to buy alcohol on Sundays! And this is fantastic and right and, for now, totally gloriously novel.

But the point now almost isn’t what we can finally do, it’s what the doing leads to—community and camaraderie, fueled (today, for us, at least) by a love of craft beer, and all the chemical feelings that come from that love (via brains and livers). And also, in the midst of a really tough week for Americans trying to do what they’re supposed to be able to do, there’s the shivering flame of Democracy shining forth somewhere in there. Celebrating this feeble civic victory this week in particular does feel a bit like throwing a party for a kid for not shitting his pants at school today, and I recognize that, and I know there are so many more important things to do and be worried about, also bigger things to be proud of, but I think as long as one eye (one slice of your heart, too) is kept on those bigger things, it’s fine—healthy, needed—to stop and celebrate the smaller ones. (Although, whatever, if you want to limit your political consciousness exclusively to local blue laws, it’s America, you get to do that and not feel bad about it, don’t mind me, I’m just a well-oiled guilt machine, chug chug chuggin’ along.) And anyway if you’ve been following the news at all this week, you fucking need a beer right about now, and you might as well be able to go down the street and buy one, no matter where you live or what day of the week it is. And soon I am going to have one. And it will be great.