The Story of Dave and the Bad Beer

How a late-night stop at a sugarhouse led to some laughter and good advice

Steam in a sugarhouse. Photo by author.

Whenever the sugaring season begins I think of Dave Palmer, a one-time farmer, animal control officer in town and long-time maple sugarer. Dave, his family said, always thought of himself as being 29 years old. So I guess he died young, though with all the practical joking he did, I'd put his age at closer to the teens.

Dave was the first sugarer I ever met, though for the first year or so it was by phone. I was working at the Burlington Free Press and Dave was, as they used to say in the news business, a "dial-a-quote." Which dates me because most people don't know that you could ever actually dial a telephone. Or read a newspaper.

But when I wanted to check in on how the sugaring season was doing for a story on Vermont's most iconic seasonal business, I'd always call Dave because his answers to my questions were as unpredictable as they were funny.

"Dave, you ever have a bad sugaring season?"

"What's that?"

Dave saw sugaring as a way to get out of the house, wander the woods, drink with his buddies and swap stories. In no particular order. And, oh yes, make a gallons and gallons of maple syrup that he'd be most honored to sell to you.

Dave tapped about 1,500 trees and the sap came down from the hill behind his sugarhouse in tubes attached to the tree taps and all sucked into a storage tank by a vacuum pump. Dave was always up on the latest technology, particularly if it made the task a little easier and more efficient. Like use propane instead of wood.

“Never burn the pan now — like I used to do with wood,” Dave admitted once. “When I’m ready to hit the bed, I just turn it off. That simple.”

While he was a farmer – cows and then sheep – I knew him when he ran the grader in the winter and the mower in the summer for the Town of Shelburne. He was also Hinesburg's “animal control officer.” I once referred to him as a dog warden and he corrected me and told me the story of the wild-roaming emu he had to track down. “And did I tell you about the attack rooster?”

“Nope.”

So he told me.

One night, in the middle of March, I was heading home from work at 1 a.m. and decided to drive past his sugarhouse and see if anything was going on. The lights were on. Smoke was billowing out the stack and steam was flushing out the vents. There were about eight cars in the drive.

I pulled in. It was cold, below freezing for sure. And even though I've been wearing glasses for most of my adult life, I forgot what happens when you walk into a steamy sugarhouse from the cold outdoors. I couldn't see a thing. The place was quiet. Weirdly quiet. Then I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel floor coming me and then, from the steam, came a hand holding a can of beer with a label I did not recognize.

"Thirsty?"

I was. Still not having introduced myself, not even having said hello, not having cared my glasses so I could see, I popped the can, set it to my lips and chugged. It was cold. It was nice. Then I heard from my taste buds. It was hideous. Worst tasting beer I'd ever had in my life. I turned my head and spat it out on the gravel.

That's the moment I realized there were about a dozen of Dave's old friends in the house. They were beside themselves with laughter.

"Good God, Dave,” I said. “That's shitty beer."

More laughter.

I took my glasses off and in the slow ebb of a long chuckle, I introduced myself as the guy from the Free Press who keeps pestering him.

"But what's with the beer, Dave?"

"Isn't that just nasty?" he said, laughing, exposing what was left of his supply of teeth.

Dave explained: The other night, while boiling, Dave had discovered, to everyone's consternation and horror, that they were just about out of beer. So Dave sent his nephew, who'd just turned 21 and was only too glad to go buy alcohol for anyone, even to get some beer.

But upon entering the store, the nephew was struck by a display announcing that this particular beer was on special – two six-packs for the price of one. So the nephew, understanding the concept of frugality but not giving a thought as to how it might taste, bought a case.

And when he got back, everyone spat it out and one of the old timers went to town and got some decent beer, Miller High Life, which Dave was then handing me, in bottle form of course.

"Sorry about that," Dave said. "I couldn't resist. This will set your mouth straight."

It did. And my glasses cleared and Dave introduced me to all his mates, and it was 2:30 or so when I got up to leave. Dave had one last bit of advice:

"When you get home, be quiet when you go upstairs. Don't want the wife waking."

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(NOTE: For a primer on making maple syrup (and a story), click here.)