A roadside memoir of cans/bottles, commitment, and Coors Light
It was late afternoon—the golden hour in Erath County. The sun bent low over the mesquite thickets, setting the horizon ablaze with dusty amber. My wife and I had just finished tying off another bag of roadside litter, the 13-gallon kind that fills faster than a rumor in a Baptist church. We hadn’t planned for this life. Not the trash bags, the sunburned shoulders, the forensic analysis of dented Busch Light cans lodged in the grass like metallic prairie fossils. Yet here we are—volunteers, stewards, beer archaeologists. They say every can or bottle tells a story.
Chapter One: Lone Star and Lost Love
We found our first Lone Star can near the main County Road intersection. It was weathered, sun-bleached, and crumpled like it had been kicked by regret. I imagined a “beer can tosser” (BCT), half-drunk and half-hearted, tossing it out the window after saying something he couldn’t take back. The can landed like a punctuation mark in the gravel. We left no judgment. Only grabbed it gently, as if we were handling the remnants of a man’s last bad decision.
Chapter Two: Miller Lite and Middle Age
Miller Lites. Dozens of them. Neatly crushed, stacked like a sad little beer cairn beneath the shade of a leaning mesquite. “Someone’s working on their figure,” my wife said. I nodded. It was a healthy man’s litter. Guilt-free drinking, guilt-filled driving. These weren’t party cans. These were Tuesday night in the cab of your truck listening to George Strait alone cans.
Chapter Three: Coors Light and Cautionary Tales
Coors Light, in all its silvery glory, seemed to dominate the ditches like a monoculture. Their presence was everywhere—like feral hogs, only colder and less nutritious. There were tallboys, shorties, even a rare “vintage” one from the early aughts. A collector’s item if you ignore the bullet hole in the side.
We considered starting a taxonomy:
Genus: Coorsius
Species: Maximus Aluminumus
Habitat: North-facing drainage ditches near fences
Interlude: A Brief Affair with Truly
Ah yes, a smattering of hard seltzer cans. “What kind of BCT drinks Black Cherry Truly?” I muttered. “Maybe she was just riding shotgun,” my wife replied, deadpan. I stared into the ditch. A millennial had passed through here—briefly, stylishly, and full of carbonation.
Chapter Four: The IPA That Shouldn’t Have Been
We found one lone IPA can—artisanal, yellow-colored, with a name like “Live Oak.” It looked as out of place as a Tesla in Gordon. We both paused. “Someone got lost,” she said. “Or ran out of gas leaving Austin”. We picked it up tenderly. This wasn’t litter. This was performance art.
Final Thoughts from the Fence Line
We never meant to become the curators of roadside fermentation, the lovers of crushed tin tales. But as long as BCT’s in Erath County keeps tossing out empties, we’ll keep picking them up—one Pearl at a time. If you ever see us on the shoulder, sun shirts glowing in the setting sun, just wave. Or better yet, slow down, keep your cans in the cab, and let us know if you see an IPA. We’re still looking for a second one.