Page 2 of Tennessee Trouble

Actually, depending who you ask, my true love. Something I deny. Because beer is also up there. Which makes me sound like some kind of alcoholic. Something that couldn’t be further from the truth.

For me, it’s not about the consumption. It’s about the creation.

That’s where the magic is. The combination of flavors and uniqueness of ingredients. Getting the science of it just right—or in the case of Southern Brothers’ Silver Lining Sour, all wrong—and still ending up with something wonderful.

Pulling my phone out, I snap a photo of the beauty before me, throwing it into the group chat I have with Brenna and Milo. Almost immediately, my phone rings, my baby sister’s face filling the screen.

“Hey, Bren,” I answer, a little surprised I get enough service up here to even get a call.

“What happened to turning your phone off for the weekend?”

Her question is half accusatory, half sarcastic, as if she didn’t believe for one second that I ever intended to truly unplug for the weekend.

“Needed the GPS to get up here. It goes off the second I hit Trouble.”

"You made good time making it up to Tennessee.”

I glance at my watch—three thirty. “Eh.” I shrug. I left Hickory Hills, our small town in the middle of rural Georgia, shortly after nine, so it’s not like I set a new land record for making it across the state. “I didn’t hit a whole lot of traffic in Atlanta, and I lunched as I drove. Still probably forty-five minutes out? Gotta wind my way down this hill and into town, and then I’m off the grid ’til Monday.”

“Or longer.”

…or longer?

“You sound like you’re tryin’ to get rid of me. Or is it that you think the lawyers are going to eat me alive and you’re worried you may never see me again?”

Her annoyed huff doesn’t hide anything. Not that she’s trying. “Neither. Just that Trouble, Tennessee, is a long way for only three days. Stay, go camping. Enjoy yourself.”

“Too much to do back home.”

It’s the truth. We’re slammed with everything we have going on at Pour Decisions. Plus, in a couple of weeks it’ll be time to start working on Rhythm and Brews stuff.

She huffs again. “You Southern Brothers men are all the same…”

I roll my eyes, because she is one to talk. Brenna is one of the hardest working people I’ve ever met. After graduating from pharmacy school, she moved back home to our small town and ended up purchasing the town drugstore. Lots of long hours—plus some blood, sweat, and more than a few tears—have gone into her making the business her own. As her older brother, I couldn’t be more proud.

She also has a point, though, about the men of Southern Brothers being workaholics. Milo and I started Southern Brothers Brewing immediately after college and have been working nonstop ever since to turn it into what it is today—a thriving business. Complete with four distinct beers we distribute around the country, a local taproom—Pour Decisions—and a growing popularity.

Though, you know what they say—find a job doing what you love and you never work a day in your life.

“Alright, kid, I’m gonna let you go. Need to get down this hill. There’s a moonshine festival callin’ my name.”

“Good,” she replies, her smile growing. “Go have fun. And stay out of trouble.”

“Can’t.” I smirk. “That’s my final destination.”

“Wha—” she cuts herself off, my bad pun hitting her. Huffing, she rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at me before she unceremoniously hangs up.

Yeah, I deserved that. Because that’s what big brothers are for.

I wasn’t kidding though—there is a moonshine festival calling my name. One that I’ve been meaning to make it to for years.

Back in my truck, I ease my way down the mountain, enjoying the switchbacks just as much in this direction as the last. An hour later, I put my truck in park in a massive, muddy field that has seen better days.

There’s a part of me that wants to tell the kid directing traffic that he needs to put some hay down not only to help traction so that all these vehicles don’t get stuck, but also to help save the field itself. By the looks of him, the teenager could not give a single shit what my twenty-plus years of experience running a festival have taught me. So I keep my mouth shut. Can’t say I would have been any different at his age.

Thinking back on it, that’s probably exactly what I was like the year I was forced to work the parking lot at Rhythm and Brews, the massive beer and bluegrass festival that Hickory Hills hosts over Labor Day weekend. Despite all the other events we put on, Rhythm and Brews is the crown jewel in our cap and a major point of pride. Thousands of people descend on our community every year, and it’s a major undertaking to say the least—and the committee that heads it all up meets year-round in order to pull it off.

Much like I bet Leprechauns and Liquor is.